Just then we can hear the mechanical groan of the lift, another pair of footsteps on the stairs, these much more tentative. Atticus Caine calls, telling us it’s safe to come out now.
Nova opens the door. We step out and the first thing Nova says is, “Who are you?”
Without a response Atticus wheels over to one of the computers. He pulls the keyboard close to him, starts typing. James wanders over to a corner, stands straight with his hands clasped in front of him.
“You have a fucking machine gun in there,” Nova says. “What—you guys run some kind of militia or something?”
Atticus ignores him, typing at the computer.
I say, “Those two kids are going to die if you don’t help us.”
Atticus pauses. “How do you know they aren’t dead already?”
“I don’t know. But I have hope that they’re not.”
“Hope,” Atticus Caine echoes, chuckling. “Maybe you’re not your father’s daughter after all.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Jian was not the type of man to place much in the way of hope.”
“Only family and close friends ever called him Jian. Everybody else called him John. How did you know my father?”
The man doesn’t answer, keeps typing.
“Hey.” I take another step forward. “Did you really know my father?”
Atticus Caine pauses. He sighs, glances up at me.
“Of course I knew your father,” he says. “I was the one who trained him how to kill.”
Fifty-Six
“Believe it or not, I wasn’t always in this wheelchair. I was a completely different man. I was married. I was successful. I was, as they say, happy. Wasn’t I, James?”
In the corner, James only bows his head.
Atticus Caine takes a few more seconds to type on the keyboard before he pushes himself away from the computer.
“Once upon a time I did exactly what Walter Hadden does, only in a different capacity. I never had the type of rank that forced me to have meetings at the Pentagon every other day. The work I did … it never existed, if you know what I mean.”
“And you trained my father?”
Atticus nods. “I knew he was a killer the first time I met him. I could see it in his eyes. Even when I shook his hand, I could feel the energy running through his body.”
I think about my father, the man I knew growing up. Or only half knew, as he was almost never home, always working.
“Not to say that is a bad thing,” Atticus says. “A killer and a murderer are two entirely different beasts. Your father knew what had to be done. He knew what his duty was and he never hesitated on a job.”
“When I mentioned him before, how he was involved in this, you didn’t even flinch. You already knew he was alive.”
Atticus nods again.
“How?”
“When the doctors told me I had muscular dystrophy, I was more or less forced into early retirement. It was better than working behind a desk for the rest of my life. So I left with a very nice pension and the unnerving realization that I couldn’t stay retired. For the longest time I had been on the inside, knew all the secrets, where every skeleton was buried and just how deep, and now … now that wasn’t going to be my life anymore. Which turned me into this.”
He holds up a hand like a game show host, waving it around the basement like the entire thing is one big grand prize.
“Not that I could do it all by myself, of course. That’s where James comes in. He’s like an angel. Aren’t you, James?”
James bows his head again.
“James lost his voice when he was just a boy. He’s never spoken since.”
I ignore this, stare straight back at Atticus. “That doesn’t answer the question how you knew my father is still alive.”
Atticus tilts his head to the side. “Let’s just say despite being retired I am still in the game.”
“My father is working with a man who used to be on our team. Zane.”
“Yes, I’m aware.”
“Do you know if they’re working by themselves?”
Atticus shakes his head. “There’s no way they could.”
“Then who do they work for?”
“A man named Gabriel Black.”
“And who is he?”
“A white-collar terrorist.”
“I didn’t know terrorists had class distinctions.”
“Where have you been, Holly? Everything has a class distinction.”
The monitor he was working on beeps.
He turns to it, says, “Ah, here we are,” and wheels himself back to the keyboard.
I glance at Nova. Glance at James in the corner. Glance at a clock hanging on the wall: half past midnight.
“What are you doing?”
Atticus has started typing again. Several of the monitors have blinked on and switched over to what appear to be maps of Washington, D.C.
His attention on his work, Atticus says, “After 9/11, the United States opened its eyes to a new form of warfare. Despite what it wanted to believe, the entire country was vulnerable. Is vulnerable still, to be quite frank. The enemy knows exactly where our bases are located. They know exactly where our nuclear weapons are stored. So what did the government decide to do? They went mobile.”
Nova and I have drifted over to the computer monitors. Closer now we can see the distinct detail of the maps. Mostly major highways, but some primary and secondary roads, even some national landmarks. And on various spots are a handful of red flashing dots with a series of letters and numbers listed below them.
“What are those?” I ask.
Atticus Caine looks up at us. “What vehicles take up most major highways?”
Nova says, “Tractor-trailers.”
“That’s right. And out of those thousands and thousands of tractor-trailers on the road daily, do you know what’s inside any of them?”
“Hold up,” Nova says. “You’re saying the government has, what, nuclear weapons riding around in tractor-trailers?”
“Nuclear weapons, no. Nuclear waste, yes. Among many other things.”
I clear my throat. “And the flash drive?”
Atticus leans forward. He squints at the screen, types some more. After a moment he points at one of the red flashing dots.
“In that tractor-trailer right there.”
The red flashing dot is listed as FGT-927. It means absolutely nothing to me. The only thing it does mean is that, from where it appears on the map, right now it’s working its way up I-95.
