Against the Law

by Against the Law (epub)

  “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.

  30

  WHEN TOOMEY ARRIVED AT the depot, everything seemed to be under control. He got on line at the entrance, waiting as the trucks and cars rolled up to the gate, showed their paperwork, got checked by security, and admitted. He was driving his own ride, a Jeep Wrangler Willys, the big, tricked-out Unlimited; it drove like the rugged military vehicles he was accustomed to, but with the leather seats, tinted windows, and top-notch sound system he preferred. He rolled slowly forward, sipping his coffee and adjusting the AC, classical music blasting. It was the same routine he had gone through each time since he began handling the shipments and there had never been a hitch. Nor did he expect one this time. He saw Sergey parked on the roadside along with the semis, pick-ups, and cars that were always there, and nodded as he passed. Toomey’s number two, Trey, was beside him, riding along in an uneasy partnership with the Russian, and nodded back. He also note
d two of his other men, Dirk and Baxter, sitting in a Hummer, ready to trail and observe from a distance. They were battle-hardened mercs who had accompanied him to New York on this mission. To Dirk this was just another deployment: he was Dutch and had spent a decade fighting wars around the world. To Baxter, an ex-Marine from Atlanta who decided to go into business for himself, operating stateside was a bit of a mind-blower. But he was furious when their ambush at the club went wrong: he was more than ready to prove himself again now.

  Toomey reached the gate and showed his papers to the head guard, who remembered him. He was the kind of guy who got all warm and fuzzy around military, and the Special Forces sticker on Toomey’s rear window might as well have been a free pass.

  “Morning sir,” the guard greeted him, standing a little straighter. Toomey gave him a warm smile and a commanding nod.

  “Morning, Barker.” His papers explained that he’d be loading up an assortment of random, very boring items from the Wildwater Corporation container. Barker gave the Jeep a cursory check then thanked him for his service again and waved him by.

  Joe came out of the container fast and called to Artie, who was getting sleepy leaning on his cart in the sun: working a double and getting stoned was catching up to him. He jumped as Joe barked.

  “Officer!”

  “Um, yes, sir . . .”

  “This container has been cleared. Seal it up and then escort us to the exit pronto. We’ve just had another emergency call. National security.”

  “Right!”

  That intense corporal who didn’t talk came out, leading the dog, who sniffed suspiciously in his direction. Artie gave them a wide berth as they got in the Jeep and then shut the door to the container, slapping a sticker on it that said it had been opened and inspected. Then he got back in his cart and began to zoom through the stacks, leading the Jeep to the exit. He still didn’t really grasp exactly what all this was about, but if it got these hard-ass MPs and their narc dog out of his life, so be it.

  Joe and Yelena sped toward the gate, cruising past the other vehicles waiting to exit as the security guard led them along the edge of the road. They passed the truck, J & L painted on the door, with Josh and Liam in the cab and, Joe knew, Juno in back. Myron had escorted them this far before going back to his post at the gate, sadly without his soda. Joe shifted his cap casually as he passed, and Liam scratched the side of his nose, letting him know he saw him. Then they reached the front.

  “Lift the gate,” Artie called out as his cart pulled up, with the jeep idling behind. Myron stepped out of the guardhouse.

  “Hey Artie,” Myron said. “Where were you? I thought you were bringing me a Mountain Dew?”

  “Sorry Myron,” Artie said, trying to signal him by nodding subtly at Joe. “Got caught up with this. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  Joe gave the horn a tap. Artie jumped.

  “Shoot . . .” He turned back to Joe and saluted at him again, then turned back to Myron. “Listen these MPs got to get out of here. Lift her up.”

  “MPs?” Myron frowned down at his clipboard. “I didn’t know there were any MPs here. Excuse me sir,” he stepped up to Joe. “I’m sorry but I didn’t see you come in. When did you arrive?”

  Joe stared him down from under his hat. “Hours ago, officer,” he said. “We were here bright and early. What time do you come on?”

  “Nine.”

  “Then that explains it, doesn’t it, officer?”

  “Yes sir, but the guard on duty should have logged it here.”

  “Officer,” Joe said, looming over him. “I have an emergency to deal with. A matter of national security. And you’re going to hold me up because some incompetent forgot to log something, whoever it was?”

  Myron nodded. “That’s what’s weird sir. The incompetent on duty? It was you, Artie.”

  Artie looked stunned. Was it possible he’d been so stoned he had forgotten about the MP? Or had he slipped by during one of his very brief naps? That’s when Yelena, who’d been briefed on the commands for her highly trained dog, gave the defend command, “Take!” while also pulling back hard on the leash. As a result the dog began barking furiously at the two guards while straining with all his might.

  “That’s it!” Joe told them. “Hold it right there. I’m going to have to place you both under arrest.”

  “What?” Myron asked, backing away, looking from the dog to Yelena to Joe with equal fear. Artie groaned.

  “You idiot. I told you to let them out.”

