by Basil Sands
What the hell? Where’s the treasure?
Frustrated, Sammy stood up and scanned the walls, searching for another door or exit that might lead to offices or a storage room. Behind the platform, almost invisible amidst the geometric patterns, a brass doorknob jutted from the wall. Sammy smiled to himself.
Bingo!
He walked over to it and put his ear to the door. No sound. He turned the handle, pushed the door open, and peeked into another room. It was about twelve feet by twelve feet and lined with shelves containing stacks of black leather-bound books. Arabic writing—at least, he thought the squiggly lines were Arabic—was impressed in gold leaf on the spines.
How the hell is anybody supposed to read that scribbled-up language?
He moved stacks of books, but found nothing else. At the end of the rows of shelves, he noticed another door. It was partially open, and when he drew closer, he saw sunlight from outside streaming into yet another room. He pushed the door open. The light came from a small, rectangular frosted-glass window about seven feet up on the end wall. It made him think of a gas station bathroom. He stared at the black plastic crates stenciled with pale gray letters stacked below the window.
PROJECTILE – MORTAR – 60MM HIGH EXPLOSIVE
LOT354 051002 24EA SL040812
Sammy’s heart stopped and his jaw dropped open as he realized what he was seeing.
“Holy shit,” he whispered. A wave of terror crashed over him like a bolt of lightning exploding through his nervous system. A shiver rattled through his body and he nearly wet his pants. “Terrorists,” he said in a choked whimper. “I knew it. They’re freakin’ terrorists. Arab bastards. I gotta call the cops.”
He took out his cell phone and dialed 911. As his finger moved over the green call button, Sammy suddenly realized his predicament. The cops would ask him how he knew about the weapons, and he’d have to tell them how he had arrived in the room.
“Stupid Sammy,” he muttered. “How do you get yourself into crap like this?”
He started for the door, but a quick thought hit him. He turned back, and using his cell phone camera, he snapped several pictures of the room and its contents. He’d email them to the FBI’s website with an anonymous letter. They’d have to believe him.
Sammy put his hand on the doorknob. Deano barked outside, the kind of bark he gave when someone was coming to the door of their house. His heart leaped in his chest and the hair on his neck bristled. A moment later, voices echoed across the expanse of the main room. A lump formed in Sammy’s throat, and his mouth felt dry and sticky like after a dozen bong hits with cheap weed.
The voices spoke in a language Sammy couldn’t understand. Heavy and guttural, it sounded rough and violent. Then silence. Sammy thought he heard footsteps, light on the tiles, sneaking toward his hiding place. He spun around in a panic. Taking three fast steps across the room, he clambered up the ammunition crates until he reached the window. He twisted its latch and pushed it outward. It swung out on the hinge across its top.
Sammy propelled his body from the shelving to the window ledge. The door into the storage room creaked open. He thrust his body through the window and fell heavily onto the ground outside. A painful whoosh of air burst from his lungs as he landed on the hard soil, sending up a puff of dust. He drove the pain into the back of his mind, willing himself to suck in a deep breath and rise to his feet. He rounded the corner of the building, barreling toward the parking area and his truck.
Angry voices shouted in the strange language. He sprinted around the last corner of the building. Deano barked again and charged out of the trees after him. A dark shape loomed. Unable to stop, he slammed into an old man, knocking him to the ground. Sammy tumbled, rolled back to his feet, and continued toward his truck. He leaped into the driver’s seat and thrust the key into the ignition. Deano jumped in after him, forcing Sammy’s hands back as he passed. The old V-8 engine coughed to life on the second try. He threw it into gear and punched the accelerator to the floor. It burst into motion and he snapped the steering wheel around, spinning the truck toward the exit. The tires spewed gravel like a water skier's wake in a high-speed turn, spraying two men who were near the tail with a shower of hard-edged stones.
