by Darin Gibby
Quinn kept the engine running while he ran behind the tractor and began cranking a handle to lower the trailer onto the hitch. “There’s got to be some kind of electrical connection. See if you can figure it out.”
Addy found an assortment of wires dangling from the trailer and found mating connectors on the semi-truck. She plugged them together.
“Good enough,” Quinn said. “Hop in. We’re going for a ride.”
“Don’t you want to test it first?”
“No time.”
“I’d feel better if I knew we were legal. Stay here,” she commanded.
Addy darted to the cab and pumped the brakes, then turned on one of the blinkers. “See anything?”
Quinn studied the back of the trailer as a yellow light flashed on and off.
He gave her a thumbs-up signal.
This time it was Addy who ground the gears as she searched for first, then gently let out the clutch. Addy watched her side mirror as the truck and trailer began moving in unison.
Quinn held up both thumbs. “That works for me,” he yelled. “Let’s get out of here.”
The truck was still edging forward when Addy heard the roaring of an engine, followed by squealing tires. A black Suburban roared into the lot and skidded sideways, blocking the entrance.
“We’ve got company,” Addy muttered.
Quinn raced to the front of the big rig and hopped onto the runner. They both watched while three figures, all wearing bulletproof jackets, leapt out, weapons drawn.
“Your friends from WTG?” Addy asked.
“I don’t think so, but I can’t say for sure. I wouldn’t have thought my colleagues were capable of murder.”
Addy squinted her eyes. At least two of them had heavy beards, one with a bulging top lip. The third had hair flowing to the shoulders—a woman.
“My friends are back. We’re dealing with terrorists.”
A fourth person followed. “Wait, that can’t be!” Quinn stammered, “but it is. That’s Wilcox. He doesn’t want the secret to get out. These guys killed the examiner—and Perry. They’re not here to negotiate.”
“What now?” Addy said.
“I’m going to slow them down. You get out of here.”
Addy reached out and grabbed his arm. “No! I can’t leave you. They’ll kill you, cut you up just like they did to Johnston.”
“Yes, you can. Just get to the stadium. I’ll find a way out of this. I’m an Olympic fencer, remember?”
Addy’s eyes began to burn. “This isn’t a time to joke around. I’m not leaving you. I can barely drive this thing. And they blocked the entrance.”
Quinn ignored her and reached behind her seat, emerging with a crow bar. Then he slipped off the runner and onto the pavement.
“Get back in here!” Addy shrieked. “I need a copilot.”
“You can figure it out. You’ve made it this far,” he said, maintaining eye contact with the three assailants.
“Don’t go,” Addy begged.
Quinn kept marching forward, slapping the crowbar against his open hand. Addy released the clutch to keep pace. The big rig jolted forward.
“It’s the least I can do,” Quinn continued. “I owe you this one. Two people have died because of me.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Addy said through her tears. “Get inside.”
“Just do what I say. Okay?”
“But they will kill you.”
Quinn kept up his steady pace, continuing to pound the metal rod in his open hand, ready for a fight. As he got closer, the first two men left the cover of the Suburban and rushed forward, leaving Wilcox and the woman behind.
“Don’t be a fool,” one of them yelled, their weapons still drawn. “Get down on the ground and put your hands behind your head.”
Quinn continued toward them, undaunted. A shot kicked up a puff of dirt at Quinn’s feet. This time he stopped. He turned to look at Addy and waved her on. Another shot rang out. The crowbar fell clanking to the ground and Quinn grabbed his shoulder.
“Get down,” the assailant again commanded.
Quinn obeyed and began to kneel, still clutching his wounded shoulder.
The first man sprinted forward and swung behind Quinn, then kicked him in the back, knocking him face down on the asphalt.
Addy reacted, grinding the gears as she hunted for second, then found it. She floored the pedal and the semi accelerated.
The second man yanked out a baton from his jacket and swung it down on Quinn’s back. Addy had to look away, and the engine was revving too high for Addy to hear the impact.
The big rig gained speed, but still not fast enough to stop the thug from striking another blow. Addy propelled the truck at the man, causing him to leap sideways. At the last possible second, Addy swerved to avoid hitting Quinn.
The man who had kicked Quinn to the ground jumped to the runner and hung onto the side mirror, his other hand holding a revolver. Once he regained his balance, he pointed it directly at Addy’s temple. His oversized lip and black eye gave him away. The man with the tattoo, the same terrorist who had shot Hindy’s balloon, punched her in the ribs and tried to stop her at the gym.
“Stop the truck!” he bellowed in a deep baritone voice.
Addy kept her eyes straight ahead while they bore down on the Suburban. She found third gear and increased her rate of acceleration. Now she was only a few yards from impact. She made eye contact with the woman who’d held her tight while the man who was now hanging on to her mirror had crunched her ribs. Her gaze moved to Wilcox, who she now knew to be the mastermind behind these acts of terror. She hoped they wouldn’t move. She wanted them both dead.
Out of her peripheral vision, she sensed the man with the tattoo who’d caused her so much pain was perfecting his aim. At the last possible second, she ducked, just when the man pulled the trigger. The bullet whizzed through the cab, and a second later the semi broadsided the Suburban.
