by Ace Collins
“Why don’t you check in with Klasser,” Horne suggested. “Maybe he can give us a time line.”
Beals pulled out the cell. The call was short. “The rug dealer stopped for something to eat. Looks like if he’s coming this way, it’s going to be a while. You know, eating sounds pretty good to me too.”
“Did Klasser tell you how far Hakem is from here?”
“No closer than when he left his shop,” Beals replied.
“Then,” Horne said, “we can grab something to eat about ten minutes down the road. We’ll bring it back here, park over in that alley, and keep an eye on the gate.”
The meal was unremarkable, but filling. While they waited, Lije dozed.
Two hours later, with the sun standing straight overhead, Horne said, “I’ve got a problem. I have a meeting this afternoon. It doesn’t look like this deal’s going down. Do you want to take a break and go back to the office with me?”
“No,” Lije said.
“We’ll stick here,” Beals said. He glanced over at Horne. “You’re not buying the story, are you?”
“I’m buying that there’s something on that truck. But I’m not buying into it being what you think it is. That’s too Indiana Jones. I don’t think what he found in that barn can kill millions like you do.” Horne pointed to the back of the alley. “There’s some trash cans back there. You could use them for seats or sit on the ground. It’s up to you. Call me if something goes down. I’ll send someone with supper around six.”
“Fine,” Lije said. He got out of the car and began the trek to a seat that wouldn’t be nearly as comfortable as the Tahoe’s wellcushioned bench. Beals followed a few feet behind.
As the Arkansas pair eased to the ground on the shady side of the dirty pavement, their backs resting against an old vacant grocery warehouse, they glanced back to the red brick building across the street. Knowing something would happen but not knowing when kept them prisoners.
“Get some sleep, Lije.” Beals checked his watch. “It’s one-fifteen and Klasser just told me our man’s at a furniture wholesaler’s.”
Figured. This guy was acting like a small-town dog making his daily rounds, finding out what was in everyone’s trash. “How do you think they’ll try to get the stuff in the water system?”
“A reservoir is my guess,” Beals said. “The McMillian Reservoir has furnished this city with water for well over a hundred years. Logic tells me that’d be the most effective method of distribution, but there are a thousand other ways. We did some studies when I was in the CIA. A terrorist attack on a water system would not be that hard to pull off. The problem is having a toxin that would do a lot of damage before it can be neutralized. Evidently this stuff is perfect for that kind of attack.”
If they could stop the truck, Lije thought, then the how and where were no longer important. And the truck was headed right for them. Lije again lowered his chin to his chest. He told himself he needed sleep, he needed to have his wits about him when the truck did arrive. The sleep he prayed for came quickly.
Six hours later, a cell phone roused him.
72
“I GOT IT,” BEALS BARKED INTO HIS CELL. “SEE you soon.”
Looking over at Lije, the detective said, “It appears he’s finally coming this way. Klasser doesn’t believe he has any idea he’s being watched.”
“No activity at the warehouse?” Lije asked.
“None. The homeless are starting to wander back into the neighborhood. I’m guessing they sleep in the vacant buildings. Look down the street. You’ll see some teenage boys, probably part of the gangs Horne mentioned. They’re getting their kicks pushing around an old man. We live in a pretty sad world, don’t we?”
“Yeah. Mine gets sadder every day.”
Pushing himself off the pavement, Lije stretched and walked slowly down the alley, hugging the wall to keep from being seen. He watched the boys torment the bearded man, who was pushing a shopping cart filled with trash bags. They knocked the man down and tipped over his cart. He grumbled, picked up his stuff, and moved on. A few feet later they knocked him down again. Finally the kids walked away. They’d look back at the man and laugh. The man said nothing, just pushed his ball cap down over his eyes and kept walking. He was just crossing the street when a black Lincoln Town Car made a left and stopped in front of the rug warehouse.
