We pack up the guns and spent shells as the morning heat intensifies. Sweat trickles down my back as I help Ricky gather the shot-up cans.
"Not bad for your first real practice," Ricky says, tossing the mangled aluminum into a garbage bag. "You'll be quick-drawing like Doc Holliday in no time."
"I doubt that," I reply, remembering how clumsy my draw still is. The weight of the .38 at my hip feels both reassuring and awkward.
The truck rumbles back toward Miami, windows down to combat the heat. I lean my head against the door frame, letting the wind blast my face. My mind drifts to yesterday's events: the rich kid's mansion, the ATM marathon, the way I handled those college boys.
"Hey Ricky," I say over the engine noise, "you think I did okay yesterday? With Tommy and his friends?"
Ricky grins, keeping his eyes on the road. "Are you kidding? You walked in there like you owned the place! The way you handled those college boys? Man, they nearly wet themselves!"
I nod, but can't shake a growing uneasiness. "Sure, but college kids are one thing. Vargas is another."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean guys like Vargas eat people like me for breakfast." I watch the swampland gradually give way to civilization. "I walked into that room with Tommy because they were just spoiled kids. But Vargas... he'd have shot me the second I stepped through that door."
Ricky shrugs. "That's why we practice. That's why we're out here blasting cans instead of sitting in front of the TV."
He's right, but there's more to it. "It's not just about shooting straight. It's about drawing fast, thinking faster. When Vargas pulled that gun on me? Even though it was just a test, I froze like a lamb. A real gunfighter wouldn't have."
"You've been watching too many Westerns," Ricky laughs. "Real gunfights aren't like the movies. It's messy, fast, usually over in seconds."
"Still," I persist, "I need to get better. Faster on the draw, better under pressure."
"Well, that just takes practice," Ricky says, expertly navigating a pothole. "I've heard in the golden days of gunslingers, a cowboy could shoot half a dozen people in a couple of seconds."
The highway appears ahead, and Ricky merges into traffic. Miami's skyline shimmers in the distance, still modest compared to what I remember from 2025.
"I need a car," I say, mostly to myself. "Can't keep relying on rides."
"What kind you thinking of getting?"
I picture that Corvette at the dealership. "Something reliable. Nothing flashy." The lie comes easily.
"Reasonable," Ricky nods. "Flashy attracts attention."
My thoughts drift to the money situation. Four hundred from yesterday's job, plus sixty from Manny, and whatever I've saved. Still short for anything decent. I need more cash, and fast.
"How long before Miguel has another job for us?" I ask.
Ricky shrugs. "Could be days, could be next week. Vargas prefers to avoid predictability."
Days or weeks won't cut it. I need money now if I'm going to be useful for the O'Malley situation. This is America, this country is designed for drivers, not pedestrians.
We pass a shipping yard, containers stacked like colorful building blocks. Ricky follows my gaze.
"Impressive, ain't it? All that stuff coming and going. My cousin Pedro works security there. Says half the guards sleep through their shifts."
Something clicks in my mind. "How much stuff moves through there every day?"
"Hundreds of containers. Electronics from Japan, clothes from who-knows-where, car parts..." Ricky trails off, then shoots me a sideways glance. "Why you asking?"
I maintain a neutral expression. "Just curious."
Ricky's quiet for a moment, then suddenly pulls into a gas station. He cuts the engine and turns to face me.
"Look, I know that look. I've seen it on my brother's face enough times." His voice drops. "You're thinking about a score."
I don't deny it. "I need money, Ricky. Quick money."
He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, contemplating. "There might be a way."
"I'm listening."
"Hey partner, you know how my dad got hurt at the docks? Well, he still has drinking buddies there." Ricky leans closer, voice dropping to a near-whisper despite us being alone in the truck. "One of 'em told him about something real strange coming tonight. There's container that got "redirected" by some corrupt customs guy."
My pulse quickens. "Redirected?"
"Nobody knows what's inside, but the paperwork's all screwy. Shipping manifest lists it as 'industrial equipment' but it's way too light for machinery." Ricky's eyes gleam with excitement. "Could be drugs, could be cash, could be gold, could be nothing. But when customs gets sloppy with their paperwork..."
"They're usually hiding something," I finish for him.
"Exactly!" Ricky slaps the dashboard. "Container's sitting in the secondary inspection area, but my dad's buddy says it'll be moved to long-term storage Thursday night. Only two guards on that shift, and one of them always takes an hour-long nap around 2 AM."
I process this information carefully. "How secure is this place at night?"
"Chain-link fence, some lights, a couple of bored guards. No cameras except at the main gate." Ricky grins. "This ain't Fort Knox, hermano."
It sounds almost too perfect. "What's the catch?"
Ricky's enthusiasm dims slightly. "Well, we'd need bolt cutters for the lock. And if we're caught, it's federal property so... federal charges."
I weigh the risks.
"And if Miguel or Vargas finds out we're freelancing?" I ask.
Ricky shrugs. "What they don't know won't hurt them. Besides, this ain't someone's territory. As far as I know."
I tap my fingers against my leg, considering. A mystery container with questionable paperwork during Miami's pre-cocaine boom years? The potential payoff could be massive.
"Tonight," I murmur. "That gives us some time to plan."
Ricky's face splits into a wide grin. "So you're in?"
I nod slowly. "I'm in. But we do this smart, Ricky. No cowboy stuff."
"You got it, partner." He tips his imaginary hat. "This'll be the easiest score in history."