“I do, I absolutely do,” Brewster said with pride.
The man walked away, and with a companion, illuminated the dirt road to the left. He shifted the truck into first, swung the wheel, and went down the well-made dirt road.
When the truck grumbled in, Duncan started walking at a good clip back down the road, illuminating it as best as he could with his flashlight. His brother worked at putting the brush and tree barrier back, and as the truck slowly moved along, Cameron jogged past the truck, joining his brother.
“Looks good,” Cameron said, raising his voice over the loud engine. “We should get this wrapped up in a few minutes.”
Duncan said, “Yeah, you’re right. Oh, by the way, I’ve got one more thing to tell you.”
His brother said, “For Christ’s sake, when are you going to stop with the goddamn surprises?”
Duncan said, “You know you love it. Puts spice in your life.”
Francois Ouellette jerked forward as Sherry suddenly hit the brakes and murmured, “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
“He’s gone.”
“What do you mean, he’s gone?”
Sherry said, “Lights are gone. Road is empty. Fuck, where did
he go?”
Something cold and greasy seemed to fill his chest. He leaned forward, peering through the windshield. Through the dim light of the overhead moon, he saw the narrow road descending into the forest.
“What happened?” Francois demanded.
“His lights flickered. Then … shifted some. Then he was gone.”
From behind them, Michael spoke up. “Gee, maybe instead of a spanking tonight, you’ll get a bullet in your head.”
Francois was going to say something and Sherry said, “Ooh, such hard words from the big man in the back seat. Tell you what, I’ll step out now, toss the keys into the woods, and start walking away. Feel free to put a bullet in my head. Then see if you can get out of this wilderness alive when the temps drop and when you run out of gas ’cause you’re lost, especially since there’s no damn cellphone coverage down here.”
Francois said, “Michael, do us all a favor and shut the fuck up. Sherry, now what?”
“Hold on. Stay here and I’ll be right back.”
She got out with a flashlight and started walking up the road, moving slow, stopping every now and then. Francois turned in his seat and said, “Michael, what the hell are you thinking?”
“Me? What I’m thinking is what a fucking wild goose chase this is, that’s what I’m thinking. A total waste of time and resources. You don’t know what’s in that truck or why we’re chasing it, except there’s supposed to be something valuable in it. Big fucking deal. All you’ve managed to do is to lose four good guys and we should just cut our losses and go home. You know—”
The door to the Jeep Cherokee opened up. “They’re sly, but so am I,” Sherry said.
Francois’s heart lightened. “What do you have?”
“I was walking up ahead and I heard a truck engine, off to the left, deep in the woods. Checked things out. There’s a man-made barricade of trees and brush that got dragged out and dragged back in. If I can borrow your strong men, Francois, then we can catch up with them in five, ten minutes at the most. Is that okay?”
Francois could sense the tension coming from the rear seat, not only from Michael, but from Johnny and Phil as well. He had an idea what they were thinking: they were urban gangbangers, the hardest bike club in this part of North America. What the fuck were they doing in the middle of nowhere?
Following orders, Francois thought. Following his orders.
“Yeah, that’s okay,” Francois said. “Let’s do it.”
thirty-four
In a cold, tiny hunting camp near the target area, Tanya Gibbs watched with quiet satisfaction as all these strong, big-armed men scurried around and planned and plotted, all under her direction. Surprisingly enough, the door to the camp was unlocked, meaning no wasted minutes breaking in or looking for a key. The men were clustered the middle of the camp’s main room, where they had dragged in a wooden kitchen table. Lights burned and cast odd shadows as maps, radio frequencies, and weapons were examined, discussed, and considered.
Her driver Henry Wolfe stood in the corner, arms folded, keeping eye on the proceedings. The room was bare wooden walls and studs, with decorations consisting of stuffed deer and moose heads. Dirty and scuffed linoleum covered the floor, with a couple of threadbare rugs so old their patterns couldn’t be discerned.