Lije got his first look at the man he knew only as Hakem. The man was tall, balding, and heavyset. He had the look of someone at the top of the economic food chain. His suit and shoes were expensive. He had a large diamond ring on his right pinky and another on his left ring finger He seemed unconcerned for his safety as he unlocked the gate, got back in the Lincoln, and drove into the parking lot.
Once parked, he made his way back across the wide expanse of pavement and relocked the entrance. Returning to the building, he punched in a code on a security box beside a small door. He entered the building and closed the door.
“That’s part one of the equation,” Beals noted as he joined Lije. “I’m guessing part two won’t be far behind.”
“Just out of curiosity, do you have a plan?”
The detective shrugged. “We play it by ear. There’s one way into the building and one way out, at least for a truck. Until Hakem receives his delivery from the High Top Dairy Company, we’ll sit here and wait.”
“Heard from Klasser or Horne?” Lije was leaning against the alley wall, his eyes locked on the warehouse.
“Klasser found a spot down the street. Horne’s still tied up in his meeting. I’m guessing he forgot to send the food.”
An hour later it was dark, and dark in the old warehouse district meant pitch black. There were hardly any working streetlights and no traffic. The duo was not alone. A half block away about twenty young men had cranked up a boom box and lighted a fire in a barrel. Probably invitation only.
“Lije, when you saw Hakem lock the gate, was the lock a padlock?”
“I think so.”
“Put your phone on vibrate.”
Lije complied, and Beals reached into his pocket and pulled out a small cloth pouch. “Come on. I looked for security cameras when you were napping and didn’t see any. If that’s a simple lock, I can pick it. We’ll work our way into the parking lot, and when the truck comes, we can use it for cover and get into the warehouse.”
Lije followed right behind the detective. As they crossed the trash-laden street, he whispered, “So this is your plan?” He wasn’t surprised when the bald man didn’t answer.
Beals quickly picked the lock. A heartbeat later they were inside and the gate was again secure. The detective pointed to a loading dock on the west end of the parking lot. The two set off at a jog to the four-foot-high platform and slid under it, scaring off a half-dozen large rats. For the first time all day, their wait wouldn’t be long.
They heard it before they saw it. The diesel motor echoed off the sides of the vacant multistory buildings. Then lights dancing on the pavement signaled the truck was getting closer. Rounding a corner, the milk truck headed for the locked gate and the end of a trip begun in a place called Oz.
The warehouse’s big door—twenty feet wide and twelve feet high—cranked open. Hakem, now dressed in casual clothing, walked out of the building and across the parking lot. He unlocked the gate and was sliding it open when the rig arrived. After making a slow, sweeping turn into the lot, the driver straightened the wheel and drove toward the building.
“Come on,” Beals said. “We’ll jog in beside the tanker. Hakem has his back to us. He’s closing and locking the gate. He’ll never see us, and the driver’ll be looking straight ahead. Let’s move.”
Rolling out from under the dock, the pair raced along the warehouse wall. The truck was almost halfway into the building when they got to the door and walked in. As soon as they were inside, Beals made another sharp right and ducked behind a long line of rolled and stacked carpets. Lije was right behind him. Hakem walked in, yanked a chain, and the door came
down. After lighting a cigar, he strolled toward the truck’s cab.
Only one row of lights—those in the center of the building—had been turned on. The dim light and the long rows of highly stacked carpets worked to the uninvited visitors’ advantage. Hiding was easy.
The truck stood in an open area under the lights, a full thirty feet beyond the closed entry. Parked in front of the big rig was another large truck that said District of Columbia Water Department.
The truck’s driver stepped to the ground and walked toward the back of the warehouse, giving the lawyer and detective a good look at him. Under the cowboy hat lay long, shaggy hair. A big, drooping mustache covered his lower face. This wasn’t the guy who’d made the raid on the Kansas farm. Where had the switch been made? Where was Arif?
“So you’re the man?” Hakem said.
“I am who I am,” came the reply. “Do you have the money?”
