In my ear, Atticus’s voice sounds: “Three miles.”
I’m standing on the Commerce Street Bridge, facing north. Springfield Estates is off to my right; Lynbrook is off to my left. About a mile ahead is the 495 interchange, which is why we decided to set up right here on this bridge. Because just like Atticus said, the tractor-trailers run random circuits, and there’s no telling whether it will go west or east or keep going north.
Headlights appear over the ridge of the interstate. They’re coming from the north. A moment later headlights appear in the other direction. That moment of peace and quiet has passed and it’s time for the highway to hold its breath again.
I’m wearing a black jumpsuit. My hair has been pulled back into a tight ponytail. I wear target-shooting glasses. I have on thin protective gloves.
The traffic coming in both directions have diverged and are passing each other. The steady hiss of their tires and the groan of the vehicles’ engines shatter the silence of the night.
I have a gun holstered to my belt. Another gun wrapped around my left ankle. A switchblade is in my pocket. A coil of nylon rope hangs at my side. I’m fitted in a harness.
More cars appear coming north and south.
Magnetic clamps hang from my belt, already threaded with the rope. A special gun hangs from my belt as well, the one Atticus gave me which is loaded with tranquilizer darts.
In my ear, Atticus says: “Two miles.”
The traffic below is speeding at sixty-five, seventy miles an hour. That means the tractor-trailer—that red flashing dot marked FGT-927—is less than two minutes away.
I stand up straight. I cross my left arm over my chest, hold the stretch for a couple beats. I do the same with my right arm. I bend down, touch my toes, keep in that position for thirty seconds before standing up straight again.
I’ve done the math in my head. I know how many feet there is from the top of the bridge to the asphalt of the highway. I know how tall the top of the tractor-trailer will be. I know how fast it will be going—Atticus is able to pinpoint it to the exact mile per hour—and I know, because I’ve done the math, just how much time I have to make the landing.
If I miss it by a second, I’m fucked.
“One mile.”
Continuing to stretch, moving my head back and forth, I think about Casey and David. I think about Zane and I think about my father and I think about Scooter and I think about Karen and I wonder for the very first time what if that had been me coming out of the porta potty, having no idea, just minding my own business and opening the door and then bam, that was it.
A car comes up over the bridge. I don’t even glance at the driver, doing my stretching, trying to act like it’s normal for anybody to be standing on a bridge this time of night with the get-up I have on.
“Half a mile, second lane from the left.”
A concrete guardrail runs the length of the bridge. I have to climb up, balance myself on the very small space provided.
My toes are right on the edge. Right on the very lip.
I close my eyes. Try to picture nothing. Try to picture complete darkness.
“Quarter of a mile, still in the second lane from the left.”
I start the countdown in my mind, the miles per hour, the seconds. The five-lane highway disappearing beneath the tires. The driver crouched over the wheel in the cab, watching the road.
I open my eyes. Glance back over my shoulder. I can see it coming, right there in the left-hand lane. Completely white. Unmarked in any way. Just like the thousands of other tractor-trailers driving across the country daily.
It’s coming, seventy miles an hour, seventy-five, and I think about Casey and David, I think about Zane and my father, I think about Scooter and Karen, I think about myself, and turning back so I’m facing north, my hands squeezed into fists at my sides, I take a breath, listen for the sound, the roar, the moment the grill of the tractor-trailer appears beneath the bridge.
And I step off the edge.
58
Half a second, that’s all it takes, my body in free fall, the wind whipping at my face, and I come right down on the top of the trailer, just smack, and the entire thing is shaking, vibrating, threatening to buck me off, and my body goes into automatic, grabbing for the magnetic clamps, slamming one down on the left-hand side of the trailer, slamming the second one down on the right-hand side, and then, as if on cue, the driver increases the speed and jerks the trailer just enough that I lose my balance.
I tilt to my left, heading toward the edge, the cold and unforgiving asphalt sixteen feet below me. The rope is already thread through the clamps, attached to my harness, and as gravity and momentum force me to the left I reach out with my right hand, grip the taut black nylon rope, hold onto it and pull myself up straight.
Atticus says something in my ear but it’s lost in the heavy roar of the wind. I have my left foot placed just in front of my right, and with both hands on different parts of the rope, the rope that is threaded through the clamps, I am able to keep my balance no matter how fast the driver wants to take us, no matter how many times he jerks the wheel to the left or the right.
They know I’m here now—or at least they know somebody is here—and right this instant a unit is being dispatched to this location; the only thing the driver and the men inside the trailer need to do is keep me busy until then.
Keeping my knees bent, my feet planted, my hands on the rope, I start to walk backward. I draw out more slack on the rope as I go, the coil only having a length of one hundred feet which I hope is enough.
When I reach the back of the trailer the driver jerks the wheel again, taking us toward the right, the off-bound ramp, and once again I lose my center of gravity, start to tilt to the left, but I hold on, pull myself forward, keep my feet planted.
I pause a moment, waiting until the tractor-trailer takes us the entire way up to 495, merges with the rest of the traffic. Atticus says something else in my ear I can’t hear, but it doesn’t matter because I know what it is: if the driver keeps us going straight in this direction, we’ll reach Andrews Air Force Base within ten minutes.