A whiteboard was set up on an easel, where a hand-drawn map in blue and black ink had been filled in. Henry caught her eye, made a slight shrug, as if to say he was glad he was observing and not participating. Next to him, communications gear had been set up on a rickety card table, with another State Police trooper manning the console.
Major Carl Kenyon, dressed in combat fatigues and SWAT gear, like nearly everyone else in the room, backed up from the map and held up a hand. “Guys, we’re doing something that should take hours to prep, but we don’t have the time. Peter, your deputy sheriffs?”
A sheriff from the Washington County Sheriff’s Department pointed to areas on the topo map. “We’re set up on trails we found, on either side of this main road that we’re waiting on. Ready to provide flanking or blocking action where necessary.”
“Sounds good,” Carl said, wiping at a sweaty brow. “Tanya, any idea of the ETA of this trailer?”
“Approximately ten p.m.,” she said. “Best I can do.”
“Sounds screwy to me,” he replied.
“Trust me, it’s coming across, and it’s coming across tonight,” she said.
Carl shot her a look like he wouldn’t trust her to tell him the correct year, but he kept his mouth shut. “Fine, Tanya. Since you’ve made it quite clear this is your operation, what are the rules of engagement?”
Tanya felt a thrill of anticipation race through her, knowing that she was in command, she was the lead, and that others higher up weren’t going to be allowed to let this attack come through. She thought of the innocents out there, innocents who would still be alive and safe and breathing in the days ahead because of what she was about to do here tonight. And despite that anger and the hatred Carl was sending her way, she could tell he was stepping up to the proverbial plate like the true pro he was—ready to do battle against America’s enemies.
No more victims, she thought. No more men or women jumping out of shattered, burning buildings, filled with terror and fear during the last confusing seconds of their lives.
No more Emilys.
“Rules of engagement,” she said. “Neutralize that truck. Make sure it doesn’t leave this border area once it crosses into New Hampshire.”
“Very clear, Tanya,” he said, his voice cold. “We now know what to do with the offending truck. But what about the driver of the truck? Or the people out there? What are your rules of engagement concerning them? Our state law is quite clear, in case you’re interested. We’re not to open fire unless there’s a direct and deadly threat either to ourselves or to civilians. But since this is a Federal matter, it seems you hold the trump card.”
She spoke slowly and clearly. “The people are to be seized and arrested if possible. If not, they are to be neutralized.”
“Shot and killed, then,” Carl said. The other state troopers and sheriff’s deputies stood still and stayed silent, like they were youngsters watching Mom and Dad fight in public.
Tanya was quick to agree. “Shot and killed, then. Any other questions, or are you now satisfied?”
“Satisfied, no. Questions answered, yes. Looks like you Feds are overruling local laws. Again.”
The trooper at the communications gear raised his voice. “Major, word coming in from Sullivan!”
“Put it on speaker,” Carl said. Tanya stepped closer to the trooper. Su
llivan was a sniper out in the woods, conducting surveillance on the suspected transit point, moving slowly through the forest, with another trooper accompanying him, serving as a backup observer.
A switch was turned on the communications gear, leading to a hiss from the small speakers. Carl picked up a handheld radio. “Sierra, this is TOC. Go.”
Tanya looked to Henry, who mouthed the words, “Sierra is sniper. TOC is Tactical Operations Center.”
“TOC, Sierra here,” came a whisper. “Eyes on target. Have Chevy Suburban with New Hampshire plates in view. Registration is Thomas Ida Charles four-zero-three. Three male subjects. All male subjects carrying long rifles. No heavy truck in view. Go.”
Carl looked around the group. Keyed his handheld. “Sierra, TOC. Maintain surveillance. Assault team moving into position. ETA of subject vehicle is approximately twenty-two hundred. Go.”
“TOC, Sierra. Acknowledged.”
