ARTIE WAS ON THE early shift today, pulling a double, covering for his buddy, who was hooking up with some girl he’d met. Artie didn’t mind. He needed the money, plus Floyd had given him a little thank you gift for the favor: a fat juicy joint of primo bud that he went off in the reeds and smoked between shifts with his other pal, Myron, who was showing up for gate duty that A.M. The weed definitely made the shift go quicker, but it was stronger than he was used to, a special gift after all, and when this MP, Major Somebody, pulled up in a jeep and started talking about a suspected shipment of illegal substances, it was all Artie could do not to freak out.
“Officer,” this MP said as he pulled right up and stopped Artie on his rounds, piloting the three-wheeled cart they gave him to drive. At first he didn’t even know who he meant; Artie was just private security and nobody called him officer or anything fancy like that. His plan had been to do a quick tour of the depot then stop at the vending machines and pick up sodas and snacks for him and Myron.
“I’m Major Ardon,” the MP said, pointing at a name on his uniform, H. Ardon. He looked serious and tough, like Artie’s high school gym coach, and he had a girl, sorry woman, sorry female officer beside him, who was looking straight ahead through her shades, helmet low, and holding a German Shepherd by the leash. “And I need immediate emergency access to this container.”
“Um . . . which . . .” Artie fumbled, flustered and already starting to sweat. He knew he was supposed to call this in, but the Major kept banging on the container. Artie checked: it was marked US MILITARY, described as “Returned and/or Defective Misc,” and Wildwater Corp’s agents were supposed to pick it up today.
“Open her up, pronto,” the major ordered.
“Yes sir . . . I mean . . . don’t you need some kind of warrant?”
“Warrant?” the major barked at him. “Is that what you said?” He closed in on him, poking him in the chest with a finger. “First of all, is this item under military authority or your private civilian authority?”
“Um . . . military?” Artie guessed. He had no idea.
“Good answer. Now . . . two . . .” He poked him harder, with two fingers. “We have reason to believe that illegal contraband, to wit heroin, is on that container, officer. But as you see, it is scheduled for pickup today. Is it your intention to deter us in seizing that heroin in time?”
“Um . . . no sir . . .”
“Right again.” Now the major poked him with three fingers. “And three. It is for that reason of extreme urgency that I have the corporal here with me, and her highly trained K-9 investigator. This dog is able to sniff out any and all illegal substances, but the longer we spend talking and waiting for warrants the higher the likelihood of a false positive.”
“False positive?” He glanced down at the dog with a new respect as it sniffed the wheels of his cart, then his own boots.
“Right. This dog’s highly trained senses are so sensitive that if any person or vehicle or even clothing has been exposed to and/or ingested illegal drugs within the last month, the dog will know. Traces remain in the hair and skin cells. They store in fat and become detectable when the subject begins to secrete perspiration. Now, if while we are here chatting, the dog barks at anyone, then I am legally obligated to place said person under court-martial awaiting a full spectrum of blood, urine, and spinal fluid tests.”
“Oh . . .” Artie said, sweat pumping from his pores. His armpits burned with fear, and the realization he was secreting panicked him even more. But how could you hold in sweat? He wondered how red his eyes were and wished he’d worn shades too, like the MPs.
“Now then officer, it is oh nine hundred hours. Are you going to open that container or not?”
“Yes!” Artie shouted. “I mean yes, sir!” And with that he broke the seal and unlocked the can.
“Thank you officer. For doing your patriotic duty,” the major said and saluted. “Now step back,” he added. “And let the dog work.”
“Right, right . . .” Artie said saluting as he gladly ran back to his cart.
The dog’s qualifications at least were real, even if Joe and Yelena’s were not. The trainer from whom Gio’s people borrowed him supplied dogs to government agencies, and this one had just passed its tests with flying colors. The trainer had held up his delivery for a couple days, saying he needed shots from the vet before traveling. However, as far as Joe knew, the only substance he was trained to sniff out was heroin; certainly not people, and of course not for thirty days, but Joe knew a stoner when he saw one, and didn’t need the dog’s help to know this dude was baked, standing at attention by his cart and trying to hold his breath.
But now it was Joe who was sweating. They were inside the container, packed to the ceiling on both sides, with a narrow path down the center, and Yelena was leading the dog slowly along, while it sniffed at cartons and pallets that, according to their markings, contained all manner of stuff—from fluorescent bulbs and night vision goggles to smoke detectors and shoelaces, but none of it, according to the dog at least, contained a speck of dope.
Yelena looked at him and shrugged. Joe’s mind raced. Was it possible to fool the dog? Theoretically yes, but he couldn’t see any coffee or other items that might be used to throw off the scent, and it would take all day to search this can by hand. Was it possible there was no dope here after all? Sure. If they had cancelled the shipment for some reason. Then the rest of this crap would just come in through the normal channels, with no one coming by to pull the dope from it.
But before Joe had time to think any further, he received confirmation that someone else did seem to think there was dope on the container. It was Juno, calling him over the earpiece.
“Hey Joe, FYI. I kept the tracking on that Russian’s car live, and according to that, he’s sitting right outside the gate. So you might want to get a move on . . .”
“Shit,” Joe said. He’d hoped, by the time anyone showed, to have the dope and be back inside the truck. “Cash, you there?”
“At your service,” Cash responded from his parked car.
“Can you take a look around, see if you can confirm that the Russian goon from last night is there?”
“Hang on . . .”
“Try again,” Joe whispered under his breath to Yelena. She gave the commands that the trainer had provided, and the dog diligently sniffed his way up and down the container, then wagged his tail, licked Yelena’s hand and lay down for a well-earned rest.
Cash came back on, “Well I’ve got bad news and totally fucked up news . . .”
“Let’s have it,” Joe told him. He could see that the guard was starting to get restless, and curious, as the fear faded.
“Bad news is the Russian is definitely here, about thirty yards back.”
“And the totally fucked up?”
“That Fed, the female one. Starts with a Z?”
“Agent Zamora?” Joe asked.
“Yeah, that’s the one. She’s here too.”
Meanwhile, Josh and Liam were sitting tight, waiting for word from Joe, while Juno sat even tighter in the back. The plan was that once Joe and Yelena found the dope, they’d return to the truck, and drive back up into the trailer to be escorted out like a backward Trojan Horse. Then the guard from the gate zoomed by in a little cart—the bald guy with the glasses. He paused, reversed, and got out.
“Shit,” Josh said.
“What?” Juno answered, hearing him over the mic and squirming with frustration. He was certain he’d been correct in his calculations—the shipment had to be there. Yet they’d come up empty. But the very fact that the Russians and the FBI were both here only proved him right. Or almost right. They were missing something.
“Nothing. Just be cool and don’t make any noise in there,” Liam said, removing his own earpiece. He waved at the guard and leaned out, grinning big.
“Thank God, you found us,” he called to the frowning guard.
“Found you?” he asked, looking up.
“Haven’t you been looking for us? We’re lost.”
Actually, the guard, Myron, was heading to the vending machines behind the shed. He had terrible dry mouth, ever since he smoked that fat joint with his buddy Artie at the start of shift. Then Artie had gone off on his rounds, promising to pick him up a Mountain Dew, and never came back. Now Myron had no choice but to show these two foreigners the way back to the exit.
“Follow me,” he said and, with a sigh—the vending machine and its load of cold soda was so close—he got back into his cart and headed off, reluctantly. Liam, also reluctantly, put the truck in gear and followed with Juno fuming in the back. The plan had gone off perfectly, but the results were nil, and now here they were, leaving empty-handed. Josh got back on his headset to call Joe and let him know that he’d need to find another way out.