I take a breath. Take another. Then, gripping both lengths of rope tightly, I lean back and look over my shoulder.
The door here isn’t a roll-top, where it locks and opens at the bottom and is raised up like a garage door. No, this one is like a barn door, split right down the middle.
I lean forward even more, squint to see whether the door is locked. It isn’t. Of course it isn’t, not with the level of security riding inside the trailer, one or two or three or more just waiting, weapons probably drawn with fingers on the trigger.
I take another step back, so I’m right on the edge. I readjust my grip on the rope. The wind keeps slapping at my face, howling in my ears, the air cold and sharp. And before I know it I take another step back and drop down, extending my arms above my head, still gripping the rope, holding on but not as tight so I’m lowered, going down, down, down, until my feet touch the bumper, maybe a half foot of bumper, but enough so I can put my toes there.
Headlights splash me. I raise my head, thinking the unit has already arrived, wondering how many seconds I have to reach for my weapon before the tractor-trailer’s driver jerks the wheel again and sends me flying.
But the car belongs to a civilian, just an average person heading home or heading to work. I can barely see the driver but I can imagine the expression on his face, the open mouth, the wide eyes.
I bring both sections of rope together, grip it tight with my left hand, then lean forward, slowly, slowly, until my right hand grasps the latch. I jerk it up and pull the door open and immediately jump back as bullets tear into the door and disappear into the night. A half moment passes where I see the car behind us has been hit, white splats marking the windshield, and the driver slams on the brakes, swerves to the right, the cars behind him blaring their horns as they swerve to get out of his way.
The gunshots are still heavy, unabate
d, and the tractor-trailer’s driver decides right then to jerk the wheel again. This time it’s to the left and the door swings open even wider and then the driver swerves back to the right and the door I’m using as a shield comes undone and opens and before I know it I’m off the bumper, hanging against the side of the trailer, holding onto the rope as tight as I can while feeling it slither between the thin fabric of my gloves, burning my hands, the highway now racing underneath my feet.
Hanging there by the rope on the side the trailer, I’m aware that the gunfire has stopped. I’m aware that there is light spilling out onto the highway directly behind us, light coming from inside the trailer, and there are shadows there, at least two of them, standing at the edge.
The driver—who must surely see me dangling there behind him on his left—jerks the wheel again, and again, and again. His purpose here is to make me lose my grip, send me to the asphalt. Like Atticus said, they will not stop the tractor-trailer until the threat has been neutralized; even when the unit shows up they won’t stop, because they would rather be a moving target than a stationary target.
So the driver is doing everything he can to buck me off. But I don’t let go. No, in fact what he’s doing pisses me off even more than I already am, which is a lot, and it’s with that anger, that rage, that determination, that I reach with my right hand and grip onto the rope and spin myself so I’m facing the side of the trailer and then I plant my feet square against the unmarked side and I move my feet, first to the left, then to the right, to the left, to the right, making a pendulum, giving me force, giving me momentum, the wind screaming past me at eighty miles an hour, the tractor-trailer passing cars, trucks, buses, and then I’m as far left as I can go and I move right, move right, move right, and before I know it I push off with my feet and go airborne and soar for an instant, half an instant, a quarter of an instant, the rope growing even more taut in my grip, and I hold on and swing around the door and straight into the light and gaping maw of the trailer.
I come in feet first. An agent is standing there and I kick him to the ground. I let go of the rope and hit the floor and scramble back to my feet while the other agent steps forward. He shoots at me just as I turn away. The bullet punctures the side of the trailer and then I turn back, reach out, grab his arm just as he shoots again. He has his teeth gritted and he’s trying to move the gun toward me again, right at my face, and I give him a little leeway and then push the gun back into his face, into his nose, drawing blood, and he falls just as the first agent climbs back to his feet.
I reach for Atticus’s special gun. I pull it out and shoot the first agent in the neck, then turn and shoot the second agent in the neck. Both agents lift their hands to their throats, hold it there like that will erase what just shot them. One of them tries to take a step forward but the tranquilizer darts work fast. A few seconds and already the stuff is spreading through their systems. Their eyelids grow heavy. Their heads roll on their necks. Their legs give out from under them and they go down.
I stay in a shooting stance for a moment, just standing there, holding my breath. Slowly, very slowly, I lower the pistol.
Atticus must sense the sudden silence, because he asks, “Holly, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. There were two in the trailer and they’ve been taken care of.”
“How long before you find the flash drive?”
The front end of the trailer is filled with filing cabinets, two rows facing each other. Two desks are positioned against the sides, chairs underneath. A mini-fridge, a large cardboard box full of food, laptop computers set up on the desks.
I say, “I’m not sure. It might be awhile.”
“You have two minutes, maybe less.”
“Until?”
“Until the cavalry arrives. Oh, and Holly? They’re coming fast, and they’re coming strong.”
