by Tim Tigner
Now she was in danger.
At the worst possible moment.
Max tried to push his fiancée from his mind as he barged through a large set of double doors and into Vulcan Fisher’s cavernous shipping bay. Twelve sets of plastic curtains danced along the opposite wall, attempting to keep the cold Seattle climate from blowing through the truck-loading doors. They looked like the pearly gates to him. They signified freedom.
Between him and them, scores of heavy-duty racks rose to the ceiling, partitioned two-pallets wide. They sat atop a shiny concrete floor gridded out with blue lines and numbers and forklift corridors. Someday soon, one of those racks would be packed with fifty autopilot systems destined for Boeing. And if Max did his job, each would weigh about three ounces more than usual.
He went straight for the nearest plastic curtain, attempting to walk casually but purposefully, while studying the shipping activity. Three trucks were loading, and two were unloading, including a UPS truck. Max set Big Brown in his sights, knowing it wouldn’t loiter. UPS drivers were paid for speed. With a bit of skullduggery, he could quickly subdue this one and ride out wearing the borrowed brown cap and jacket. Quick and clean.
The alarm ruined that plan.
It sounded just as Max was slipping beneath a curtain into the pouring rain. Not the constant deafening ring of a fire alarm. Rather, three squawks followed by a pause, and then three more squawks.
They’d found the unconscious guard and suspicious black box.
Safety and security protocols would be snapping into place. No doubt the UPS driver would be matched with his license, and his truck would be searched. Soon they’d be reviewing security tape. It would lead them straight to him.
Now Max had no time, and no plan.
He wondered if Wang was already clear.
The sound of a slamming door pulled Max from his momentary stupor. Which truck? Not the one right next to him.
He dropped to the puddled cement and began sliding under the truck, but then thought better of it and rolled back out. He ran forward to the gap between the cab and the trailer and leapt up into the tight confines, sloshing as he went. From there he jumped and got hold of the trailer’s roof.
A little voice asked, What are you doing, Max?
The sound of a starting engine interrupted his discouraging answer.
Max pulled himself up onto the roof and looked around. The rig next to him was blowing smoke. It wasn’t a semi, but rather a forty-foot container truck. No doubt headed for the port.
He’d have to jump for it.
Over a six-foot gap.
Under the pouring rain.
He took a running leap as the target truck started to roll. He didn’t try to remain on his feet. He landed and went straight into a forward flop. Two hundred pounds of flesh smacking down onto cold, wet corrugated metal. He skidded to a stop with both arms over the far edge. He’d be bruised in the morning, but still breathing.
Max wriggled back to center and spread himself like a starfish. To avoid sliding off as the truck gathered speed, he clamped down with all ten fingers and sucked himself down to minimize his profile and maximize friction. After a few seconds of stability, Max decided he’d be okay clinging to the corrugated ripples while they were within the compound. Once the driver hit the highway, however, they’d be scraping him off the next vehicle’s windshield.
First things first. He still had to make it out the gate.
Max popped up his head for a quick reconnoiter. Positioned centrally atop the container, he was about thirteen feet off the ground and three feet in from each side. Assuming Max stuck up about one foot, and the guard’s eyes were about six feet off the ground, how far back would that guard have to stand to see him? Max couldn’t work the trigonometry at the moment. Not with Zoya’s peril and his second-to-second survival on his mind.
And it really didn’t matter.
The truck was rolling and the guard gate approaching. Whatever the calculation, he was committed.
Chapter 40
Boris
Hawaii
PLAYING POSSUM was a first for Achilles. It went against his nature — although it was tougher than it looked. As anyone who has suffered from insomnia will tell you, it’s not easy to force yourself to relax. Attempting to do so after witnessing a violent homicide is particularly difficult. Add in the clomping boots of approaching assassins, the smell of gunfire, and a self-inflicted chest wound, and it’s a near impossibility.
But Achilles had been training his whole life to control the beat of his heart and bend the focus of his mind. In biathlons, he trained to shoot straight in the midst of extreme cardiovascular challenges — with the world watching and national pride on the line. On climbs, he had no choice but to maintain a relentless focus on his action rather than his position — for hours on end, with his life on the line. To have allowed his heart or mind to wander whether braced behind a gun or a thousand feet up a cliff would have meant losing — and losing was the one thing Achilles refused to do.
That was what gave him an advantage now. Achilles refused to lose.
Lying exposed atop the polished travertine tile, eyes closed and legs akimbo, he didn’t think about the bullets that might rupture his flesh. He didn’t worry about the pain that might explode his brain. He didn’t contemplate the loss that might occur. He pushed all the ‘mights’ from his mind and disconnected his ears and collapsed all thought down to a single point of focus: his breath. In … … … Out … … … In … … … Out … … …
Immediately following the split-second assessment of his situation and the available alternatives, Achilles mentally played out the possum ploy. He concluded that the critical seconds would be the first few. That’s when the assassins would assess the situation, searching for threats.
As they came around the counter with their weapons raised and their adrenaline pumping and their senses peaked, their eyes would fly to the red plumage jutting out of his chest. If the feathered tranquilizer dart wasn’t rising and falling at a slow and steady sleeping speed, instinct would act on their trigger fingers.