The impact slammed her head against the steering wheel, leaving a gash over her left eyebrow. But it knocked the gunman off the runner, sending him headlong over the windshield of the Suburban.
The momentum of the semi pushed the crushed vehicle aside, and Addy shot into the street. Bullets whizzed through the cab, and Addy kept her head down. She could hear bullets tearing into the side of the trailer and its precious cargo, and she wouldn’t be able find out whether they’d disabled the new Hindy until she reached the stadium.
She kept the pedal down, veering left, then down the middle of the road toward the onramp for Grand Avenue.
She never had the chance to check her sideview mirror to see what had happened to Quinn. After what Wilcox and his clan had done to Johnston and Perry, she had a sick sense that she already knew what was in store. She wanted to stop, turn the rig around and finish off Wilcox. But she knew it would be useless. They had an arsenal, and she had nothing. Quinn had given her his final wishes.
Whatever happened to him, it was up to her to make sure his sacrifice was worth it.
37
JESSE LONG WAS sitting in his Buick, contemplating his next move. He’d wrapped up his investigation and was wondering if he should go to the station and talk with the other agents. Or, maybe he should call Molly Peele and give her an update. What he really wanted was to find Addeline Verges.
His stomach growled. He hadn’t even had his morning cup of coffee, let alone any kind of real meal. He had a better idea. Go home to his wife and baby and watch the Super Bowl. He turned the key in the ignition. With any luck, Laura would have a nice dinner waiting, and it would be a close game, something to take his mind away from the exceptionally grisly deaths he’d witnessed over the past two days.
Traffic was heavy as he headed north toward the city. Long debated whether he should call ahead to warn his wife, or just surprise her. He decided the latter, just in case something else came up.
The Buick was pulling into his subdivision when his phone buzzed. His gut instinct was right. He pu
lled over, pried it out of his pocket and took the call. They’d found Addy.
“Where’s she at?”
“We’re texting you the location now. We don’t know if she’s still there. A taxi driver dropped her off at a shipping warehouse off Grand Avenue. He called us about fifteen minutes later.”
“Anyone there yet?”
“You’re the first one we called.”
“I’m two exits away. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“That’s what we were hoping.”
38
WITH TEARS STREAMING down her face, Addy barreled down the 101 Freeway. The heavy traffic she’d experienced on the way to get Hindy had subsided, because fans were now glued to their television sets.
She switched on the radio and turned the dial until she found the station broadcasting the football classic. They had a live feed from the field, and the captains of both teams were watching the head official flip the official coin to see which team would receive the kickoff.
Addy did a quick mental calculation. At her current speed, she estimated she had another thirty minutes, well past her allotted time. She only hoped Claire would hold her post-halftime spot. She assured herself that if Zissy had insisted on introducing her, they wouldn’t yank her from the lineup just for being late. Addy pressed down harder on the accelerator. Going a few miles an hour faster could shave off a few precious minutes.
Addy listened while the kickoff punched the ball into the end zone, and the game officially began. A car commercial blared over her speakers, followed by one from a fast food chain. Addy prayed for something—anything—to stall the game. Her prayer was answered when a wide receiver went down on the following series, and she listened while the announcers speculated about the extent of the injury.
By the end of the first quarter, Addy had reached the 237 Freeway leading to the East Bay. She gently veered the semi left, then took the exit onto Blazingwood Drive. She slowed for the first light that had just turned yellow.
As she did, she noticed steam boiling out from the hood, near where she’d collided with the Suburban. She held her breath when the light turned green and she put her foot on the accelerator. Just a few more blocks, she pleaded. A few lights later, she took left on Tasman and Levi’s® Stadium loomed in front of her. A wave of emotion came over her as she realized her ordeal was almost over.
The cargo entrance was on the far side of the stadium, requiring Addy to pull her load past the length of sports temple. She could hear the roar of the crowd as play resumed. The game was now well into the second quarter. Halftime was only minutes away.
She attempted to take her first right past the stadium and into the main parking lot, but it was barricaded. A Santa Clara policeman in full uniform was standing in front, arms folded. He shook his head when Addy slammed on her brakes to avoid a collision. He waved for her to continue on.
Addy stuck her head out the window. “I’ve got an important delivery for the halftime show.”
The officer stepped forward, then halted as he studied the mangled front end of the semi. He continued sauntering past the front tire of the tractor until he noticed a small round hole. He poked his finger into it. Steam was still billowing from her engine and the officer reached out and fruitlessly waved his hand through the cloud.
Addy didn’t wait for him to ask any questions.
“I should be on the VIP list, or whatever they call it. There’s going to be a live commercial, right after Zissy performs. In fact, she’s announcing me. I’ve got to get the props into the stadium so that they can be set up in time.”
The officer lowered his sunglasses. His face was oversized, with a thick moustache. A clipboard was tucked underneath his arm.
“Got a name?”
Addy hesitated, wondering if she should tell him her real name. If the officer realized she was wanted for questioning, that would be the end of her quest. But Claire wouldn’t have given any other name.