As the truck swung around, the old man he had knocked down glared at him. Even in his panic, Sammy clearly recognized the rage in the man’s eyes. Then a pop like a burst balloon grabbed his attention. Sammy cried out in shock, a high pitched girly squeak from the center of his throat, as the back window of his truck turned into an opaque spider web of cracks. His whole body flinched and he let out a another yelp as a second shot sprayed bits of glass that peppered his head and shoulders. Deano stood on the seat and barked ferociously at the men behind them.
Sammy looked into the rearview mirror, wide-eyed. Two neat holes dotted the shattered glass inches from his head. He glanced at the side mirror on the driver's side and saw two men standing by the door of the mosque, one with a big afro-like hairdo shouting and gesticulating like an animated cartoon character. The other, holding a pistol in his hand, ran toward the side of the truck. Deano, teeth bared with excitement, bounded back over Sammy and out the open window as the man raised his weapon and fired. The dog hit the ground, still running. Sammy hesitated for half a second, partly wanting to turn back and grab his dog then realizing he’d be killed if he tried. Deano charged the man with the gun and leaped at him. Sammy floored the gas and shot out of the parking lot, turning with a squeal of tires onto the pavement of Goldenview Drive.
The old truck’s springs bottomed out as the vehicle came over a hump in the road. Sparks exploded from underneath as the metal frame scraped the pavement. Rising over the next hill in the road, Sammy snapped his eyes left for a look into the side mirror. A white Audi pulled out of the mosque’s drive, bearing down on him, its firm suspension hugged the road tightly like a race car.
“Shit! God damn! Shit!”
Tears rolled from his eyes, making driving difficult as he crushed the accelerator pedal all the way to the floor. He glanced at the mirror again and caught a glimpse of Deano running behind the Audi as if he could do something if he caught it. Sammy lost sight of his faithful dog as the needle of the speedometer stretched toward ninety miles per hour and the RPM indicator quivered into the red bar at the three-thousand mark. Goldenview Drive stretched for eight more miles before it met Rabbit Creek Road. The South Anchorage police station was another four miles away. For the first time in his life, Sammy began to hope that a patrol officer would see him speeding and intervene before the men in the other car caught up with his truck.
The white Audi gained on him, growing larger in his rearview mirror. His truck barreled down the road at maximum speed, climbing a gradual incline. He crested a small rise and thought he might get a break after all. The road ahead descended for several miles. His truck was heavy—he might be able to gain more speed than the car and break away from their pursuit.
With the pedal held firmly against the filthy rubber floor mat, he nearly flew over a short hill, came crashing back to the pavement, then accelerated. The downhill slope indeed allowed his vehicle to gain speed. The speedometer turned at the rate of a second hand until it met its limit of 120 miles per hour. The steering wheel trembled in his hands, and the rusty old truck quaked and shook as it shot down the road like a runaway train. The junction with Rabbit Creek Road came into sight just beyond a dip in the pavement.
Chapter 5
Mansion on Goldenview Drive
Saturday, June 18th
8:30 p.m.
Blue skies, bright sun, and temperatures that felt more like Arizona than the Arctic had turned Harold and Maureen's wedding into a fantasy. Arm in arm, they gazed at the mountains through the wall of glass in their friend’s cavernous living room.
Harold commented to his smiling bride, “It sure is nice to have rich friends.”
As the party wore on, the forty-something newlyweds broke themselves free from the crowd and got into thei
r shiny new metallic-green hybrid SUV, a wedding gift from Maureen’s parents. The highly efficient lightweight vehicle was packed to its limit with wedding gifts and suitcases full of tropical clothing and suntan lotion. Hidden among the Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirts were a few very sexy bits of lingerie that Maureen was sure would make Harold’s heart race.
They had to be at the airport no later than nine o’clock to make the twelve o’clock red-eye for the first leg of their journey to Bora Bora and two weeks of romance in a bungalow on the water. As Harold pulled out of the estate’s curved driveway onto Goldenview, he scanned left for oncoming traffic. At half past eight, the twenty-four-hour summer sun was still high in the sky. The road was clear as far he could see. That sight was limited by a dip in the road fifty yards away, plenty of distance for someone to slow down. Harold put his hand on Maureen’s thigh, and she caressed his fingers as he turned onto the road. He looked up in time to see Maureen's eyes register a spark of horror. He turned his head just as an old pickup truck flew up from the dip in the road and plowed into their thin-skinned Hybrid SUV.
