Free Duke City Split by Max Austin Page B

tall. Both agents felt that their mustachioed Mutt and Jeff were the pros in the First State Bank holdup, and the masked guy was some kind of new hire. Mutt and Jeff wore identical disguises and handled the guns. From what the witnesses had said about their efficient manner, they’d likely pulled robberies together before.
    No way to know if the mooks in this house were the same ones. An Albuquerque undercover cop had picked up their names the night before at Silvio’s, a bar frequented by criminals. An informant there told him of two partners—one short and one tall—who’d pulled heists together in the past and who’d recently moved back to Albuquerque. One look at their long rap sheets told the agents they were worth checking out.
    Hector finished off his bitter drive-through coffee and tucked the paper cup into a bag on the floorboard. He and Pam always kept their cars clean. Another thing they had in common. He often said a little prayer of thanks that he’d been teamed with Pam for the past two years. They’d both worked with other agents over the course of their careers, but never with this same chemistry. Finishing each other’s sentences, reading each other’s thoughts.
    “Ready to go knock on the door?”
    “We sit here much longer,” Pam said, “we might as well get on the bullhorn,announce to the neighborhood that the FBI is here.”
    She looked in the rearview, touched at her mascara with a fingernail. Pam didn’t care much for makeup, but she always wore mascara and eyeliner. She’d told Hector once that it called attention to her brown eyes, got the perps to look at her face instead of her boobs. He’d made a concerted effort ever since to never stare at her chest.
    Pam checked the Glock in her hip holster. Neither she nor Hector had ever fired a shot while on duty, but they followed all gun protocols. Sometimes the whole guns-and-cuffs bit began to feel like theater, but that’s when duty was most hazardous. You couldn’t afford to relax around lowlifes.
    The two of them walked to the slump-shouldered house, pausing to look down the driveway. The littered backyard was surrounded by a high fence.
    When they reached the weather-beaten porch, Hector said, “Allow me,” and banged on the front door with the flat of his hand.
    “FBI! Open up!”
    He and Pam stepped to the side, in case bullets might come splintering through the door. They waited several seconds. Nothing.
    Hector banged on the door again, then stepped back, his hand on the Glock at his hip. Pam gave him a nod. He was aiming a kick at the door when he heard a lock snap and the doorknob turned.
    The door opened inward, revealing a shadowy living room with gut-sprung furniture. A tall, thin man in grimy jeans and a once-red T-shirt stood in the doorway, wiping at his sleepy eyes.
    The peeling logo on the front of his shirt was a cartoon conquistador, complete with goatee and plumed helmet. The mascot of the local minor-league team, back when they were called the Albuquerque Dukes. Hector still liked Dukes better than the current team name, the Isotopes. The old name had history: Albuquerque was named after a Spanish duke. Lots of people still called it Duke City. An isotope? That was some kind of atomic thing. He preferred not to think about atomic bombs and such. He’d grown up with Kirtland Air Force Base and the Sandia national defense lab on the edge of town. The hills were alive with the sound of nukes. Better to think about conquistadors, his ancestors.
    After a prolonged yawn, the skinny Dukes fan said, “What the hell, man?”
    “Federal agents,” Pam said. “We’d like a word.”
    “About what?”
    “Can we come in?”
    He looked back over his shoulder, as if weighing what they might find inside. Then he shrugged his narrow shoulders and stepped out of the way.
    “Sure, man. Come in the kitchen. I need coffee.”
    As he turned away, he yelled toward the back of the house, “Dwight! We got company!”
    A short,