He slowed for traffic. They drove quickly but courteously. A faint dawn was cracking the darkness in half. The growling engine and the speed, coupled with the heavy, rhythmic music, gave him an intense focus the like of which he’d never felt in a car before. The jag felt alive, a part of him, receptive to his every thought. He pulled alongside Dahl and then eased back. Kenzie waved from the passenger seat; a rather surreal sight to be fair. Hayden informed them they were only four minutes behind Luther.
They blasted along the I10, Drake and Dahl riding together, one alongside the other, chasing the big G-Wagon as the dawn rose to the east.
Hayden called them once more. “The buses are approaching the depot. The police have it surrounded. We know the two One Percenters, the Fabergé eggs, and a bomb’s on board. We think it’s the silver bus, but aren’t sure since none of the drivers have answered their phones. Do you see a silver bus?”
Drake did. Its high sides glinted as the first rays of sunlight flashed over the horizon. The black G-Wagon was tucked in behind it. The windows Drake could see were darkly tinted. He gunned the Jag alongside the suspect bus and looked up at the passengers. Some faces stared out, but mostly all he could see were vague shapes. He passed the bus and tucked in ahead.
“Want me to signal the driver?” He could see the man in his rearview.
“No,” Hayden said. “They’re gonna do that now as the buses pull into the depot.”
“It’s gonna be chaos, but you know our two super-thieves aren’t gonna want to blow that bus up? This is part of their plan.”
“Clearly. But after talking to the other three I believe they will if they have to. At least, the man called Jax will.”
Drake gripped the wheel harder. The satnav told him he was four minutes from his destination. He saw a blue sports car out of the corner of his eye and then Dahl was traveling alongside him, to the left of the bus.
“You ready for this, pal?”
Dahl looked across. “I wish I had a baseball bat for that bomb.”
It was a standing joke ever since the Swede had foiled a nuclear explosion in New York by hitting the device with a big hammer.
“You could always use Kenzie,” Alicia said. “If you’re looking for something thick, hard and pretty numb.”
“Thought you were doubled over in the back seat,” Kenzie hissed back.
“Only when Torsty asks nicely.”
“Hey!” Drake said.
Mai jumped in. “She’s definitely struggling back there. I think we’ve found something that keeps Taz quiet. For the most part.”
“Then it’s more road trips,” Kenzie said, and nobody argued.
Then Drake took a deep breath. “Two minutes out, people. Game faces on.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Drake pulled ahead of the silver bus, knowing there were two others ahead and they hadn’t managed to identify the right one. He saw the big bus depot now: a central hub with the blue Greyhound logo across its fascia, and dozens of bus lanes, parking spots and bus stops. Many buses were already there, idling. Drake saw no sign of people, which was good, and no drivers sat waiting.
He came in hot, and was directed to a parking area where dozens of cop cars already sat askew, as if they’d been driven in hard and abandoned. There was a huge contingent of SWAT, FBI, cops and dozens of other unknown agencies gathered behind three closely parked, unmarked black vans. Drake stopped the car and jumped out, pocketing the keys just in case he needed them later. He looked back the way he’d come. The silver bus was driving down a ramp, preparing to enter the bus depot, its sides gleaming. Dahl was just pulling up.
Where the hell was Luther?
He switched his gaze to the left. The other two suspect buses had been directed into two parking bays and were coming to a stop. Luther’s G-Wagon was about twenty feet from them.
Mai and Alicia were climbing out the doors.
It was crazy and fluid; the desperate scenario out of control. Drake saw the silver bus pulling in and being directed close to the other two. He could see drivers sitting behind their wheels, stretching, fiddling with their controls.
No!
Drake ran toward the danger, seeing Dahl, Alicia and Mai doing the same. Already, cops were sprinting ahead of them, trying to attract the driver’s attention without alerting the passengers. It was assumed that the One Percenters would be expecting a gun-toting reception committee and would be ready, but no policeman or agent in the world would let that stop them trying to save the passengers. Drake’s breathing was strained with the tension, his legs aching from the long journey. His heart was in his mouth.
The silver bus pulled up. The driver stared at all the activity.
Drake waved at the man, mouthing the words “keep engine running.” The driver shook his head, indicated that he couldn’t hear, and reached forward as if to switch off.
“NO!” Drake screamed. “Leave the fucking key alone!”
The man sat back, scared, but still shaking his head. Drake saw passengers craning their necks. Cops and agents were surrounding the silver bus, ready to make a move. Everyone was horrifyingly aware that any one of the buses could explode at any time. Again, the silver bus’s driver reached forward, eyes wide, a look of real terror on his face. Drake shook his head violently. He was desperate, but what could he do? Frantically, he fired into the air.
“No!”
Then a cop barged him aside, holding up a large piece of paper. On it were scribbled the words: Leave engine running.
“About . . . fucking . . . time,” Drake panted.
Passengers stood and walked down the aisles of all three buses. The drivers sat tensely, looking scared. Their doors were still closed. Drake saw faces staring out of every window. Agents wearing bomb vests rolled underneath the buses, three at a time at front, middle and back. He saw high-powered rifles trained on the bus windows, their users seeking out just two heads among dozens.