If that initial sweep raised no alarms, their next point of focus would be the plume protruding from Jas’s chest. Her unconscious condition would reinforce the conclusion that he’d been drugged. Then it would all come down to orders. To that extent, Achilles’ fate was a coin flip. Dead or alive. What had they been told to do? Capture him alive? Take him out? Bring him in? Improvise?
The kick came at the start of Achilles’ third breath cycle, a swift combat boot to his left thigh. Had he thought about it, Achilles would have been pleased. As far as nerve centers went, the legs were bottom of the list, whereas for bone depth and density they were on top. Tactically, the Russian had made a poor choice. He’d gone for convenience, the easy target.
But Achilles didn’t think about it. The kick was the equivalent of a thousand-foot drop he chose to ignore. Despite the pressure, despite the pain, despite the horrific circumstance, he focused exclusively on his breath. In … … … Out … … …
Three breath cycles later, Achilles brought his attention back to the world beyond his lungs. Someone was right there, inches away, standing silent as a sentry in the night. Footsteps also registered, distant but approaching. Coming from the end of the hall. Then a single word, spoken in Russian. “Clear.”
Inches from his shoulder, Achilles heard the other goon exhale and shift his feet.
“Who do you think he is?” the returning scout asked.
“Doesn’t matter. He isn’t anymore, and he didn’t bring friends.”
“Good point. What now?”
“We bring them both in. Use whatever Zoya learned to extract the rest from Achilles.”
“Lead pipes and blowtorches…” The scout mused. “So be it. What about Boris?”
So Jas’s real name was Zoya, but who was Boris? Achilles wondered. Could Foxley have been Russian?
“We lose him on the way to Kauai.”
&nbs
p; “Chains?”
“Yep. But first we clean up here. Ignaty wants it left spotless.”
Achilles answered his own question by placing it in the context of a hit squad. Boris was an inside joke. A reference to a shared history with a dead man. A corpse was a Boris to these guys.
“I thought Ignaty had a crew coming?”
“They’re just repairing the dock and the dish. No wetwork.”
“Whatever. How long will these two be out?”
“Depends on the tranq. A few hours, give or take. You want to carry the departed back to the boat, or mop up his brains?”
“I’ll man the mop.”
“Be my guest. But tend to the target first. I don’t want any surprises. You got the zip ties, right?”
“Yeah. You might want to sack Boris before you drag him to the boat. We got enough mess.”
“Roger that.”
As the men clunked about, Achilles readied himself for the battles ahead, internal and external. Lying limp while they tied him up would be the mental equivalent of climbing a cliff while looking down.
Various interpretations of “tie this guy up” began spinning around his head. Hands in front, or behind? What about legs? Ankles bound? Hog-tied? He could fight with bound arms, especially in front. If they stopped there, he could wait for the moment to be right.
Bound legs were another story.
If the Russian grabbed his ankles, Achilles would need to attack immediately. Regardless of other circumstances.
It would only be seconds now.
Chapter 41
The Trucker & The Frog
Seattle, Washington
MAX WAS LISTENING to the reverberations of his own heartbeat through cold steel when the truck’s engine re-engaged. It lurched back into motion only to rumble to another stop seconds later.
With his ear pressed to the wet metal three feet from the roof’s edge, his vision was limited to what he could see on the horizon off the left side of the truck — when raindrops weren’t blinding his eyes. As disconcerting as he found it, Max didn’t dare risk raising his head. He consoled himself with the thought that it might be tactically advantageous to defer to his other senses, that his performance might be enhanced, like a racehorse with blinders on.
The roof of the guard hut came into view during the next advance. It was just a few arm-lengths away. Max plowed his concentration into his left ear. He heard voices over the engine noise and pouring rain, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then the engine stopped, and their words became decipherable.
“Nobody’s with you?”
“Nope.”
A car horn beeped behind them. Two short beeps. A courteous nudge.
“You sure?”
“What ya see is what ya get. You see anybody up there in my bed, let me know. It’s been a while, know what I mean?”
“What about in back?”
“No way.”
“How can you be sure?”
“This ‘ere container’s going ta Hamburg. It’s packed solid. If he’s not Tom Thumb, he ain’t in there.”
“Why don’t we take a look.”
“Man, this little fiasco of yours has cost me enough time already. I got a schedule to keep.”
Another beep. A longer, single blast.
The rumble started up again, along with Max's breathing. Apparently the guard had conceded with a nod.
Geckos cling to walls and ceilings using the electromagnetic attraction of van der Waals force. Max prayed that force would be with him as he tried to hold tight. His prayers got louder as the truck picked up speed. Of course, if he did get a grip, then he’d probably freeze. Sixty-mile an hour wind and pouring rain would have him hypothermic within minutes.
For the first time in his life, Max began begging for a red light. He spewed out offers related to churchgoing and unborn children, but the only intersection between his truck and the highway still came up green.
As they turned onto the cloverleaf that began a ninety-minute drive up I-5 to the Port of Seattle, Max decided to give up what little purchase he had and make a dash for the sheltered space between the cab and the container. What choice did he have?
