TK snapped me out of my reverie. “Ciros is the name of the temple,” he explained.
“How would you know?”
“Because they just said.”
“Thanks.” I turned the set off and told them we had work to do. Starting with an idea I had for our next heist.
“TK, scour the free data store for buyers of cutting edge, high end arms. First we need to unload our cargo. Outfits, organizations, anyone who’ll pay premium for Class A hardware. Go as high as you can and dark as you dare, on the Free Store. There’re enough low-ballers out there as it is. Don’t make contact with anybody,” I warned him, “just compile a list. Anywhere but Jasmel. I’ll go through your list later and pick the ones I think are good matches.”
“Sure enough, sounds easy.”
I turned to Wren. “I scoped out some impound shops down Elphi Alpha. A goldmine of hardware there for the picking: ships, shuttles, probes, drones, the works. All arriving illegally, carrying contraband, gangsters caught by local police, mercs, shakedowns, that kind of thing. One branch is city-owned, just a regional office, so it’s light on security.”
“What’s your angle?” she asked.
“We go in, collecting a worthwhile hulk for transfer to a chop shop, bag the ship for our own and sell it cheap for quick yols.”
“Sounds promising.” Although her voice was doubtful. “What’s the risk?”
“Minimal, if we play it right. Good news is, I’ll be doing the initial scout, the run ahead and the main con. You help with the packaging and back me up if necessary.”
“Whatever you say, Cap’n.”
“Atta girl.” That’s what I liked about Wren, no fuss, no trouble during business. If only all women could be so cooperative.
We’d go in with papers, pretending to be all official and scam us some hefty hardware for half-decent resale. Outfits like city impound send the ships there anyway, at least the seized vessels the bosses didn’t commandeer for their own uses. Better we get the money than some other shyster.
The con operated on the loophole that these shops all kept paper copies of their records. Known fact: Breaking into a secure digital system would be much harder and not worth the risk.
The next day I staked out the joint, The RAI: Regional Airspace Impound. I was at the office depot a few days before the heist. Low security there, easy to slip past the sensors. I’d worked on these types of shops before.
I made sure my face was covered by a mask and disabled any cameras in ready sight I could find. Rifled the office while the staff was off duty, photographed the hundreds of letterheads of certain important acquisition forms, serial numbers of impounded crafts and particulars, studied both the names of the impound officers, owners, managers of the local office and those of the local businesses to whom they supplied parts. I hid out in the file room, eavesdropping on the clerks when they arrived in the morning the following day, heard a few names dropped, then listened keenly for more names when transcalls came through: Benzie Krai, Kata Layne, jotted a few down, recorded the rest on my little black recorder. Found out who presided over whom and whose authority made the difference. Tedious work, but necessary. It was enough to bluff my way through two days later, when I came in, all important and business-like, deliberately arriving early in the morning, plopping my forged papers on the wicket counter and dropping the right combination of names I’d memorized the night before.
“Who are you again?” the attendant asked, all squinty-eyed.
“Juss Rambo. Over at Militia Distributing. Seems here that Mr. Kata Layne authorized this requisition. I’ll be taking the J-Zen cruiser to Meik’s strip yard, parts and wholesale.”
“This is irregular, sir. I should get Mr. Layne personally on the line to confirm.”
“You can do that,” I said with a frown, “but Layne might get upset—no, pissed if you bother him at this hour. The other day he sent me over here to get this job done quickly. Seems as if something slipped through the main branch’s wire and now Mr. Layne’s weighing on us. There’s his signature at the bottom.”
“Yes, sir, I see it is. One moment please.” The clerk frowned, scrutinized the papers, the seals, signatures and serial number, and scratched his initials on several pages, then fiddled with some files in the back cabinet. Finally he ripped off some yellow pieces of paper and passed me two with a pink slip. “Go ahead, Mr. Rambo. The impound yard is down the way to your left.”
“I know, been here before.”
The attendant gave a curt nod.
And that was that. A brief moment of nailbiting on the odd chance that sleepy pencil neck decided to call my bluff and summon the big boss Layne. Secret here is to look important and gruff and as confident as possible. Any bit of doubt or hesitation on the con’s part and the deal floats south. But I’d planned for that, recalling the hardware under my brown leathers, fingering my blaster and the grenade tucked in my waist pouch. Although that route could get ugly very quickly.
Couldn’t work the same scam twice at the same place. No, no. Once they found out they’d been conned, they’d be up to their armpits in security. Somebody’s neck would be on the line. I pitied the poor soul to work a scam similar to mine.
I radioed Starrunner in over the impound yard and, while TK hovered overhead, Wren jumped down. After a few moments with a yardman and a flash of pink papers, we attached the four towlines to the vehicle in question and boarded Starrunner, hauling the hulk away. It was a lighter
