“Mind if I take a look at your manifest?”
“No problem, officer,” Reilly responded as he handed over the paperwork.
While one trooper reviewed the manifest, the others set up the mobile scales. Road taxes were paid but they didn’t entitle the user to carry abnormally heavy loads. Reilly however wasn’t worried. He was well within limits. The PVS-2 had been developed under government contract, and God knows that everything developed by or for the Pentagon was weighed no less than ten times. He knew the weight of the cargo down to the pound. There wouldn’t be any surprises.
Ten minutes later, after several adjustments, the troopers had the gross vehicle weight. Reilly, having watched the process from the front of the tractor-trailer, was surprised to see the troopers congregate at the back of the trailer. Normally that meant that he was overweight, or they had found something else wrong and were debating how best to proceed.
Finally, one of the troopers approached Reilly. “There’s a problem . . .”
“Can’t be overweight, officer. I know the GVW coming out of Carolina and it’s well within limits. There’s no way . . .” Reilly implored.
“According to our scales, either you’re dragging an empty trailer or your cargo has up and disappeared. I think we’d better have a look.”
With the troopers behind him, Reilly unlocked the trailer. As soon as the door swung open, both troopers shined their six cell flashlights into the trailer. It was empty. Reilly gasped as he stared into the empty van.
He struggled, looking for something to say, but all that came out was, “What the hell?”
CHAPTER ONE
The small, blue sphere ricocheted off the front wall and toward the racquetball court’s rear glass wall. Alexandra Davidson was in motion before the ball reached its intended objective. She moved toward the middle of the court, her body poised, legs perfectly positioned, her muscles tight.
As the ball flew from the back wall, she took possession of center court. Her racquet connected with the ball’s surface at just the right time, propelling it on a high-speed return trip to the front wall. It sailed in parabolic flight hitting the ceiling then sliding down the face of the wall, caressing it ever so slightly before bouncing twice before it dribbled across the floor.
Her opponent, one of her co-workers, never expected to see his last shot returned, much less to find himself totally off guard and thus unable to get into position in time for a return.
For weeks, Don Stark had watched Alex, as she preferred to be called, in the office‑‑the way she moved confident and self-assured, almost as if she was used to the countless pairs of eyes tracking her. Each time she had passed near Stark’s cubicle, his eyes rippled down her. His daydreams of Alex decked out in jogging shorts, her short hair framing a soft complexion running furiously after his serves kept Stark’s mind far removed from his assignment.
In the game’s opening parries, Stark’s aplomb had yet to be tested, and he still had time to lust after Alex as she moved around the court. Only later, when he found himself straining to keep up with his shapely opponent, did Stark forget about the face that haunted his dreams. He tried to bear down on her, but by then it was too late.
“Your point,” he conceded as he went back to the receiving zone at the rear of the racquetball court.
Alexandra bounced the ball against the floor as she returned to the service block located midway down the forty-foot long glassed‑in court. Deftly she bounced the ball one more time before striking it a glancing blow. The ball traversed the court hitting first the front wall only to carom off the wall and land with a single bounce between her opponent’s feet. His only chance at a return would have jeopardized the Stark family jewels.
Alex knew of Don Stark’s reputation‑‑both with respect to his racquetball prowess as well as his charm. In spite of his high self‑esteem, she had decided to accept his invitation, only mentioning that she had played racquetball a few times during college. Stark didn’t think to ask, and Alex therefore didn’t volunteer that she had been the Harvard women’s champion two years straight.
Stark had been telling everyone at work how he’d mauled each and every new addition to the staff. Sooner or later it was going to be Alex’s turn on the courts. After a fair amount of teasing, some of which she wasn’t sure was in good jest, she acquiesced to the match.