Carl clipped the radio microphone to his vest, put a small headset to his thick right ear, then reached and picked up a Kevlar helmet with night-vision goggles attached to the brim. “Saddle up. We should be in the target area in about five minutes. From there, we wait until the truck comes into view. Guys, I don’t have to make a pretty speech about what we’re up against. More than ten years ago, in New York and D.C., and Pennsylvania, war came to our doorstep. Now it’s here again, about to cross over, intent on doing us harm. But that truck is not going to pass by us, understand? That truck is not leaving here.”
Tanya saw the grim faces of the men standing around, all of them in SWAT gear, all looking at Carl, save for one man—the health physicist from the state’s Department of Public Health. His name was Kwasnick, he had a thick black moustache, dark hair, and a long nose. Dressed in khakis and a green L.L.Bean jacket, he sat in the corner, a handheld computer in his hand, idly playing a game.
Carl put on his helmet, fastened the chin strap. “Keep focused, stay calm, maintain radio discipline. Remember what’s working in our favor: speed, surprise, and violence of action. Any questions?”
There were none.
“All right,” Carl said. “Let’s roll.”
Tanya waited until he was distracted with a piece of gear. She walked over and said, “Major, a minute. I know time is of essence. I promise not to waste it.”
Tanya could see the struggle in his eyes, and then he flicked his hand towards an open door. She followed him into a musky-smelling bedroom where wood paneling was pulling away from the wall studs. She closed the door and said, “Not open for negotiation. My driver and I, we’re going to get comm gear, so we can listen in. No interference, no chatter, but we’re not to be kept blind.”
“Fair enough.”
“I’m also following you in.”
“Not a chance in hell.”
She stepped closer, close enough to smell the sweat and cheap aftershave he was wearing. “Every chance in hell, Carl. Unless you want me to have a very intimate and revealing luncheon with the lovely and vanilla Mrs. Kenyon. Got that?”
His face reddened and she was certain that if they were truly alone, he would have punched her lights out. “You promised,” he said. “Fucking bitch.”
“Truest thing you’ve said tonight.”
Then, surprising them both, she lifted herself up and kissed him on the cheek. “A great speech out there, Major. Very inspiring. If I peed standing up, I’m sure I’d have a boner. Now go out and get the bastards.”
Francois Ouellette felt his palms moisten as Sherry maneuvered the Jeep Cherokee down the hidden road. Earlier he had sent out Michael, Johnny, and Phil to go where Sherry had heard the truck, and sure enough, there was a smart-looking barricade of tree trunks, branches and brush blocking the other road. The three of them had broken the barricade and tossed enough of it aside so the Cherokee could slide through.
Ahead he saw flickering red lights, the occasional flare of the taillights. Whispering, he said, “What’s going on up there?”
Sherry whispered back, “Truck’s moving slow. Looks like one or two guys with flashlights are serving as pathfinders, until they get to where they’re going. Maybe another truck to take the cargo, maybe a refueling, maybe the cargo is going be unloaded and split up into other vehicles. Meanwhile, I’m keeping it nice and slow. That honking big diesel up there will drown out our engine noise.”
Francois reached over, squeezed her thigh. He thought he heard her sigh with pleasure. Good. He said, “When you think they’ve stopped, then you stop, too. We’ll head out. When you can, turn around so you’re facing back the way we came. All right?”
“You got it, hon.” He was about to say something snappy in return when she said, “Yeah, fuck, yeah.”
The Cherokee stopped. She put it in park and shut the engine off.
“Showtime,” she said. “Now go make momma proud.”
Francois grinned, opened the door. After taking care of Crowley and his crew, this little piece next to him was going to be a great dessert.
Duncan turned around and, with his brother Cameron, flashed their lights at the approaching truck. It came to a halt about fifty feet from the Suburban. Duncan said, “Tell Nat we’re going to need his services in about ninety seconds, all right?”
“Got it, bro. You going to be okay?”
“Just fine,” he said. “Time for me to exercise my diplomatic skills. Wish me luck.”
“Wish we were done, that’s what I wish.”