“Addy, and the future age car we are going to demo is called Hindy.”
The officer’s forehead puckered. He studied the first page, then flipped through the remaining sheets. The crowd inside the stadium roared again.
“Please,” Addy pleaded. “It’s almost halftime.”
“Sorry, I can’t find you on the list. Everyone’s checked in by now. You’ll have to move on.”
Addy considered punching through the barricade, just like she’d done with the Suburban, but realized that would only attract unwanted attention and an army of law enforcement.
In her side-view mirror she watched a white, boxy-looking van pull up behind her. The door opened and a woman wearing a white jumpsuit emerged. Her matching white cap contrasted against the black hair billowing out beneath the cap. Addy watched her, wondering why this truck had boxed her in.
“Okay, if you’re not going to move, I’m going to need to see your driver’s license and registration,” said the officer holding out his hand. “And I’m going to want an explanation of how this happened,” he said as he pointed to the wisps of steam rising from the mangled hood and the bullet hole just a few feet below.
“Please,” Addy pleaded. “I’m telling you the truth. I’ve got to get inside that stadium.”
The woman in the white jumpsuit reached the officer. “What’s the problem here?” she said. “She’s blocking traffic. Lots of people have jobs to do around here. You know how many linens I’ve got to clean tonight?”
The officer raised his hand to halt her progress. “I’m taking care of this. You’ll have to wait.”
Out of her peripheral vision, Addy watched in the mirror as another white-clad figure slipped out of the van and disappeared behind the trailer. Then she understood. This woman was there to distract her.
“Your license ma’am,” the officer insisted.
Addy was out of options. If she didn’t do something now, she’d be arrested and never make it into the stadium. And in just a few moments, this second linen cleaner would be inside her trailer, dismantling her new Hindy. Even if she got through security, she wouldn’t have a functioning car.
She did the only thing she could think of. With both fists, she leaned hard on the horn.
The semi belched like a trombone on steroids. The officer yelled in her direction, but she could only see his lips moving. She looked toward the stadium, avoiding eye contact. The officer began pounding on the door, but she wouldn’t release the pressure on the horn. The banging continued, then she heard a loud crack when he hammered his baton against the window. He struck again, and she felt a shard of glass cut her face. Still, she kept the horn blaring.
Then she saw a woman half-dashing, half-waddling through the parking lot as if she were a penguin, followed by a host of security guards and men dressed in suits. When she got closer, she began flailing her arms, almost a warning to stop the shrill screaming of the horn.
Claire? Addy wondered. From her dainty voice on the telephone, Addy had expected a slim, shapely-looking woman, someone you might find on a morning news show. Instead, Claire was short and heavyset, with close-cropped hair that was thinning on the top. And she swayed from side to side while she lumbered toward the semi.
Addy watched the linen cleaners climb back into their van, reversing course. Addy released the horn and watched Claire stomp around the front of the truck and tug on the officer’s shirt. He stepped down to confront her, and Addy opened the door to eavesdrop.
“What are you doing?” she insisted. “This is the halftime show. Are you crazy?”
The officer’s mouth hung open, clearly nervous that maybe he’d crossed the line.
The woman shook her head. “I can’t believe this.” She shoved him aside and flung the door wide open.
“Addy?” she said.
“You must be Claire. Sorry I’m late. Are we still on?”
“That depends on whether we can get you set up. Can someone please move these barricades, and get the bay doors open? We’ve got to pull this semi inside.”
Addy didn’t argue. She waited for a few of the security guards to part the barricades and wave her through. With Claire as a pacesetter, Addy followed suit, winding her way through the parking lot and up to the loading bay where the large door was just being raised. She pulled through and entered the safety of the tunnel.
* * *
It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust from glaring sunlight to the artificial lights in the tunnel. With her eyes widened, Addy watched Claire use hand gestures to beckon her onward until she reached a giant staging area.
Side halls veered off to the coaches’ offices and the players’ rooms. Directly ahead was a column of light opening onto the grassy field.
Organized chaos—and maybe not even organized—was the only way to describe what was going on. Straggling players from the AFC team were hammering their cleats on the cement surface in their hurry to reach their locker room.
But they were overwhelmed by the hundred or so dancers nervously prancing in place as their moment of fame had arrived. They’d be doing a floor routine while Zissy belted out the words to songs like You’re My Man, while lasers and fireworks burst throughout the stadium.
Zissy was a safe choice for the network, young with a tinge of innocence, yet with an air of seduction, no chance of a wardrobe malfunction, and immensely popular, especially with the millenials.
And Zissy was into all things green, was a practicing vegan, lived in a solar-powered home, and drove an electric car.
Like an army of ants, makeup artists, costume designers, and choreographers were frantically putting the final touches on the dancers, dotting on a smidge more rouge here, adjusting headdresses there, and checking necklines.
Addy spied Zissy near the end of the tunnel. A producer was adjusting her microphone while she smoothed on a final coating of lipstick. She watched Claire push her way through the dancers and whisper a final set of instructions into the ear of the platinum-selling artist. For a moment, Zissy’s eyes met Addy’s. The singer gave her grin and a thumbs-up.