The fat man pointed to a canvas bag by the door.
“I was told I’d be given a car.”
“Mine’s outside. Take it.” Hakem fished out a set of keys and tossed them to the driver.
The man studied the keys, then asked, “When will you make your move?”
“I will do it when I do it. No reason you should know. I’ll transfer the toxin to this truck, and when the time is right, my crew will put it in the city’s system. The plan is worked out. I don’t need to tell you.”
“I must be well out of the country before anything happens. That was the guarantee they gave me.” He walked over to the bag, yanked the zipper, and looked inside. Satisfied, he reclosed it and moved toward the door.
The time had come, Beals decided. He pulled out his nine millimeter. He and Lije still had the advantage. He spun around and in the dim light didn’t see the paint bucket. His glancing kick sent it on a noisy journey across the concrete and into a wall. The detective lost his balance and momentarily fell to one knee. In the split second it took to regain his footing, the truck driver ripped a gun from his belt. Now the odds were even.
Tossing his duffle in front of the small door, the driver leaped over a crate and took cover. Slow to react, Hakem finally comprehended the potential for danger and awkwardly moved to join the driver. But his shoe caught in a break in the concrete floor and he was tossed to the ground. His stogie flipped from his mouth and landed on a stack of old newspapers.
Beals stood and fired two rounds, sending wood splinters flying. The driver responded, putting two shots into the carpet the detective was using for a shield, then raced to the small door. He twisted the handle, but the metal entrance didn’t give. He cursed and then saw the number pad on the wall. He dove back behind the crate and ripped off two more rounds.
For the moment, both sides were safely out of harm’s way. Neither party could get a clear shot. Yet the stalemate was about to be tested by another uninvited combatant. The small fire begun on the newspapers had spread to a shelf filled with paint and cleaning supplies. The ancient wooden shelves were so dry they offered the perfect tinder for the flames. The chemicals, primed to become small bombs, exploded, splashing flaming liquids onto Hakem’s inventory. The carpet burned even more quickly than the shelving. Within minutes, flames were leaping a dozen feet into the air. The building was well on its way to becoming an oven.
On the wrong side of the warehouse, well away from the small door, Lije and Beals were trapped. If they moved out from their position, the driver could easily pick them off. If they stayed where they were, they would be cooked by the rapidly spreading fire.
Lije and Beals peered through the smoke and flames. Suddenly Hakem made his move. The detective locked his arm and drew a bead on the big man, but didn’t shoot. Instead he let the rug dealer grab the chain and watched as Hakem frantically moved one hand over the other, lifting the large door to its full height.
With the small door so close, why had Hakem put himself in the open? Lije wondered. And why was Beals allowing the rug dealer to get away? But instead of racing out into the parking lot, Hakem ran toward the center of the warehouse, right toward the fastest growing part of the fire. What was he doing? Then Lije heard the truck’s motor fire up. Lije had his answer.
The fresh air from the open door was just what the inferno needed to rapidly escalate its war. Like an army closing in for the kill, the fire was circling its victims. The blaze, with so much dry material to consume and now a strong breeze to drive it, quickly reached every corner of the building. In a matter of minutes, or maybe seconds, the warehouse would be a wall of fire.
The milk-truck driver was the first to bail. Racing to the small door, the smoke now all but shielding him from view, he picked up the bag of money and headed toward the large open entrance. Beals locked his aim, but never got the chance to shoot.
The driver was about fifteen feet from the exit when Hakem yanked the semi into reverse and hit the gas. The big rig moved even faster than the fleeing man. Its back tires caught him and knocked him to the ground. He was barely able to roll away before the eighteen-wheeler’s second wave of wheels passed him.
A section of the roof fell onto the vehicle’s cab. But nothing was going to stop Hakem, not even the fire licking his windshield. The motor roaring, he cleared the entrance and made it into the parking lot.
