Trust Me (47 page)
Luke hoisted himself onto the car’s roof just as Wu veered across the lanes of traffic, horn blaring as he made for the highway exit. ‘Are you crazy?’ Wu screamed.
He was forcing his hand, at huge risk. He could not fight Wu without crashing the car; and he needed the Navigator. He just needed Wu lured out of it, and he didn’t have time to wait for Wu to get him to a safe house. He had to move now.
The car veered without slowing, and Wu swerved to avoid another car and the swerve nearly threw Luke from the speeding Navigator.
The Navigator careened toward the shoulder, which was all railing rushing by as the driver sped toward an exit.
They kissed the railing, sparks showering from metal biting against metal, erupting past Luke. The roaring of a honking semi tore within ten feet of them. Wu veered hard, taking the next exit, which was in downtown Chicago.
The car peeled through a red light.
He’s not slowing? Why? Because, dummy, he needs the speed. To toss you off. You’ve pissed him off. And he needs you unable to fight
.
Wu aimed the careening Navigator toward the parking lot of a convenience store and as he crossed into the lot he slammed hard on the brakes. But Luke timed Wu’s approach toward the building, and slid back in the car through the open window as Wu jammed the brakes.
The brake slam threw Luke into the front seats, landing him on Wu’s head and sending him crashing into the front windshield, which buckled and cracked. But the force of his body hammered Wu into the steering wheel.
The car skidded to a stop.
Luke, dazed, bleeding from the back of his head, slid onto Wu, fumbled for the gun under the jacket. His fingers found it and he yanked it free as Wu struggled to grasp the weapon himself.
Luke put the gun to Wu’s temple. Wu went very still.
‘Stop! Out! Leave the keys in the ignition,’ Luke ordered.
‘You won’t shoot me,’ Wu said.
Luke moved the gun to the side an inch and fired. The bullet shattered the driver’s window. ‘Yes, I will.’
Wu stepped out of the Navigator. ‘You’re a suicidal idiot.’
‘Yeah,’ Luke said. ‘I’m just one guy.’ Luke kept the gun aimed at him, slid behind the wheel and roared off, the wind hard in his face.
Luke knew he’d be a cop magnet, driving with a shattered windshield.
But he had to risk it. If a cop pulled him over he would tell everything he knew. He’d given Wu information that could stop the attack, even if he couldn’t. Calling the police now would take too much time, involve too much explanation - they might not believe him. He was wanted in connection with the death of a Chicago cop. And the Night Road could meet and vanish, carrying their deadly cargoes to the target cities.
He had to act. Now.
I’m just one guy. Wu’s words. But one guy could make a difference in fighting the worst impulses of humanity.
Which was exactly what Mouser and the rest of the Night Road represented. Take away choices, take away security, and replace it with a twisted, bitter view of the world they thought best. It was the common thread linking the ideologies of the various fringes in the Night Road. They wanted the strength they would get - that they could only get - from creating a grave and constant terror that undermined everyday life.
He pulled back into the road and headed for Aubrey’s export/import business.
The meeting place
for Hellfire was a small, sad, decrepit strip mall south of downtown. The night was cool and foggy and traffic was light the farther Luke drove from the freeway. He drove past the strip mall and saw a sign:
PERRAULT IMPORTS
. Aubrey’s company.
Eric - or Henry - had set up her office space as the departure point for the bombs. It made sense. An export/import company would not raise eyes by having a number of vans arriving and departing at odd times. Frequent deliveries would be seen as a part of that kind of business by any curious neighbors.
It made him feel sick, Aubrey pulled into Eric’s world and used this way. Even if Eric had developed real regard for her, he had hijacked her life into the darkness - just as Henry had hijacked his.
He parked the Navigator behind a closed strip mall down the street. Few streetlights dotted the road. He opened his door, checked the clip in Wu’s gun. There was a silencer mounted on the end - he’d never fired a gun with one before. He tucked the gun in the back of his pants.
He had the vaguest shape of a plan in his mind, but it depended on whether his father and Aubrey were being held at the office. He thought they would be. If they weren’t, then he didn’t have to worry about getting them out. If they were - he would face a choice. A hard one. Hellfire had to be stopped, no matter what.
No matter the cost.
He crossed the road
. Aubrey’s import emporium was the anchor at one end of the mall; the other stores belonged to an accountant and tax preparer; a women’s clothing store; a nail and hair salon; a liquor store. Everyday America.
He could see six small moving vans parked in front of Perrault Imports. All from the same rental company.
He walked toward the vans and twenty feet away from the first one a shadow stepped out from between them.