“It’s heading toward Washington,” I whisper. Thinking this might be a good thing. Thinking that it’s returning because Walter has persuaded whoever it is that needs persuading to give him the flash drive.
“That’s just a random circuit it drives,” Atticus says. “It might head east, it might keep going north. There’s never any set course.”
“What kind of security will it have?”
“The driver will be armed. There might be an agent or two in the trailer. It depends on what they’re transporting. They’ll be armed, too. Not to mention that if any trouble is even sensed, a team is immediately dispatched to take care of the situation.”
“Not the police?”
“No. The army would like to keep the lid on their mobilization program as tight as possible.”
“What’s the team’s ETA?”
“It varies.” Atticus glances up at me. “I know what you’re thinking, and I’m telling you it can’t be done. Even if the tractor-trailer needs to pull off for gas, there’s absolutely no way you can take it.”
I watch the red flashing dot as it slowly moves up the map. I close my eyes and still see the red flashing dot along with the children’s faces. Thinking of them, I reach into my pocket and pull out the cell phone.
“Zane called me on this from a blocked number. Is there any way to determine his location when he called?”
“It’s possible.”
; “Can you do it?”
Atticus takes the phone from me. He stares at it, then calls for James. When James approaches him, Atticus gives him the phone.
“Do your best, young man.”
James turns away. He goes to one of the computers. His fingers dance madly across the keyboard. He pulls out a wire, inserts something into the phone. He crosses his arms and waits almost a minute before something flashes on the screen and then he steps back, a crooked smile on his face, motioning me to look at the screen.
I walk across the room and stand in front of the screen and murmur, “Son of a bitch.”
On the screen is a satellite image of my block. I don’t realize until another moment passes and I see the darting motion of traffic that the image is a live feed. A green dot appears along the street, just a block up from my apartment. Without being told I know that was where Zane’s call originated from. He called me when he saw Nova leave, and then when I asked to hear the children’s voices, he let me hear them, but only for a moment, because they were no doubt tied up and gagged in the van or SUV or truck or whatever had been parked there.
I say it again, louder this time: “Son of a bitch.”
I look up at James, point at the cell phone wired to the computer. “The next time he calls, can you determine his location?”
Smiling again, James nods.
“How long does it take?”
James glances at Atticus. He moves his hands around quickly and, stupid me, it takes a couple seconds to realize it’s American Sign Language.
When James is done, Atticus says, “Should be only a matter of seconds. What he can do is clone the phone you have there, so that when Zane or whoever else calls you, we also get the call.”
I take this information in, running it through my mind. Then I march over to the metal door, the arsenal. I open it, step inside, look around at everything that’s provided.
When I step back out, I ask Atticus Caine if he has any communication gear.
“Holly,” Nova says, “didn’t you hear what the man said? There’s no way we can stop that trailer.”
“I’m also going to need a harness and a lot of nylon rope.” I walk back to the computer, stare again at that red flashing dot. “Nova, what are you driving?”
“Holly—”
“What. Are. You. Driving.”
He sighs. “A pickup.”
“How many cylinders?”
“Eight.”
“A large bed?”
Nova looks at me. Looks at the screen. Looks back at me. “You’re insane.”
I ask Atticus if he thinks it’s possible we can get everything together in the next hour.
Before Atticus can respond, Nova says, “Holly, I know the clock is ticking on this, and that a lot’s at stake, but we have to be rational here. Tell me you’re not being serious. Tell me your plan isn’t to try to take out that trailer while it’s moving.”
I smile at him. “Not exactly.”
Fifty-Seven
I believe that there’s a moment every night where across the country, across the world, portions of major highways are deserted. It can be as much as a mile, but more likely it’s a half mile, or a quarter mile. For a couple seconds no vehicles pass over the asphalt. The highway has a chance to breathe. It has a chance to enjoy, if only for an instant, the calming stillness of silence.
From where I’m positioned overlooking Interstate 95, that moment seems to be now. Almost four o’clock in the morning, I can see a quarter mile south, a quarter mile north. No headlights coming toward me. No taillights fading away from me. In fact, there are no cars coming either east or west over the bridge. It’s an instant, only that, when the world feels desolate, destroyed, all life taken out of it except my own.
In my ear, Atticus says, “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 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 is 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 their engines shatter the silence of the night.
I have a Glock holstered to my belt. The Kimber Micro 9 is snug in its ankle holster. 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 below. 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 for the very first time I wonder what if it 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 as I continue to stretch, acting like it’s normal for anybody to be standing on a bridge this time of night with the getup 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 tiny 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. Just like the thousands of other tractor-trailers driving across the country every day.
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, and turning back so I’m facing north, my hands squeezed into fists at my sides, I take a deep breath, listen for the sound, the roar, the moment the tractor-trailer’s grille appears beneath the bridge.
And I step off the edge.
Fifty-Eight
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 do
wn 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 threaded 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, and pull myself up straight.
Atticus says something in my ear, but it’s lost in the heavy roar of 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’m able to keep my balance no matter how fast the driver wants to take us, no matter how many times he jerks the wheel.
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 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 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 isn’t a rolltop, 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.
Holly Lin Box Set | Books 1-3 Page 21