Duncan circled around the truck, feeling the heat coming off the radiator grille. Flashlight still in hand, he waved it up at the driver. The driver’s side window rolled down. Duncan called up, “Hey, pal. Good job. Take a break and come on down. We’ve got some brews and a barbecue for you.”
He waited, wondering what the driver would say. Peepers were calling out in the woods, and a wind came up, cooling his exposed skin. It was hot, wearing the Kevlar vest. The driver laughed. “Shit, that sounds great. I’ve been living on piss-poor coffee and crap they call sandwiches.”
Duncan stepped back.
Brewster got out of the cab, nearly laughing with delight. He had made it! Had driven those tricky roads, took care of that snoopy darkie cop, and here he was, back in the States, ready to see this mission through. He was dreaming about the headlines and stories that would be breaking next week when this truck got to where it belonged.
He shook the man’s hand, and said, “The name’s Brewster Flagg. Can I ask you yours?”
“You may,” the strong looking man replied. “But first, I have a message for you, from your cousin Troy, God bless him.”
Brewster was surprised. His cousin, sending him a message?
“Really?” Brewster said. “What the hell did Troy have to say?”
“This,” the man said, pulling a pistol out from behind his back.
Duncan took his 10mm Glock out—upon which he had earlier screwed in a tubular silencer—pressed it against the surprised man’s left eye, and pulled the trigger. The pistol made a thick sound—silencers never worked like they did in movies and TV shows, they merely suppressed the sound— and the guy fell, the back of his head spewing out a fountain of blood.
Duncan unscrewed the silencer and put it in a mesh pocket on the side of his Kevlar. Another thing wrong about the movies: silencers could only be used once. A man was coming up the road and he turned, expecting to see Nat, his driver, approach, but it wasn’t Nat. It was Zach.
“Duncan,” Zach said urgently. “You’ve got a problem.”
The earplug was hurting her left ear, but Tanya kept it in place as she trotted up the dirt road, following a hunched-over Major Carl Kenyon, who was moving with his troops, if not into battle, at least into conflict. At the major’s insistence, she was wearing a Kevlar vest and a helmet that kept on slipping off her head. At her own insistence, she was wearing a pair of night-vision goggles that gave her
a narrow but clear-eyed view of the dirt road in front of her, in ghostly gray-green. The woods were all about her, dark woods, and she had flashes of memory of the terror that had flowed through her that night with the Girl Scouts, lost and fumbling around and oh so scared.
Tanya kept one hand on her head as they moved into the darkness, with Henry Wolfe beside her. Having Henry next to her was a comfort. She wasn’t sure what Carl and the Staties would do if she got caught in the middle of a firefight or something similar, but she was pretty certain Henry would watch her back. Her feet hurt but she kept on moving, right up to the point when Carl held up his hand, halting the movement, as a whispered voice urgently came over the radio.
“TOC, this is Sierra,” the sniper breathlessly reported. “Truck has arrived, has halted. Two targets to the right of the truck cab. Wait
… looks like we have a shot fired … subject down. Repeat, shot fired, subject down.”
Francois Ouellette moved quickly with his gang members flanking him. They had on Canadian Army night-vision gear that was obsolete but still worked, bullet-resistant vests, and each carried a Russian-made AK-47 semiautomatic rifle. As they had exited the Jeep Cherokee, Francois had said, “This is a straight smash and grab. We go in, hose anybody standing up, take care of business, and steal that fucking truck.”
Moving his head slightly back and forth, back and forth, Francois saw the truck ahead of him, that blessed truck that had caused so many rough nights and busy days, days when he had been filled with rage at what happened to his four club members, sent here to settle accounts. Well, that fucking Granite Stater decided not to do business with the Iron Steeds, so they was about to bring the business to him.
Up ahead the driver’s side door of the truck cab opened up, and the driver came out, stood down, and started talking to a man who approached him, carrying a rifle of sort slung on his back. Then the guy pulled out a pistol, and there was a bright flare of light against his goggles, nearly blinding him.
Night Road Page 31