Adrenaline (34 page)

He gave me a look of disapproval. “I didn’t know I’d offended your sacred morals.”

I had overstepped. I could show my loathing for him when I killed him, not before. “I just think counterfeit merchandise is a lot easier to control than people.”

“I like the control.” His voice became a low slur of gravel. “You should try it. I’ll treat you to the choicest morsels from my next batch from Moldova. Got some girls coming in four days, an order from a house in London. You and me, we can break one of the girls in. You get a taste for this business, then fake goods will pale.”

If I looked at him I would kill him on the spot. And I needed him. So I watched the sweatshop parking lot.

He misinterpreted my silence. “Ah. Maybe you don’t like the girls. We get boys, too, not so many, but I know a couple of boys back in Amsterdam you might like—”

“No, thank you,” I said. “Not interested.”

“You’re weird,” he said, “worrying so much about people. Other people don’t matter; all that matters is you. You judge me. But you are no different than me, Sam. You lie, you kill when you have to, you live under a false name. I never shot anyone down the way you did Nic.”

“I did you a favor with Nic.”

“True.” He rubbed his lip. “I keep thinking that I will be arrested any moment, because I don’t know what he was transmitting, or who he was talking to. I need a big payday, Sam. I need to be able to run and hide. That’s a great luxury, to hide well. That’s the mark when you’re not a pawn no more, when you’re a player.”

“Tell me about Edward,” I said. “Is he a player or is he more?”

“What do you mean, more?”

“You said he’s moving experimental weapons.”

“I think he’s pulling corporate espionage—stealing from one company to sell to another.”

“What’s he want to put into this shipment, Piet?”

“Not for you to worry about.”

“If we get caught I’d like to know what I’m serving time for.”

“You’ll never see the light of day if we get caught on this job.” Piet’s gaze went back to the warehouse. “Ach, hello.”

A truck, marked with a stylized lion and dragon, pulled into the back of the warehouse where the sweatshop sat. Three Chinese men spilled out. Two wore black trench coats. Another, more portly, wore a regular tan jacket and blue jeans. He walked to the bay of the warehouse.

The two in trench coats stayed close to the truck.

“Let’s go,” Piet said.

“No,” I said. “They’ve got shotguns under the coats.”

“How can you tell?”

“See the way the fabric bulges, right below the arm? One guy was riding in the cab, but the second came out of the truck itself. They won’t go into the building. They’re guards.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do?”

“We can’t grab the truck here. They’re picking up extra goods—they’ve already dropped off fake cigs along the route. We go in now, while they’re parked at a friendly spot, the Lings get a phone call.”

“Not if we kill them all.”

“I didn’t sign on for a massacre,” I said. “And it’s bad business practice.” Interference with profit was the only argument that might sway Piet. “The Lings would start hunting for us fast. We need to tackle the truck crew alone.”

“So how do we steal the shipment?”

“We don’t,” I said. “We hijack it.”

A
UGUST WAS SITTING IN THE HALLWAY
of the safe house, waiting for the pilot flying him to New York, when he heard an exchange between Howell and one of the operations techs:

“Mr. Howell, we have a match on the description of the man at the warehouse based on the description you and August gave. Is this him?”

“Yes. Who is he?”

“Piet Tanaka. Dutch national, formerly a contract employee for the Amsterdam police.”

“What’s he doing now?”

“He’s dropped out of sight, sir. No listed address, no listed occupation.”

“August!” Howell called.

August got up and walked to the computer screen.

“This the guy you saw in the warehouse?”

August nodded. “Yeah, distinctive face. That’s him.”

Howell turned back to the tech. “Find this guy. He’s got Sam Capra working for him.”

“I don’t think that’s accurate,” August said.

“Don’t you have a plane to catch, Agent Holdwine?” Howell said.

August left and found the pilot downstairs, ready to take him to the airport; Howell didn’t wish him well or thank him for taking a bullet. Treason poisoned the air; they all felt it since Howell had seen Sam Capra leaving the scene of murder and trafficking. Treason put people in a sour mood.

A
FTER LOADING SEVERAL BOXES
, the Chinese truck pulled back out onto the highway and we followed at a distance, three cars back. Piet was good; he knew how to tail.

“How are we going to get this truck grabbed before they stop again?”

“We force them off the highway.”

“What, in broad daylight?”

“Yes. In broad daylight. Right now, they’re split up—two in the cab, one back with the goods—and they are more on guard when they’re stopped. They won’t expect an attack now.”

“That’s because attacking them on the highway is stupidity,” Piet said. “What do you suggest we do?”

“Get behind them, then go past them,” I said. “I want a better look at the cargo door.”

He inched up past the two sedans between us and the Ling truck and swerved back over. I studied the back of the truck. A sliding door, secured at the bottom by two separate padlocks. Hard to pick, roaring along at seventy miles an hour.

“Now go past them.”