Beals grabbed Lije by the collar and pulled him to his feet. They stumbled toward the door as smoke filled their lungs and heat baked their backs. By the time they reached safety, Hakem had shoved the rig into first, made a half circle around the lot, and headed for the locked gate.
The truck’s headlights illuminated Joshua Klasser standing in the street. Even as the big rig headed in his direction, the little man stood fearlessly, anchored to the concrete, squeezing off rounds aimed at the cab’s windshield. Somehow, even though the shots shattered at least half the glass, they didn’t hit the driver. When the rig rammed through the gate, Klasser finally had to roll out of the way.
Smelling freedom, Hakem spun the wheel to the right to head east. It was the prudent move, but he had pushed the truck too hard. The cab’s driver-side wheels lifted off the ground, then the tanker trailer tipped and the rig was on its side, sliding toward the far curb. The large section of burning warehouse roof had been shaken from the cab and now skimmed along the pavement right beside the truck.
Racing to the vehicle as it came to a stop, Klasser climbed up on the cab, threw open the door, and, showing incredible strength, yanked the driver out. As he did, the flaming section of roof the truck had brought with it hit diesel fuel spilling out from a ruptured fuel tank. As if following a fuse, the fire rushed back toward the rig. Klasser just managed to drag Hakem into an alley before the truck exploded. The hot shrapnel bounced off walls and flew down the street.
Yet the real show was just beginning. Because of the combustible nature ofits toxic cargo, white-hot flames quickly engulfed the truck and leaped sixty feet into the air. The whole district would soon be an inferno. But the danger posed by the lethal powder was over.
Somewhere in the distance, Lije heard the howl of sirens. Help was on the way.
73
LIJE LOOKED BACK AT THE BURNING WAREHOUSE AND remembered something he had read many years before—the difference between those who are heroes and those who aren’t is often determined by instincts. Quick reaction.
For as long as he could remember, Lije had always carefully weighed all sides before making a decision. His was a life not built on faith but on the sure thing—what he could see, touch, and hold. He was like those who couldn’t follow Jesus out of the boat. As a result, he’d never had the thrill of walking on water.
Now, as he studied the raging inferno, he found himself again locked in a mental battle that dealt with percentages. Yet even as he began to examine the complete equation that made up this horrific situation, instinct kicked in. He knew what he had to do. He’d never been more sure of anything in his life. After a quick prayer, he jumped out of the “boat” he’d always shared with the fearful and cau
tious and into the one reserved for the bold. He raced back toward the blazing warehouse, vaguely aware of Ivy Beals screaming for him to stop. The old Lije would have done that, but not this one—at least not tonight. This Lije realized taking a great risk was the only way to win a greater victory.
The heat hit him ten feet before he made it to the open door and forced him to duck lower and raise his arm in front of his face. He plunged into what had become a set for Dante’s Inferno. Keeping low to the ground, he peered through the clouds of smoke to get his bearings.
Flames and smoke were being sucked up through a portion of the partially collapsed roof, giving him a partial sight line. The searing heat made his eyes water so badly he could hardly focus even in areas where he should’ve been able to see.
What would Janie do? What had he learned from observing her?
If the driver hadn’t moved since the truck hit him and he rolled away, he should be fifteen to twenty feet ahead and slightly to the left. If the door was the six on the clock, he needed to crawl toward the ten. He could do that even with limited vision. He just needed to keep his bearings.
For the moment, he was safe. The floor was concrete and nothing was stacked in this part of the warehouse that could burn. Crawling forward, Lije covered six and then ten feet. Staying low, his belly hugging the floor, he looked for the injured driver. He saw nothing to his left and nothing ahead other than burning carpet. To his right was the city utility truck.
Where was he? He should’ve been right here. Had he gotten out?
Lije heard a loud cracking sound and rolled onto his back. Directly above, a large section of the roof sagged, then let go with a groan. Scrambling across the floor, Lije made it under the utility truck just as the flaming jumble of wood and roofing material hit the concrete.