The explosive sound of metal on metal jolted the air like a clap of thunder. The wedding celebration abruptly ceased. Men and women rushed out. Mothers gasped and grabbed children playing in the front yard, some of whom had seen the whole thing. Thankfully, the distance obscured more than a glimpse of the gory details.
Eight-months-pregnant Trooper Lieutenant Lonnie Johnson dialed 911 on her cellphone as she sprinted to the scene, the long, pleated skirt of her maternity dress flowing behind her like a warning flag. Men from the party were already in the wreckage, looking for the victims. There was no one to rescue. What was left of the bodies would require a DNA lab to put all the right pieces in each coffin. Torn limbs and bloody bits of internal organs lay strewn across the pavement among twisted sheets of steel, jagged aluminum and sparkling fragments of glass. The debris radiated out like a fan from the point of impact.
Lonnie had been an Alaska State Trooper for more than twelve years. She was seldom fazed by scenes of gore, but this hit her differently. Between the hormonal imbalance of being pregnant and her friendship with the bride and groom, she found it difficult to keep her emotions in check as she spoke to the emergency dispatcher.
A white Audi pulled up to the scene and several men got out. They rushed toward the remains of the truck. Lonnie turned to tell the men to stay back. One of the groomsmen picked something up, let out a sickened guttural sound, then bent over and vomited onto his glossy patent leather shoes. Lonnie turned toward him, cell phone still at her ear. He held something up to her. She put out her left hand and he dropped it in. A shiny new one-carat diamond sparkled brightly on the polished gold band that plopped onto her palm. It took a moment for her mind to realize that the ring was still tightly connected to Maureen's finger.
***
The white Audi slowed as it pulled up to the mayhem. Men and women milled about through scattered chunks of jagged steel, ripped aluminum, and broken glass. Some dropped to their knees or stared in shock from the periphery of the scene. Others spoke on cell phones or consoled one another with embraces. Wails of mourning cast a nightmare soundtrack against the morbid backdrop, cries mingling with the odor of burnt metal, fuel, and death. Steven Farrah rose from the driver's seat. From the opposite side of the vehicle came Kharzai, his big hair bouncing as he twisted to get out of the car. Out of the back seat climbed the cousins, Leka and Kreshnik, eyes focused directly on the demolished truck with robotic indifference to the carnage around them. The latter pair jogged toward the wreckage of the burglar’s truck. Nearby, a man in a tuxedo abruptly hunched over in the midst of the carnage. His back arched and a mass of vomit splattered the ground, making a mess of his shoes. A small object in his hand glinted in the evening light. Between spasmodic wretches, he handed it to a pregnant Asian woman speaking on a cell phone. She took it in her left hand and closed her fist around it.
“Hey!” the Asian woman called to the cousins with the directness of a police officer. “Step away from there.”
“Dear God,” Farrah said in an upper-class British accent. He stopped searching the mangled truck and turned toward her. “Has anyone called the paramedics?”
“Paramedics?” Kharzai muttered, scanning the scene, “There's not enough left for CPR here.”
The Asian woman ended her cell phone call and moved her closed left hand behind her back. She put her phone into a pocket of the large maternity dress she wore and from the same pocket pulled out a badge on a lanyard which she looped over her head, the silver metal shield resting heavily between her breasts.
“I am a State Trooper. More help is on the way.”
Kharzai glanced at Farrah, his eyebrows rising as he looked back at her badge.
“The driver of that truck was crazy,” he said. His accent was pure American mid-western. “If you need an eyewitness report, Stevie here can give it to you. He flew past us on the road back there—must’ve been going over a hundred miles per hour.”
“Much more, I am sure,” Farrah said.
The cousins were still near the wreckage of the truck. One reached to pick something up. Lonnie stopped him short.
