Simon Locke: A Thriller in Progress - Chapter Three

I’ve been working on a thriller. I’m releasing it chapter by chapter here on The Mad Minute.

I don’t have a title yet, but I’m not particularly worried about it.

For now, I’m just calling it Simon Locke: A Thriller in Progress.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Here’s Chapter Three:

Simon Locke stood under the rusted tin roof of the bus shelter. He’d missed his bus. It’d be at least another forty-five minute wait, if not more, for another one. He watched a black four-door sedan with near blackout tint pull up to the curb and idle in front of the pawn shop.

It was an Audi A8L circa 2002. A 4.2-liter V8, permanent Quattro all-wheel drive.

The driver door opened, and a man stepped out into the damp night air.

He was tall, wearing a dark sport coat over a gray crewneck sweater. He moved with deliberate motion. No wasted steps. Military precision, but no situational awareness. Without looking either way, he walked straight to the pawn shop door, turned the handle, and stepped inside.

Simon didn’t waste time. Keeping low, he crossed the wet brick pavement of Lime Street and moved up against the peeling yellow facade. He pressed himself against the cinder block wall and peered through a portion of the window where the faded tint had been torn. Simon saw the flawless draw, the black metal, and the color drain from the proprietor’s face.

Time to move.

Simon stepped back from the window, keeping to the shadows. He approached the black Audi and noted the plate – ILW-7972. Unzipping his cargo pocket, he reached in and pulled out a SPOT Trace motion-activated GPS tracker. With no way to attach it to the aluminum frame of the Audi, he opened the rear door nearest the curb, lowered the center armrest, slipped the SPOT Trace inside, folded the armrest back into place, and closed the door without a sound.

***

The proprietor looked up at the man who had just come in. From behind the glass display cases, holding up a ring full of keys, he said, “Sorry, but we’re closed. I just didn’t have time to lock the door.”

The man in the dark sport coat didn’t stop. He walked straight up to the counter, reached into his pocket and dropped a pawn ticket on the counter.

In one fluid motion his right hand slipped behind his coat to his waist.

He cleared the holster and brought the weapon up. A black, suppressed Glock 19. He aimed it at the proprietor’s head.

“I really don’t have time for this,” the man said. “We can do it the easy way or the hard way.”

The proprietor froze. All color drained from his face. The cigar dangling from his lips fell to the floor.

“I’m a big fan of the easy way,” he said. “What can I help you with?”

The man lowered the weapon and tapped the ticket on the counter with the suppressor.

“A woman came in earlier tonight and pawned a watch. This is the ticket. Get me the watch.”

The proprietor backed away until his back was nearly against the wall, hands in the air.

“I’m sorry, I can’t give it to you; I don’t have it,” he said. “Someone came in and bought it less than an hour ago.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “You sold something before the redemption period? Who bought it?”

The proprietor swallowed hard, gesturing around the pawn shop at the rows of power tools and long guns and fishing gear.

“Look at this place. Do I look like someone who keeps detailed records of anything?”

The man raised his Glock again.

“A name.” he said

“Look, he gave me $500 bucks cash,” the proprietor lied. “He claimed the woman was his jilted girlfriend. Threatened to report it stolen. I told him I don’t get in the middle of domestic squabbles. Cash is cash.”

The man lowered his Glock, processing the details. The woman was supposed to pawn the watch, which she did. He was supposed to recover the ticket from under the municipal trash can in the park, which he did. And then use it to claim the watch. Instead, a stranger walked in however many minutes later and bought the watch right out from under them.

Either this was a staggering coincidence, or she had double-crossed them.

“Let me see the video surveillance footage,” the man said, pointing to a dome camera mounted to the ceiling.

“It’s in the back,” the proprietor said. He led the man through to the back office.

The back office was jammed full of inventory, a Keurig coffee machine, and a laptop. The proprietor opened the laptop, logged in, and navigated to the cheap Temu app for the security camera.

He wound back a bit and pressed play. The frame rate was abysmal, and the cheap pawn shop lighting left the resolution grainy, but there she was – the woman with the backpack and the ballcap – handing over the watch, collecting cash, and stepping back out the door.

“Fast forward to the guy,” the man said.

Sometime later, a man entered the shop and walked straight to the counter. He took the watch, studied it, spoke with the proprietor, then placed cash down on the counter and walked right out the door with the watch.

The man pulled a phone out from the inside breast pocket of his sport coat and dialed a ten-digit number from memory.

“It’s me,” he said when the call connected.

“Do you have it?” a cold, Eastern European voice asked on the other end.

“No. The watch isn’t here. It was sold off the books to a guy who walked in shortly after with five hundred cash.”

“Who was the guy?”

“No idea. The shop keeps lousy records. But I have the guy on video. The resolution is poor, but maybe our guys can enhance it? You think she double-crossed us?”

“Maybe. Or maybe this guy got lucky,” the voice on the other end of the line said.

A brief pause, and then the voice continued, “We still have eyes on her. We’ll pay her a visit tomorrow night and figure it out one way or the other. Get the footage.”

“Copy that.”

“Bring it straight to Dax. Have him enhance the image and run it through facial recognition.”

The line went dead.

The man reached down and grabbed the laptop.

“Hey! I need that!” the proprietor said.

“I’m taking it,” the man said, tucking it under his arm.

“Fine! Take it and go. I don’t want any trouble.”

“Do you have something to write with?”

The proprietor reached for a 3x5 index card and pencil stub from his desk and handed it to him.

The man wrote down ten digits. “If the guy who bought the watch happens to come back for some reason, call that number immediately.”

“Yeah. Okay. Sure. Maybe bring back the laptop?”

The man walked back through the shop to the front door and opened it. The Audi was still idling where he’d left it. Before stepping out, he paused and turned to the proprietor.

“Probably a good idea you lock up now,” he said. “And one more thing, keep better records. You’re part of the reason the pawn industry gets such a bad rap.”

He stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him. A second later, the heavy deadbolt clicked into place.