With arms and legs spread wide for maximum stability, he began wriggling forward like a lizard with its tail on fire. He only had a few seconds to cover some fifteen feet.
The wind and rain began driving him backwards the moment he released his grip. For every foot he gained, he lost six inches to backward slide.
He didn’t make it to the forward edge in time.
The truck hit the straightaway when he was still a couple of yards short, and began accelerating to highway speed. Now desperate, Max risked a glance back over his shoulder, hoping to see a flatbed truck hauling sand. He saw a big fat windshield instead, wipers humming.
As his blonde wig was ripped from his head, the sick side of his brain mused that people went through windshields all the time, albeit from the inside out. Then the acceleration paused while the driver shifted gears, and Max took the biggest risk of his life. He went airborne. He leapt like a frog.
Whether it was the force of fear or a shifting wind or divine intervention, Max would never know, but he covered the gap in that single bound. He crashed into the back of the truck’s cab and then dropped into the filthy fissure that separated it from the container.
The driver hit the brakes before Max had squirmed into a sustainable position.
Max scrambled to standing while the truck began kicking up rocks off the side of the road. He remained motionless once it stopped, knowing the driver would be listening. After a lenghty pause, the door opened. Max slipped out the right side, and timed his drop to the ground to coincide with the driver’s. The instant his feet hit pavement he began jogging back toward the cloverleaf, a shadow in the pouring rain.
He didn’t hesitate or look back as the driver yelled. Better not to give the trucker any more information than he already had, in case he was inclined to make a call. But Max doubted that he would. His benefactor seemed like a mind-his-own-business kind of guy.
As Max jogged along that rain-soaked highway, having pulled his feet from the fire by hook and crook and miracle, his thoughts shifted to a single point of focus. They skipped right over his own miserable condition and the smoldering remains of his operation to the only thing that really mattered. What had happened to Zoya?
Chapter 42
Tetherball
Hawaii
ACHILLES LISTENED intently as the Russians moved around, opening and closing cabinet doors. They were looking for cleaning supplies, he supposed. One set of heavy boots thunked back his way, and a package of zip ties thwacked onto the floor beside his head.
He didn’t flinch.
Rough hands grabbed him by the hip and shoulder and rolled him onto his stomach with enough force to snap the tranq needle off in his chest.
He remained limp.
The Russian pinned Achilles’ left hand against the small of his back and wrapped a zip-tie around it. Bad sign. He was going to use a tie on each wrist, like links on a chain, and join them with a third wrapped multiple times. An interrogation industry best-practice.
Achilles felt his last chance of a conventional fight slipping away. He was crossing a bridge, in the wrong direction. But he’d be a fool to attack with the other Russian still in the room. If they weren’t armed, then maybe. But they were.
The first plastic strap cried victory with its trademark ziiiiip.
The right hand followed, as did another mocking ziiiiip.
Achilles started thinking about scissors and knives. Where to get them. How to hold them. Timelines and percentages. While he mapped out a plan of attack, the other Russian finally left, hauling Foxley’s bagged corpse back to the boat.
Achilles reckoned he had about sixty seconds before the odds returned to two-against-one. For the moment, however, the odds were even — except that he’d be fighting with his hands tied behind his back. And the Russian had
a gun.
The instant his captor walked away around the counter, Achilles opened his eyes.
Fifty seconds left.
Face-down on the travertine didn’t make for a great viewing angle, but if he focused properly, the sliding glass door twenty feet ahead sufficed as a makeshift mirror. It was probably coated with UV-reflective hurricane film.
When his captor ducked down behind the counter to clean up Foxley’s gray matter, Achilles rolled into action.
Forty seconds.
While his captor kindly obliged him with the cover of a sickly sweeping sound, Achilles wriggled onto his knees and then his feet. Crouching to remain below counter height, he crept to the corner of the bar and peeked around.
He found eyes peering back at him from just a few feet away.
Twenty seconds.
The Russkie proved to be quick of wit. He had a white plastic dustpan in his left hand, and a matching whisk broom in his right. Within a second of his unexpected discovery he’d brought both to bear. The Russian flicked the dustpan’s crimson contents straight at Achilles’ eyes, and flung the broom right after. Had Achilles not moved, he’d have been blinded in a most unpleasant manner.
But he did move.
He rose and lunged forward onto his left leg, fast enough that the Russian couldn’t adjust his aim. While the gray matter and crimson blood-encrusted broom flew toward his waist, Achilles’ right knee exploded upward from beneath his assailant’s chin, channeling every ounce of energy his body could bring to bear. Had the Russian not been rising himself, had he not already put his mandibular bone in motion, there would have been a mighty crack, as his jaw shattered, and his teeth broke loose, and any soft tissue stuck in their midst was severed forever more.
But the Russian was rising.
Rather than colliding with an object at rest, Achilles’ knee served to accelerate the chin’s ascent, exponentially and with a twist. By raising the Russkie’s skull much faster than the spine to which it was connected, it behaved like a tethered ball. This abrupt change of trajectory transferred most of the kinetic energy directly onto the fulcrum, which in this case was the poor bastard’s third cervical disk.
