Page 37 of Dirty Reads

After determining he didn’t have another weapon, and taking his cell phone, I left him bleeding on the kitchen floor and walked into the next room. In the corner of the room on the carpet was a pile of money.

Fuck.

It appeared to be all small bills.

$2,000,000 in $100 bills would easily fit in the backpack and would weigh only 40 pounds. The pile in front of me was either much more than $2,000,000, or it was very small bills.

I pulled the canvas bag from the backpack, filled it with as much money as I could carry, and filled the backpack.

I slung the machinegun over my shoulder, slipped my arms through the straps of the backpack, and shouldered the canvas bag.

When I walked back through the kitchen, the man was sitting with his back against the wall, clearly in shock. I pulled the man’s phone from my pocket and dialed 911. As the operator answered, I stepped through the door and tossed the phone in the yard.

If I made it to my car, I’d be home free.

And, after a few hours of counting, I’d know if I had enough money to meet the commitments I’d made to myself.

***

Zane shook his head. “Why do you do this each time we do business? There’s a reason everyone calls you Dick, isn’t there?”

“It’s my fucking name, asshole.”

“Spot is $489,800. Each. So, that’s $1,959,200 for four. What the fuck do you do with all of this shit anyway?”

“That’s none of your fucking business. Make it $1,900,000. I like even numbers.”

“It’s worth more. Like I said--”

“Save it,” I interrupted. “You got this shit at about $300 an ounce. You’re making a million and a half profit, and there’s no taxes, no questions asked, and no fucking IRS involvement. Legal money laundering. Take the $1,900,000 before I go somewhere else.”

He rubbed his jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “You’ve got the cash?”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Come on, Zane. Have I ever fucked you over?”

“Can’t say you have. You always try and fuck me on price, but you’re a man of your word, no doubt.”

I shrugged and turned up my palms. “So, we got a deal?”

“I get tired of dealing with you, but your money’s good. Sure. Four for $1,900,000. When do you want to pick them up?”

I glared at him. “What the fuck, Dude? I’m here now.”

“You’ve got the cash with you?”

I nodded. “What do you think I carried in here? Dirty fucking clothes?”

After weighing the money, I left with four 400-ounce gold bars. It seemed ludicrous paying almost $2,000,000 for 100 pounds of gold, but it was the equivalent of cash, and it couldn’t be traced.

Typically, some – if not all – of the money I ended up with could be traced back to a point of origin, and the end users certainly didn’t need or deserve to be questioned about how they obtained it.

I did what I did for a reason, and although some would say there was no justification to steal, manipulate, or swindle, I disagreed. I wouldn’t hesitate to resort to whatever means were required to protect my investments or to shield the causes I supported from legal ramifications.

***

I pulled into the driveway, parked, and confirmed the address matched what was on my phone. I got out, opened the trunk, and retrieved a gym bag with two of the gold bars in it. I slipped my arm through the strap and walked up the sidewalk to the front porch.

A matter of seconds after the doorbell rang, a woman answered the door.