“Get them off,” he cried. “Get the passengers off now.”
The cops were already on it. The drivers of all three buses responded to a coordinated signal and opened their doors. Passengers stepped off, instantly pulled away by waiting policemen. Every face was scanned as it appeared at the top of the steps and matched to the photos taken at the tech research lab.
Drake watched the driver of the silver bus closely. His lips were moving. The guy was trying to tell him something.
He stared, then squinted. No mule? No school? Low fool?
Then it hit him.
Low fuel.
Fuck!
He shouted it out, making sure every cop in the vicinity heard and then addressed the driver again. “How much?”
The man shrugged and held up ten fingers.
Their difficulties had multiplied. An agent shouted for a fuel truck. One of the bomb techs rolled out from underneath the silver bus, shaking his head.
The driver stiffened. Drake saw a man he recognized as Jax leaning forward, encircling the driver’s throat with a big arm and waving a cellphone in the air. All activity stopped.
Drake looked left. Mai and the rest of the crew were helping passengers off the bus, dragging them in some cases. When Luther turned and caught his eye Drake made a covert signal.
Here.
Words were spoken and the entire Strike Force team started over.
Drake watched Jax mouth something. He didn’t understand it. Several cops shook their hands and held their hands up. Jax cursed, snarling. Drake saw the man as he really was: on the ragged edge. This situation could very easily and very quickly go either way.
Jax raised a gun and fired, blowing out the front windows of the bus. Glass exploded all over the gathered cops. Drake ducked as shards landed on the front of his jacket.
“Can you hear me now?” Jax shouted.
“Yes, yes,” someone answered.
“I said get those bomb techs out from under the bus or I’ll blow it. Do it!”
Drake saw one of the agents thumb his
radio. Jax dragged the driver to the side window, watching as the bomb techs rolled out empty-handed. One, a blond-haired man, shook his head and gave them a look of despair.
“Now,” Jax cried. “Step back. All of you. I want ten feet of clear space all the way around this bus.”
Drake retreated as the gathered cops and agents started to form a wide cordon around the bus. Their best guess was that there were fifteen hostages on the bus, including the driver. They hadn’t seen Cara yet, but assumed she was inside somewhere.
One of the cops shouted: “Low fuel.”
Jax glanced at the dashboard in front of him and whispered to the driver. The man nodded, lips drawn tight.
“Then you’d better do as you’re told,” Jax shouted, “and quickly.”
Drake saw the others walking up. Alicia nodded. The rest stood around him.
“That Jax?” Dahl’s question was rhetorical. “What’s he looking like mentally?”
Drake didn’t sugar-coat it. “I think he’d blow that thing in a second.”
“But it doesn’t add up,” Mai said. “If they’re good enough to pull off eight of the greatest heists in history they can’t be this highly strung. This volatile. I studied their previous robberies on the way here. They’re dependable, cool and incomparable at what they do.”
“I agree,” Dallas said. “You can apportion a part of this to them never resorting to a Plan B before. To getting disrupted. But not all of it.”
“You’re saying they’re not the One Percenters?” Dahl asked.
“No. I’m saying there’s more to this than anyone knows. Maybe more than some of the One Percenters know.”
Drake stepped forward. “We need to talk to Jax.”
Alicia moved too, but Mai pulled her back.
“I don’t think so, Taz.”
“What?” Alicia’s face was full of surprise. “You’re saying I can’t talk to a bell end with a bomb at the end of his stupid finger? Why?”
“You just explained it yourself.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Drake moved forward but Jax moved away. The entire contingent of cops and agents peered harder, trying to track where the man went, but the bus’s interior was dark and soon swallowed him up in shadow. As Drake watched, several passengers were manhandled to the front of the bus. He counted at least seven at the front, blocking all view of the aisle and the interior.
Drake turned. “What now?”
Minutes passed. The bus sat with its engine idling, running out of gas. Someone shouted it had about five minutes left. The gas truck was two minutes away. An agent walked up to the blasted front window and asked for permission to fuel the bus.
The passengers stared forward. Drake assumed they’d been ordered to do so. Another minute passed.
The driver shouted: “We’re below the fucking red line. Way below.”
The bus chugged, coughing on fumes. Had Jax decided to fade away, to let it blow? The thought sent spikes through Drake’s heart and shivers down his spine.
The fuel truck arrived, slowing only as it approached the bus, tires squealing. Cops darted out of the way, one man diving and rolling to avoid its big wheels. It pulled up alongside the bus, leaving barely any gap. The driver jumped out and unreeled a thick hose with a pump attachment at the end.
The agent repeated his question.
Again, there was no answer. Drake stared at the passengers. Some were crying. A woman was hyperventilating. The driver was practically standing, ready to leap through the shattered window. Dahl went right up to the front, so close he could touch the metal.
Nobody wanted to make the call.
Drake saw it in the agents, in the cops, in the other FBI figures standing around. They knew what had to be done. But if they were wrong, their career and especially their conscience would never recover.
Drake nodded at Dahl and shouted: “Let’s get these passengers off now. Get fuelling, and Bomb Guy: get under that bus!”
