WINDERMERE DROVE the Charger inland, hanging far enough back from the container truck so that the driver wouldn’t recognize the tail. The land around the harbor was low-lying and industrial; in the distance, more spindly cranes reached toward the sky, unloading more shipping containers from more leviathan ships. The truck driver picked his way past refineries and across railroad crossings, dodging tanker trucks and flatbeds and chunky oversized lifters painted the gaudy colors of a child’s sandbox toys. In the distance, a jet plane descended from the sky, on final approach to nearby Newark Liberty International.
LePlavy talked on his radio in the backseat, coordinating the support units he’d corralled to meet the container truck and its cargo wherever it stopped.
“We have air support, too,” he told Stevens and Windermere. “That customs helicopter is trailing us overhead. Make sure we keep a good eye on these guys.”
“Tell them not to get too close,” Windermere said. “We don’t want to spook them.”
LePlavy gestured through the windshield as the truck turned a corner. “Even if we did spook them, where the hell would they go?” he said. “As long as that chopper has eyes on them, they won’t get away.”
Just being careful, Windermere thought. We don’t want to mess this up again.
She slowed the Charger and followed the truck through the intersection and down a long, ruler-straight road. On either side were more empty lots, a few warehouses. LePlavy leaned forward and pointed at a white cube van approaching from the opposite direction.
“Our guys,” he said. “Got a whole tactical team loaded in the back of that rig.”
“What else do we have for support?” Stevens asked.
“As many field agents as I could muster,” LePlavy said. “Plus backup from Elizabeth and Newark PDs. They’re in position behind us, and they move at my signal.”
Windermere thought about the shootout in the Blue Room. About how a man earned himself a nickname like “The Dragon.” “Your backup,” she said. “How are they armed?”
“Heavily,” LePlavy said. He pointed out the window as the container truck turned off the road and into a gravel yard full of boxes. “This must be the spot,” he said, reaching for his radio. “Let’s go get them.”
> > >
VOLOVOI HEARD THE RUMBLE as the container truck turned in from the service road and onto the gravel lot. Heard the throb of the helicopter, high overhead, and the ominous, low growl of thunder in the distance.
Sladjan Dodrescu waited in the Durango, his pistol on the dash. Volovoi paced, nervous, listening to the crunch of heavy tires on loose stone as the truck idled through the stacks of containers to the clearing.
The helicopter buzzed overhead like a bee in his ear. Marek slowed the big truck to a halt. Cut the engine. Volovoi waited.
The air was still. Sticky. He was sweating through his shirt. Today’s box was shit brown, bruised and dented. It sat on the back of the flatbed like a bomb.
Marek climbed from the cab. Circled around toward Volovoi. “You want me to open the box?”
Volovoi didn’t answer. Was that a car’s engine he could hear, somewhere beyond the containers? A truck? A plane?
He looked at the box, and at Marek again. Nodded.
Soon enough, he thought. Soon enough, we’ll know.
Marek took a pair of bolt cutters from the truck and walked to the rear of the box. Paused at the doors a moment. Volovoi watched him. “What’s the problem?”
“The lock,” Marek said.
“You can’t cut it?”
“No,” Marek said. “It’s not there to cut.”
Volovoi started toward the box. Then he stopped. He saw the helicopter now, high in the sky. It was closer than he expected, an angry black insect. Volovoi was sure he could hear engines, too, out on the service road, through the stacks of containers. And the lock was gone.
Too much coincidence.
Volovoi started running for the Durango just as the first police cruiser appeared through the stacks, lights up, tires skidding on the gravel. There were more cars behind it, unmarked sedans and a white cube van, all of them screaming in like an invading army.
“Police,” Volovoi screamed to Marek. He pulled out his pistol, took aim at the first police car. Fired two shots at the windshield and then hurried around the Durango, pulling himself into the passenger side.
“Go,” he told Dodrescu. “Get us out of here.”
Dodrescu gunned the engine in reverse as the police returned fire. Volovoi heard glass break, heard the thud as police bullets perforated the Dodge’s sheet metal. Dodrescu slammed his foot down and the truck launched backward, away from the police, deeper into the stacks.