Stark had begun by testing her as he tried to ascertain whether she played beginner’s or intermediate racquetball. His initial serves were lobs, easy to return. Alex quickly decided that two could play this game, so she gave back what he dished out. It wasn’t long before Stark found himself covering more and more of the court. As he struggled to reach Alex’s well‑placed shots, he realized that he was badly outclassed. What he had first written off to beginner’s luck was no coincidence. Her aim was true, her positioning nearly perfect.
The match began with Stark taking the first game. Even then, it wasn’t by much. The second and third, Alex’s strong serve and well-placed shots gave her co-worker a tour of the court.
By now, Stark was used to Alex’s riveting shots‑‑both when serving and during returns. They had agreed to play the best out of three games. The first two were a split. Alex needed the next point to salt away the match. She glanced over her shoulder checking Stark’s position. He stood ready, having positioned himself at the rear of the court all the way up against the back wall.
Alex bounced the ball once, and then lobbed it up toward the ceiling. The opposite of her power serve, the lob gracefully traveled to a spot high on the right side of the front wall. From the point of impact, the ball floated high in an arc, brushing the sidewall. The slight touch caused the ball to slow. When it landed in the backcourt, it literally died. Expecting Alex’s power serve, Don Stark stood there thunderstruck as the ball rolled along the floor.
“That’s game,” Alex commented in passing. Reaching up with the wristband, she wiped the sweat from her brow. “I think that does it. Besides our hour’s up.”
She didn’t comment, but it was obvious that Don Stark had expected to win handily. It wouldn’t do much for his ego when he explained that the scourge of the racquetball court had lost two of the three games. From Stark’s cold stare, it was obvious that he was busy trying to figure out what happened to him, losing much less at the hands of a woman. Oh well, he’d get over it.
As soon as they had exited the court, Stark mumbled something about a good game, and then headed for the men’s locker room. Alex stopped for a drink at the water cooler before opening the door marked “Women’s Locker Room”.
While she stripped off her sweat‑stained shorts and top, Alex wondered how Stark would explain his resounding defeat. Stark reveled in taking the office’s new additions out for a night of what he termed friendly racquetball. To the best of Alex’s knowledge, he had never lost a match–at least not until this morning’s.
Minutes later, she was standing in the shower stall, the hot water cascading down her back. For the last several months, since her assignment to the Baltimore office, she had been cleaning up some odds and ends. Finally the grunt work was over and she was ready for a real assignment. Not content with what they’d given her up ‘til now, she hoped that it would be a challenge.
Government service wasn’t at all what it was cracked up to be. There was the low pay, particularly when you compared it to the private sector, not to mention the hours. Well at least she had a job, which was more than she could say for some of her college friends who had opted for positions in private industry. With the recent economic situation, a number of them had been laid off and were collecting unemployment. At least, she didn’t have to worry about that.
Alex pulled her hair dryer from her exercise bag, plugged it in, and then began drying her hair. Like many other women who worked out frequently, Alex’s dark brown hair was cut short; her bangs just long enough to stop at the top of her eyebrows. As the dryer did its job, she brushed her hair slightly over toward the right side of h
er head. If it hadn’t been for her evident beauty, she could have been described as having a boyish look. Her last beau had told her that she reminded him of Meg Ryan, only with dark hair. She had considered that a compliment.
Alex finished dressing, and then checked her appearance in the full‑length mirror. Her dark blue suit and white blouse presented the exact image she wished to maintain‑‑cool professionalism characterized by a high degree of competency.
Carefully she applied her makeup, changing her mind about the shade of lipstick she’d wear today. She glanced around the locker room to see if anyone else had come in while she was in the shower. The room was empty.
From the recesses of her bag, she withdrew a .357 Sig-Sauer semi-automatic pistol, already in its holster, and clipped it to her belt. She then reached back in to the bag and removed a single fold black leather case. She wanted the thin leather case in her purse where she could easily reach it. Before placing the case inside, she flipped it open and glanced at the two cards and gold badge that identified her as a special agent of the FBI.
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The Cassandra Conspiracy Page 42