  “At least one of you,” Joe said, “has been using illegal drugs or alcohol on duty, which is a violation of the Homeland Security Act, a federal court-martial offense.”

  “I wasn’t on duty yet . . .” Myron said. “I mean . . .”

  “Too late for excuses, son,” Joe told him. “Now both of you are going to have to give us a bodily fluids sample while the corporal here observes. She’s a trained expert interrogator.” He turned to Yelena. “Get the specimen jars.”

  Yelena saluted sharply and directed the dog toward the guards, who backed away. “Let’s go, you drugged-out losers. On the double!”

  Barker, who’d been busy processing entries on the other side, saw the commotion and rushed over, saluting smartly when he saw Joe and Yelena.

  “Good morning Major, what seems to be the trouble?”

  “You the CO?” Joe asked, sternly.

  “Yes sir . . . I mean I’m the supervisor, Jim Barker.”

  “Well I’m dealing with a high-threat-type national security crisis here and your men have seen fit to delay us. And now it seems we have a possible drug violation as well.”

  Barker glared at Myron and Artie, who looked back, wide-eyed with fear, and at least feeling stone-cold sober. The dog growled, and Yelena licked her chops, like they were both ready to rip them apart. Barker spoke in a lower tone to Joe.

  “I apologize sir. We try to recruit good men, but it’s not like in the Army. We don’t have the same training.”

  “You served?” Joe asked him.

  “Reserves. Mostly out of Fort Dix.”

  Joe nodded in appreciation. “Then you understand.”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Hold it,” Joe said holding a hand up and listening to his silent earpiece. “That alert has just gone code red.” He told Myron and Artie: “I’m putting you two in each other’s custody till we get back.” Then he turned to Barker: “Now for the sake of America, lift that goddamn gate, soldier!”

  “Yes, sir, right away. Lift her!” he yelled, and Myron jumped and ran to the guard house.

  “Yes, sir!”

  Yelena ordered the dog to fall back, and it happily hopped into the Jeep, tail wagging. Joe jumped behind the wheel and saluted as the arm of the gate lifted. Barker saluted and said, “Thanks for your service, Major!” Myron and Artie watched him leave with relief before starting to yell at each other. And as Joe and Yelena cleared the exit and pulled onto the access road, everything seemed to have worked out smoothly, until a bullet shattered the windshield.

  31

  TREY WAS THERE WITH Sergey to watch out for trouble, so after Toomey, his commander and employer, entered the depot, he put his binoculars on the exit gate and kept them there, waiting for him to return. When the Jeep with the military folks pulled up, he took note, and when he saw they had a dog and the dog barked at the guards, he got curious, but it was only when curiosity made him zoom in tight on their faces that he realized: it was them, the motherfucker who killed Tony back in the helicopter and the girl who rode the motorbike like a BMX champ. The same two who’d hit the stash and walked away untouched. This, he decided, qualified as trouble and he called Toomey, who told him to take them out. Immediately.

  “Yes, sir. It’s done,” he said with satisfaction. He got on the phone to his back up, Dirk and Baxter, who had the sniper rifle. “Team Two come in.”

  “I’m here Team One.”

  “Dirk, we’ve got a target. The Jeep about to come out
. Driver and passenger both. This one’s for Tony.”

  “Negative,” Dirk said. “We don’t have a clear shot.”

  “Understood,” Trey said, secretly pleased. “I will engage. Take the shot if you get it.” He drew his machine pistol. “Pull out,” he told Sergey, as he racked the slide, “we’re taking these two down.”

  Sergey, however, did not take orders from Trey. Nor did he take orders from Toomey. He worked for Anton, a demanding and unforgiving boss, and Anton had ordered him to protect the shipment, nothing else.

  “I’m not going without the dope,” he said.

  “We have to move.”

  “We’re not moving.”

  “But Toomey’s orders . . .”

  “Fuck Toomey,” Sergey said. “We wait.”

  Now the Jeep was moving, coming through the gate. “Fuck Toomey?” Trey asked. “Fuck you.” And he leaned out and took a shot, shattering the Jeep’s windshield. From that angle, with the target moving, he missed, but he left Sergey no choice: now they were going to move.

  Donna did not see that coming. She’d sunk into a torpor really, as the sun began to climb, toasting her face through the window, and the minutes clicked by, watching the slow traffic, like a lazy two-way river flowing in and out of the depot. Then, before she even registered what was happening, the guy in the car with Sergey, Unknown Subject with Ponytail, who’d been watching the same boring show through binoculars, swapped them for a gun and took a shot at a vehicle as it passed, shattering the windshield. A Jeep, with what looked like military personnel aboard. Actually, looking closer, as she drew her own weapon and pushed her door open to take a protected stance, it was a man, a woman and a dog, which was even weirder. And then, as if to twist her mind completely, she thought—or maybe she was just going crazy—that as the Jeep accelerated, swerving past her, that she saw Joe driving, no longer looking like a desperate shuffling junkie, but now in crisp fatigues with a cap and shades.

  “Get the dog down!”