The Heist

on Sunset, skirting the northern perimeter of the UCLA campus, and Chet pulled off his bloodied shirt andremoved the exploded blood bags that were taped to his chest. They were crossing the intersection of Sunset and Stone Canyon Road when they heard the dispatcher notifying patrol cars in the area that a van matching the description of the one reported by Burnside’s neighbor had been spotted by the chopper heading west on Sunset toward Westwood Plaza Drive. Willie made a hard left into the UCLA campus and sped down the long ramp into the parking structure beneath the athletic field. A soccer game was going on and there were thousands of fans in the stands.
    No one was talking now. Tom and Chet were hanging on to their seats with white knuckles, listening to the dispatcher announce that patrol cars were seconds away. Willie was in the zone, concentrating on executing turns in the cumbersome van. Nick was watching his crew, confident in the outcome, knowing they would sail through the garage entrance because he’d purchased a parking permit in advance.
    Willie parked at an angle in a loading zone. It was a spot Nick picked so the van would block the surveillance camera aimed at the elevator and stairwell. Everyone grabbed a gym bag, burst out of the van, ran to the stairwell, and stuffed themselves into UCLA Bruins shirts, sweats, and hats. They dumped the bags in the trash, bolted up the stairs, split up, and disappeared into the crowd watching the game just as police cars drove into the parking structure and the chopper circled overhead.
    Topanga Canyon runs through the Santa Monica Mountains between the San Fernando Valley and the beach. It’s a secluded, deeply wooded enclave that became known in the 1960s as a bohemian hideaway for artists, poets, actors, beatniks, hippies, lesbians, communists, and anyone else who delighted in being castas a rebel, radical, or outsider. And for the most part, that was how Topanga Canyon had remained, a place where the sound of tinkling wind chimes drowned out the birds, where the air was redolent with incense, and where you could still find braless women wearing tie-dye shirts and flowers in their hair driving VW Beetles.
    Kate drove Burnside deep into the canyon toward a cabin that was at the end of a dirt trail, far from any neighbors, even farther from a paved road, and surrounded by tall trees and dry, overgrown brush.
    The one-bedroom cabin was a fire waiting to happen. And if it did, it would be history repeating itself. The cabin had been badly damaged in the Malibu fire a decade ago and abandoned ever since, mired in a complicated legal dispute among the owners, the bank, and the insurance company. It was perfect for Nick’s needs. He had Tom Underhill fix it up, patch the roof, install a generator, and make sure the water, electrical, and septic systems were working.
    Kate’s Crown Vic wasn’t made to be driven hard over unpaved roads and it bounced like a boat on a stormy sea, but Burnside didn’t complain. He’d been silent ever since their discussion about the Viboras and Derek Griffin. She was glad for that, but knew the questions would be coming soon. He was a former prosecutor and she expected to be grilled like a hostile witness on the stand.
    Okay by her. She was ready for it. Nick and the crew had spent the last eight weeks prepping for the con, acquiring the resources, building the sets, finding the properties they needed, and rehearsing their parts.
    She turned off the ignition and headlights and sat in the car for a moment, listening and observing, making sure there was no onearound. The cabin was dark, the drapes drawn. The generator hummed in the otherwise quiet area.
    Burnside sat up slowly. His hair was mussed, his face pale. “Where are we?”
    “One of our safe houses,” she said. “It’s totally off the grid.”
    Kate got out of the car, gun and flashlight in hand, and checked the perimeter of the cabin. Burnside opened his door, leaned out, and vomited up everything he’d eaten at Mastro’s.
    Kate returned to Burnside, her feet crunching on the gravel and dry twigs. “It’s all clear.”
    “Do you have shoes for me?”
    “No, but you don’t need them,” she said. “You’re not going on any walks.” She’d taken his shoes to make sure of that.
    “How am I supposed to get to the cabin?”
    “Man up, for God’s sake,” she said, turning her back on him.
    Burnside closed the door, slid across the backseat to the other door,