“Don't touch anything,” she commanded. Then to the crowd in general, “Everyone, please go back up onto the lawn, and don't pick up anything else. There’s nothing you can do. The police are on the way—they’ll sort it all out.” She turned to Farrah. “You said this truck passed you back there?”
Sirens wailed in the distance. The cousins moved away from the pieces of the truck. The cab was half imploded, the engine block sitting on the front seat. The remnants of the driver were just a smear of red jelly across the seat and window
“Yes, of course. He was the only one on the road.” Farrah looked at the carnage, shaking his head. “Simply awful. May I ask who was in the other vehicle?”
“A newly married couple. They were just leaving for their honeymoon.”
“Oh! That is horrible.” Farrah closed his eyes and pressed a thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his nose.
Kharzai shook his head. An unexpected memory of Leila flashed through his mind, involuntarily raising moisture in his eyes. “At least they died together,” he said.
A column of police cruisers turned from Rabbit Creek Road onto Goldenview Drive, followed by a stream of fire trucks, ambulances, and a news van. The cousins looked at Farrah. He nodded toward their vehicle, and the pair walked back to it.
“Again, I am so sorry for the tragedy,” Farrah said. “I will say prayers for the dead and for the surviving family members.”
The parade of emergency vehicles stopped and medical crew poured into the wreckage. A woman in a smart-looking skirt suit jumped from the news van and briskly walked to the edge of the site, turned her back to the scene, and waited as her cameraman hoisted the device to his shoulder. Kharzai maneuvered himself out of view of the camera, raising his fingers to his eyes and wiping away the all-too-real tears that continued to rise. Normally in a situation like this, he would have acted a part very similar to what he was doing right now, but the fact that he was unable to control this flood of emotion angered him.
“Well, there’s nothing we can do here,” he said. “I’ll go back to the car.”
As Kharzai walked away, Farrah suddenly realized the camera was pointed at him. The cameraman gave a signal, and the lady reporter started talking. As the camera panned the scene of the accident Farrah discreetly repositioned, cursing himself for not getting out of its direct view quicker.
“I will need to see your ID.” Lonnie motioned towards Kharzai before he got far. “Yours and those other two men as well.”
“I really don’t know anything more about this unfortunate situation,” Farris started.
“Since your friends entered the accident scene and touched what is potentially evidence in criminal investigation, I must insist,” she said.
“Oh, well, we certainly don’t want any trouble in that regard,
Trooper,” Farris replied.
He produced his wallet and removed a driver’s license. He called out to the other two men in a language that, judging by her expression, the pregnant trooper did not understand. She took his card and waved over one of the police officers, who made his way through the mess. The other two men approached, fishing out their ID cards as they walked. When they drew close, Lonnie caught a whiff of body odor that smelled like vinegar and stale bread.
“United Kingdom,” Lonnie said, looking at the pink credit card-sized license Farrah had handed her. “Are you visiting?”
“I'm here for a few months. I work for the oil industry.”
“Who?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Who do you work for?”
“A contractor who works for multiple oil companies.”
“What is your company’s name?”
“I do not wish to involve them in any trouble.”
“I understand that,” Lonnie said. “But it may be necessary to contact you later as a witness, and since you are not from here, we will need a local contact.”
“I work for Tech-Cor. I have a company mobile phone,” he replied. “I will be within reach.”
The officer approached them. He looked young, probably less than a year from the academy.
“Yes, ma’am? What can I do for you?”
“I’m Trooper Lieutenant Lonnie Johnson, from Fairbanks. I was at the wedding and called in the accident. Mr. Farrah,” she pointed to him, “and these other men claim they witnessed the driver of the pickup going at considerably high speed just prior to the accident. Here’s his ID.”
The officer took it and wrote information from the card onto a notepad, then asked for the man’s contact phone. Farrah gave him a number, but not his real one. The officer held out his hand to the cousins and took their cards. One had an Oregon license, and the other had only an Immigration and Naturalization Service Green Card.