He floored the van and hurtled past the truck. The cab
door appeared to be normal, no modifications. I didn’t give it more than a glance; I didn’t want to attract the driver’s attention. But I saw him, and he was laughing.

“Stay ahead of them.”

I studied the map, unfolded on my lap. There was another highway intersection, cutting across northern France, perhaps fifteen kilometers distant.

“Floor it. Get us there now. I have an idea.”

“This is insane,” Piet said, but he smiled. The Ling truck would be here within minutes, and the van was parked on a bridge over the expressway.

“You understand what to do?”

He nodded. “If this fails, you’ll have wrecked everything.”

“If this fails, I’ll be dead. So don’t bitch. Just do what you’re supposed to do.”

“Good luck.” He offered me his hand. I dared not show my revulsion for him. So I shook hands.

“They’re coming,” he said, looking south. I could see the truck approaching in the heavy gray mist.

I put my legs over the side of the overspan and I heard Piet’s van roar off, but my mind was on counting.

The truck should pass under me at fifteen.

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…

I was wrong. The Ling truck hurtled beneath me at fourteen and if I hesitated I would miss it, landing onto unforgiving asphalt, tumbling into fast-moving traffic. I threw myself off and caught the last third of the truck, trying to land on all fours and roll with controlled parkour grace. A roll would be far quieter than hammering feet against the roof.

But my legs slipped and the truck veered slightly. I started to go off the roof’s edge, on the passenger side. My legs danced in the air.

I swung myself hard, every muscle in my arms screaming, thinking,
If they see me in the wing mirror I’m dead
. I yanked myself up with a jerk that felt like I’d torn flesh from my arms and settled into the slight depression in the truck’s roof.

Then I lay very, very still.

Had they seen me? I had to assume radio communication between the cab and the guy in the hold of the truck. Either could have reported an unexpected sound, or the passenger in the cab could have seen my blue-jeaned legs swinging out into the empty air when I struggled for a grip. Maybe they’d take the next exit, search for a place of privacy, then dispatch me.

No. I saw the next exit sign pass. A light rain began to fall from the granite-gray sky. The truck pressed onward.

I started to crawl along the length of the truck. Slowly, steadily, keeping my head down. I didn’t want a motorist to see me. I risked a glance behind me. Piet had rejoined the highway and his van was there, staying close but not too close.

The rain increased, slicking the metal. I needed a firm grip for the next step, and nature had just made my job harder.

I reached the forward edge of the truck. The cab’s roof was about two feet below my hands. I could ease onto the roof, but I’d be more visible to anyone in approaching traffic. Cell phones were everywhere; I didn’t want the French police getting reports of a crazy man truck-surfing the expressway.

The other choice was to ease down between the cab and the truck, into the narrow space, so that’s where I went, feet first, my back to the cab. The truck jolted over a rough patch of road and my right foot slipped. Gravity seized me and I caught my hand in the jumble of cables at the cab’s rear. My foot landed on the metal strut connecting the cab. Below me I could see the road passing between the crushing wheels.

I steadied myself. Now or never.

I inched my arm, holding Piet’s gun, around the cab’s corner. I planned to grab the passenger door, wrench it open and yank myself inside. All without the cab’s guard shoving me back out into empty air at seventy miles an hour. The wind whipped hard around me, the rain seeping into my eyes.

I put my head around the corner and stared into a man’s face, leaning out of the window.

T
HE PASSENGER’S EYES WERE BRIGHT
with shock that someone stood behind the cab; he looked to be about forty, heavyset.

Time froze for three seconds. Then his shoulder made a sudden hard shrug, bringing up his arm.

I jerked my head back around the cab’s edge as he fired. The bullet made a bright spark against metal, ricocheted out into the rain.

The truck veered hard, shuddering into the other lane, then whipped back.

They were trying to throw me off. I gripped the rain-slick metal and saw Piet’s van race up to the driver’s side, a spray of water fountaining from the tires. A muffled shot, from the truck, aimed at Piet.

I took a risk that the driver wasn’t driving and firing at the same time—that it was the passenger shooting at Piet. All I had now was force, calculated and vicious. I went back around the corner and heard another crack of shot. I yanked on the door just as a hand from inside tried to pull it back.

I threw myself forward, the door’s handle in a death grip. Then my feet gave way on the wet metal of the
doorstep, my legs shot out and my shoes dangled inches above the tarmac.

I dropped my gun. It clattered onto the metal, onto the road, and was crushed under the wheels.

The window, inches above my head, exploded. Shards blew out, stinging my scalp. The passenger, firing in panic. I wrenched my hand, shifted my weight, pulled my legs against the door for leverage, covered my head with my arm, all in one fluid move, like I was jumping onto a public-housing railing in London.

I threw myself through the window, head first, my back slamming against the edge of it. I wriggled, trying to get leverage, elbowing the passenger hard in the throat, knocking him into the driver.