59
I start with the desk on my left, ripping open drawers, dumping them on the floor, papers and pens and paperclips scattering everywhere. The same with the desk on my right, only difference here are some Pop-Tarts stashed in a far corner of the bottom drawer, an old issue of Men’s Health.
The driver keeps swerving us from one lane to the next. I feel like I’m in a boat on a tumultuous sea, like I’m back on that yacht where I thought I witnessed what I did but obviously did not.
As I start on the first filing cabinet, tearing open the top drawer and sorting through the files, I ask Atticus how much more time.
“A minute if you’re lucky.”
Slamming the drawer shut, opening the next one, yelling, “Nova, where are you?”
“Ready when you are.”
“Can you slow them down?”
“Not all of them.”
“How many?”
“Right now looks like three.”
Tearing apart files, throwing out papers, finding guns wrapped in plastic bags, bullets concealed in dime bags, until I come to a drawer that has PDAs and discs and pieces of hard drives—
And flash drives.
“Holly,” Atticus says, “you have about thirty seconds.”
Quickly sorting through the bagged items, looking for a printed name, a flash of gold, I say, “Nova, do your magic.”
“I’m trying, I’m trying.”
Nothing in this drawer. I slam it shut, open the next, find even more bagged items. I start whispering a mantra—“Come on, come on, come on”—and then I slam the drawer shut, open the next one.
Nova: “They’re right on your tail.”
I pause and glance up and see the doors swinging back and forth as the driver swerves from lane to lane; I see the three black BMWs spread out, taking a lane each, coming at me.
I reach for my gun—my actual gun, the one loaded with live ammunition—but then I stop, realizing that won’t work, at least not yet. I hurry forward, stepping over the agent with the broken nose, gripping the one steel desk and pulling and pushing, pulling and pushing, until it starts to move. It weighs a ton but it starts to slide across the floor, and I push it toward the back, the three BMWs gaining ground, I push the desk until I reach the edge and then I push some more and the front two legs drop over the side and I keep pushing until the rest slides over and the desk tumbles front over end to the highway.
The desk hits the asphalt, bounces back up spinning once in the air. By that point the middle BMW has reached it and the driver tries to swerve out of the way but all he does is jerk the wheel too hard and the spinning desk lands right where the turning wheel is and jams there and causes the car to flip.
Nova, his voice loud and hurried: “What the hell was that?”
The two remaining BMWs continue on like nothing’s happened, taking up the space the third left behind, keeping pace with each other as they come even closer. Both passenger side windows lower. The upper parts of bodies pop out, AK-47s in hand.
I pull my gun, aim not at the men or the windshields but at the BMWs’ grilles, at their front tires. I pop off a half dozen rounds, enough to give me some time, and I turn back around, run to the other desk, pull it from the wall and then flip it over just as the men in the BMWs open fire.
Crouched behind the desk, feeling the vibration of every bullet, I yell as loud as I can: “Nova, get your ass up here and take care of these cars!”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t give a shit! Just don’t let them kill me!”
There’s a lull in the gunfire. I look around at the two tranquilized agents, both still knocked out cold, both appearing in no danger from hastily fired bullets.
Keeping low, I crawl back toward the nose of the trailer, to the filing cabinet with the bagged electronic items. On my knees, I start sorting through it again, tossing out bags, tossing out more bags, until I slam the drawer shut and go to the next cabinet.
Nova says, “I’m going to be so pissed off at you if I get killed doing this,” and then I hear the steady staccato of gunfire.
I pause for a moment to stand
up straight and look back. I can see Nova’s pickup behind the BMWs, Nova leaning out his window, gun in hand, shooting at one of the cars.
The tractor-trailer swerves again, from the left to the right, and gravity finally has its way and sends me falling to the ground. I knock my head on one of the filing cabinets, see white for a moment, and then I crawl forward again, open up the next drawer, start sorting through it.
“Holly,” Nova yells, “I’m taking on gunfire!”
I raise my head a bit, enough to see over the barrier of the desk. The two men with the AK-47s have stopped firing forward and are instead firing back at Nova’s pickup.
Standing up quickly, I tell Nova to get ready.
“Ready? Ready for what?”
I crouch down at the desk, plant my feet, and start pushing, pushing, this desk moving a whole hell of a lot easier than the last, moving like it’s on ice, and then it’s at the edge and it tips over and crashes down to the ground and slams right into the grille of the one BMW.
Nova’s pickup swerves behind the BMW as it comes to a sudden halt, coming right around it, and the agent with the AK-47 in the last car swings back around, starts firing at me.
I dive back into the trailer, crawl up to the filing cabinet, just start tearing things out. More files, more papers, more bagged items of discs and PDAs and cell phones and flash drives and—
Holy shit, there it is.
Wrapped in a plastic bag just like all the rest.
A golden flash drive, one of a kind, the name delano, roland printed on the attached label.
When I speak, my voice is barely a whisper. “I got it.” I have to say it again. “I got it.” And again. “I got it!”
“About time,” Nova says. He’s back there behind the BMW, swerving from lane to lane, trying to stay directly behind the car whose passenger is firing at him. “You ready now to make your exit?”
No Shelter (Holly Lin, No. 1) Page 22
