Broken People (Serial)

Fifteen

"We should strike early in the evening when everyone is busy in the big tent," an unfamiliar voice said.

Dale's shoulders tensed, but he didn't turn to see who was speaking. He'd overheard the conversation by chance when he stepped up to the bar for a drink—water, since he was working—and these two men were talking around a small, square table in the corner.

After two days spent busting heads and wasting time in the Black & White club during twelve-hour shifts, he was convinced nothing out of the ordinary was going on here. Some small-class smuggling and trafficking various items, but nothing that would have hurt the Golden Lady's trade ... at least he didn't think so. She had probably sent him there with one purpose only—to keep an eye on him. He'd received the job without needing any references at all. Lucky for him, since he couldn't produce any if asked. His superiors still waited for him to report back to work, anxiously hoping he'd changed his mind about the request he'd filed before going on sick leave. They were wrong. When the time came, he was going to pilot that plane.

Dale wasn't complaining. The amount of drunks and smoke was bad enough, but it beat spending the day locked in the attic, watching people passing in the street through the tiny windows. And every now and then, he exercised his muscles, throwing troublemakers onto the cobblestones outside. His only concern was not to use his full strength and give the witnesses a hint of his capabilities. Keeping that in mind, he hunched over his drink and listened.

"We go around the tracks, climb on the car, and enter through the window," the same voice said. "It's the third car from the end. We can't miss it."

"What about the security?" the second man asked.

"They don't work in the evening when there are thousands of people outside. Remember what they do is still illegal here. There'll be no one in the workshop."

"Are you sure that's where they keep the spare parts?"

"I watched them for two days. It's where they take all their clients for fixing. The spare parts can't be far. It's a big car."

The grunt that followed could have been in appreciation of the strong beer or the plan the other man had presented.

"How do we get the stuff out?" the one who needed convincing asked.

"That's the trick. We can't get close with a car because someone is bound to notice. So we park behind the abandoned warehouse and take all we can carry."

"Hmm ..."

"A few small items, sold to the right people, will bring us more than we make in months. I say it's worth it. We should do it."

The sound of fingers tapping on the lacquered table set Dale on edge. Those weren't normal fingers. That was the sound of metal hitting against wood. Fingers capped with metal? Something one shouldn't have been surprised to find in such a place.

"We go tonight to take a look," the second man said. "If—and only if—we find it safe, we go in. Otherwise, we wait for another day and plan better."

Dale clenched his glass. Considering how deserted the train area looked at night, there was no way the two thugs would find it unfit for business. He tapped his fingers on the bar top and debated what to do about it.

The racket made by chairs being moved around grated his ears, signaling the men were preparing to leave. There was no time to think. He needed to act before he lost them.

Dale leaned over the bar to speak quietly to the bartender. "I'm taking off early today."

Milo shook his head while wiping a glass with a towel. "Boss won't like it."

"Tell her to take it out of my paycheck."

"Her?" Milo's eyebrows shot up his wrinkled forehead.

Dale didn't answer. The two conspirators had reached the door, and all he could see were two large backs covered with heavy, brown coats patched up with leather. They shouldn't be hard to spot in a crowd, assuming he didn't wait too long. He grabbed his jacket from behind the bar and started after them.