34

Anwar picked up his phone and saw that it was connected. He was wondering if he should disconnect and redial, when he saw a brilliant flash of light; then the side of the ship nearest the dock split open, spraying flaming crude out in a fan and turning the majority of the shipping channel into a lake of fire.

He immediately put the truck into drive and began racing across the bridge, narrowly missing colliding with another car. Before he reached the far side of the channel, he saw the nearest tank on the land beyond the ship explode, the lid flying off like a bottle rocket.

He didn’t wait to see further results, but he could hear the secondary explosions as he raced back to his safe house.

Thirty minutes later, he exited Interstate 610 onto the surface streets of Sunnyside, traveling south through the depressed area. Finally entering the run-down section he lived in, he passed a police car on the shoulder of the road, the sight making him nervous. He took a left, one block up from his safe house, and ran smack into a line of cars waiting to move forward. He leaned toward the windshield, holding his hand to his eyes to block the sun, and felt a shock of adrenaline.

There were two police cars on the road, and they were searching each vehicle before it was allowed to continue. It can’t be because of the port. No way. Clearly, some other crime had occurred and they were looking for a suspect—but if he went through, they very well might handcuff him instead. He knew he was a wanted man for what he’d done in Nevada, having seen his traitorous mother on the news.

With only two cars ahead of him, he backed up, causing the vehicle behind him to honk. He wheeled into the other lane, hearing someone shout at him. He glanced behind him and saw policemen running toward his truck. He goosed the gas pedal, racing the other way.

He turned the corner and saw the original police car pulling into the road to block him. He torqued the wheel to the left and rocketed by, scraping the cage on the front of the squad car’s bumper.

He glanced in the rearview and saw the police car pull out directly behind him, lights and sirens going. He skidded around another corner, the truck vibrating in protest. He immediately took a left, trying to lose the police by reaching the major thoroughfare that ran next to Sunnyside Park. Moving too fast, the truck’s tires broke contact with the pavement, sending him into a wild spin. He bounced through a ditch and across a sidewalk and slammed broadside into the trees at the edge of the park.

Shaken, he cleared his head, hearing the siren growing. He leapt out of the truck just as the police car slid to a halt. He ran straight into the thick woods of the park, the branches of the underbrush whipping and scratching his arms and face as he barreled through.

He heard the policeman shouting at him to halt, but he kept going. He hit a tangle of undergrowth and sprawled face-first onto the ground. He lay panting but heard nobody following.

The thicket, he knew, was only a couple of acres, and they were going to surround it. Then they’d bring in the dogs. He needed to get out before he was trapped.

He jumped up and began running again, straight west, toward the South Freeway, which bordered the woods. If he could get across that—put it between him and the park—he would stand a chance. He heard sirens on both his left and his right, realizing they were setting up observation points on the surface roads, but that would be harder to do on the expressway.

He heard the noise of cars on the freeway first, then saw a break in the trees ahead. He kept running until he reached the edge of the wood line, then squatted down, cautiously peeking out. No police.

He’d started to step out when he saw a police car to his right, at the corner where the freeway met the northern surface road. He pulled back into the wood line and ran south a hundred meters. He tentatively tried again. The south road to his left was still clear of police vehicles, but the freeway was a problem. It was two two-lane roads separated by a fifty-foot swath of grass. From his position, the woods on the other side of the freeway were about a football field away. A long distance to run in the open. The only good news was there wasn’t a lot of traffic.

He broke free, running flat out toward the freeway, waiting to hear someone shout. He heard nothing. He made it across the northbound lanes, then was forced to stop in the grass median, frustrated by traffic. He glanced behind him at the police car to the north but saw no reaction.

A break appeared in the southbound lanes, and he raced to the far wood line. His lungs on fire, his legs wobbly from the exertion, he finally reached the first shrubs and stunted pine trees. He pulled himself into the woods, now staggering forward. He went far enough inside to be hidden, and collapsed.

Gasping for air in the humid Texas heat, he thought about his options, which were few. He couldn’t go back to the safe house, so anything in there was lost. He had plenty of money but no transportation. Maybe he could steal a bicycle, but that wouldn’t get him to Los Angeles, and he was supposed to be there in four days.

He decided he would call his contact. Let him solve the problem. In the meantime, he would put as much distance between himself and Sunnyside as he could. He thought about which way to go and logically decided to continue west, toward Los Angeles.

The next target.