Everyone surged forward. Mai and Luther sprinted for the door just as the driver opened it. The driver himself leapt through the front window, grazing himself and breaking his arm when he landed, but was otherwise okay. The bus chugged and rattled, gulping down its last fumes of diesel.
Passengers exited and ran for their lives in every direction. Mai and Luther helped them while Alicia, Kenzie and Dallas watched out for Jax and Cara. People were crying, screaming. Drake helped two men down from the front of the bus. Dahl sprinted to the spot where the blond-haired bomb tech had rolled under and threw himself to the ground.
“Where are we?”
“Almost there. I practically had it last time.”
“How long?”
“Half a minute.”
Fuck, Drake thought. It’s gonna be close.
The bus rattled. Nobody had seen Jax or Cara yet. Was this part of their plan, this close call with the fuel? The man with the diesel hose had unfurled it all the way around the truck and was wrenching the bus’s filler cap open. Mai and Luther continued to drag passengers clear. FBI agents and cops helped them. Others had gone to search the other two buses as an afterthought.
Nine passengers were clear. Drake saw the last three people gathering at the top of the exit steps. He drew his Glock and moved up close to the damaged front window.
Nothing moved along the dark aisle or at the back of the bus. Jax and Cara had to be hiding in one of the seats.
But why?
He checked the perimeter. It looked good. Men encircled the bus right up to the fuel truck. Mai and Luther helped the last three passengers off and glanced at Drake. Luther spread his hands.
Dahl leapt to his feet. “Bomb defused!”
The bus sipped on its last vestiges of fuel, but now fresh diesel was being sprayed into the tank. Drake felt a huge rush of relief and then adrenalin.
“Storm those bastards,” somebody said.
FBI agents raced past Mai and Luther, guns drawn, proceeding carefully up the steps, onto the bus. Drake found an area along the bottom of the windshield that was clear of broken glass and hauled himself up. Dahl was a second behind him. Together, they stood in the space around the driver’s seat.
Two agents stalked the aisle ahead of them.
“Stand up,” one shouted. “Raise your hands. It’s over.”
They walked further down the aisle. Drake and Dahl joined the procession, checking every seat and the spaces underneath.
Nothing.
They walked slowly and cautiously all the way to the back of the bus. They checked the toilet. And then they turned and stared at each other, nonplussed. For a moment nobody spoke.
An agent raised a radio to his mouth. “Bus is empty,” he said, with utter disbelief.
Drake stared at Dahl. “I don’t get it.”
A voice squawked a reply over the radio. “Say again? What did you say?”
“I said the bus is empty,” the agent repeated. “They’re gone.”
Drake collapsed into a seat. The Fabergé eggs were gone too.
But how?
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
A silence as cold as a polar vortex descended over the bus.
Everyone stared at each other rather than looking for an explanation as to what had happened. It was Dahl and Luther that moved first. One turned to the lead FBI agent and one spoke up.
“Get searching,” Luther said. “They may have come from Vegas, but I never noticed Siegfried or Roy with them.” When some men looked blank Luther explained: “They were masters of illusion.”
“Bomb squad,” Dahl said. “For all we know there’s more than one bomb.”
A veil of fear fell across several faces. It was dark and air conditioned on the bus. The engine was still running and sounding much healthier now that it had a new supply of life juice.
Drake highly doubted there’d be more than one bomb. He trusted Hayden and the others to have checked for that information. It was mostly Dahl’s way of motivating people, he knew. Probably n
ot the best way, but then it was Dahl.
Men were on their knees and crawling under seats. Drake moved to the rear of the bus where they’d last seen Jax. Alicia was at his back and Mai at hers. Kenzie and Dallas were close to the driver’s seat.
A cop, crawling out from a foot well, noticed it. “Hey,” he said.
Drake heard and looked over but nobody else did.
“Hey.” The rough edge of panic made his throat sound raw.
Now more men looked over. Drake and Dahl strode toward him.
Dahl saw it first. “Oh, no.”
Drake dropped to his knees, examining the floor. “This is great,” he said. “Why didn’t anyone else think of this?”
He remembered Jax pushing all the passengers to the front of the bus. He remembered Jax melting back into the shadows. He now knew why nobody had spotted Jax and Cara escaping.
There was a large, rectangular trapdoor in the floor of the bus.
“It’s for maintenance,” a cop said helpfully.
Dahl wrenched on the hatch, pulling it open. He held on to the sides and looked underneath. After a second, he lowered himself to the ground. Drake followed, hit by a blast of warm air. He shuffled forward as Alicia and Mai joined them.
Dahl was performing a full three-sixty. “Daylight to all sides,” he said. “Except there.”
He pointed. The right side of the bus appeared to be longer than all the others. He could see daylight, but it was much further away.
“What the hell?”
Dahl started to crawl in that direction. Drake and the others followed, constantly joined by more cops and agents. Several minutes later they were nearing daylight and pulling themselves to their feet.
Drake squinted a little at first as the bright sunlight hit his eyes. The first thing he thought was: Where is everybody?
He turned and saw the vehicle behind him. It was the fuel truck. The dread certainty of what had happened struck his brain.
The Faberge Heist Page 14