Outside, Marek had his gun drawn, a MAC-10 automatic, and was crouched behind the box, trying to fend off the cops. As the Durango screamed past him, Volovoi saw the big soldier stumble back, herky-jerky, as the police bullets hit him.
Dodrescu spun the wheel. The Durango slid on the gravel, careened around sideways. The driver punched the gearshift into drive and was on the gas again, aiming the Dodge through a break in the stacks of containers, away from the police cars and away from the road, a respite, but brief. The whole lot was ringed by heavy-duty fencing, Volovoi knew. Concrete barriers and barbed wire. Even the big Dodge would never make it through.
“We have to get back to the gate,” he told the driver. “Make it out before they block us in.”
Dodrescu set his jaw. Turned the Durango down a long corridor of boxes. Volovoi shifted in his seat, looked out the rear window. Could see the first pursuing police car make the same turn.
“Hurry,” he said. “Drive for your life.”
The Durango surged forward, the engine roaring. The SUV reached the end of the long corridor, and Dodrescu turned again, back toward the main road. Through gaps in the boxes, Volovoi could see the brown container, the tractor, Marek’s body. A light show of police cars and tactical units.
Dodrescu sped the Durango through the boxes, slalomed around a patrol car, and kept going. In the background, Volovoi could hear shooting. Saw sparks explode off the boxes as bullets struck them.
They were at the front of the lot now. The boxes fell back. Twenty yards ahead was the gate, a couple more cruisers waiting. And the cube van. The police were backing it into position, blocking the gate. In thirty seconds there’d be no way out.
“You see that?” Volovoi asked.
Dodrescu kept his foot planted. “I see it,” he said.
Volovoi rolled down his window. Leaned out with his pistol and fired at the van, at the cruisers beside it, at the low-slung Dodge Charger lingering in the background. The police returned fire. The Durango didn’t quit. Dodrescu drove with steel nerves, aiming for the rapidly dwindling hole between the white van and the fence.
Volovoi emptied his magazine. Then he ducked for cover. Watched the white van approach, watched the gap narrow. Dodrescu didn’t slow down. Didn’t waver. The fence got closer. The hole got smaller. Volovoi gripped his armrest and braced for impact.
Crash. Sparks. The Durango jolted like it had taken a punch. Metal squealed against metal. The police were still firing. The Durango’s engine revved higher as Dodrescu kept his foot down. The SUV shimmied, struggled, shouldered its way through. Wheels spun. Gravel spat. More bullets, everywhere.
This is it, Volovoi thought. This is how you die.
Then the Durango surged forward. Cleared the white van and bounced off a Newark patrol car, sending it spinning backward. Dodrescu fought the wheel, struggled to keep the Durango under control. Aimed the SUV down the service road and kept going.
> > >
STEVENS AND WINDERMERE watched the Durango muscle through the gate. Watched the driver wrestle it through a couple patrol cars, point it inland, down the empty service road. The big SUV was riddled with bullet holes, its windows shattered. Windermere couldn’t see how either occupant had survived without injury.
LePlavy was outside the Charger, hollering on his radio. “One man on the lot,” he told Stevens and Windermere, through the window. “The delivery driver. Dead.”
One man. Not the Dragon, Windermere thought. No use to us now. “We have to follow that SUV,” she said.
“I have air support on him,” LePlavy said. “No way he gets far.”
Windermere shook her head. “Not going to risk it, LePlavy,” she said. She glanced at Stevens. “You ready?”
“You know it,” Stevens said.
“Good,” she said. “Hang on. It’s going to be some cowboy shit up in here.”
She stood on the gas pedal. Pulled off the kind of tire-screaming launch she used to dream about trying in her daddy’s Chevelle—the kind she wouldn’t dare to pull now, not with her dad dead and buried—all burning rubber and that howling engine, Stevens pinned back to the passenger seat.
The tires found traction. The Charger leapt forward, sped down the service road toward the intersection, the shot-up Durango in the distance.
Beside her, Stevens clung to the armrests. “Jesus, Carla.”
“Better than sex, Stevens,” she said, her foot to the floor. “Draw your weapon.”