A guard. He was skinny and looked scared and wasn’t much older than Luke. ‘Hi,’ Luke said. ‘I’m here to see Mouser. I’m late, sorry.’
The guard said. ‘Password?’
He prayed the password Henry gave him hadn’t been changed. ‘Determination.’
The guard nodded.
‘I got orders to come here and get a van,’ Luke said.
‘You walked?’
‘I wanted to be sure cops weren’t here. I look less suspicious walking than driving.’ He stopped now, five feet from the guard.
‘Come here, put your hands on the side of the van. Everybody’s got to be frisked.’
He stepped close to Luke and Luke thought
that’s the kind of mistake I would have made
. Luke hit him hard, once in the face, and then pistol-whipped him with the gun. The guard collapsed, unconscious. He didn’t need to use a bullet.
Luke searched the guard’s clothing. He found keys with the van rental agency tag on it. He tried the door of the nearest van. Locked. He tried the one next to it. The door opened.
The van was empty. Which meant that some of the bombs, at least, were still inside. He pulled the guard into the van, left him there. Luke figured either he would have won or would be dead by the time the guard was awake.
He tried the passkey he’d taken from Henry. The door clicked open.
The first floor
was the wholesale showroom and delivery area. It was stuffed with decor, a melange that showed just how small the world was getting. He made his way through a maze of cheap reproductions of African masks and wooden fertility symbols, Chinese lanterns and Asian-inspired furniture, stacks of china from eastern Europe. A stairway with a bright orange arrow reading
MORE BARGAINS UPSTAIRS
. He came to the bottom of the stairs and heard voices.
He thought. The bombs would have been delivered here, since Snow could not distribute them from Houston. Chicago was central. But where would they be kept? Presumably the store had not been open with Aubrey gone, or she might have told her employees she was closing down if told to by Eric. Aubrey had not mentioned a staff. The bombs would have to be kept where they would not elicit surprise or alarm if found.
He headed toward the back storage area. Boxes were stacked high in the dim light.
He saw unopened boxes of Chinese figurines, knockoffs of Swedish furniture, a desk, a scattering of papers. On the bulletin board were photos of Eric and Aubrey: at dinner, on a boat, walking along Lake Michigan.
Where would they hide the bombs? He started to open a box and thought: no. Mouser’s here, he would have checked them, and plus he has to show them how to work the mechanisms. Whatever packaging the bombs were in, they’ve been opened.
He pulled one box open. Inside were gray uniforms and surgical-style masks, folded neatly. There were a stack of photo IDs, for a company called Ready-Able. At least twenty. They were photo IDs, with bar codes for electronic access. The first ones read NYC in small print. He thumbed through the others. Washington, Atlanta, Dallas, Chicago, Boston.
Each was keyed with the name of the mass transit system in the city. DART for Dallas, MARTA for Atlanta, CTA for Chicago, MBTA for Boston, Metro for Washington, MTA for New York. Henry had lied. It wasn’t shopping centers. It was the transit systems. A hundred-plus bombs for the rail and bus systems in six major cities, separated by only a time zone, so a simultaneous attack would be devastating. Thousands would die; the sheer number of bombs would ensure a mind-numbing tally.
On a table across from the desk he saw a half-dozen boxes that had been opened. In Spanish they said on the side
Botiquin de Primeros Auxiolios
. His Spanish wasn’t good and he looked inside the box.
First-aid kits. Plain, white, with the red cross on them. But larger ones than you’d find at a store, ones that you might find mounted in a public place, like a shopping center, or an airport. Or a school.
Or a commuter rail train, or a subway.
He opened one of the cases. Inside were nails and screws, packed into thin plastic bags so they wouldn’t rattle. And in the middle was an orange brick, like a clay, a simple lacing of wires webbing to a cell phone.
A bomb, armed with what he guessed was plastic explosive. He set it down carefully and began to count the first-aid kits. A dozen to a box. And how many opened boxes? A dozen. He checked kits in each box. Each contained a bomb.
A hundred and forty-four bombs. Henry had told him the truth about this, at least. The first-aid kits could be placed on the transit system walls by the uniformed ‘cleaning crews’, who need only show up, plant the bombs and leave. The surgical masks - used by real cleaning crews - would hide their faces, since they weren’t suicide bombers. One hundred and forty-four bombs, divided among six cities. Multiple cars on multiple tracks. Targeting people simply going to work for the day - just like 9/11 or the Madrid or London bombings. A dirt-cheap attack that would inflict millions - even billions - in damage to the economy and worse, end thousands of innocent lives.
The thought chilled his blood.
The scale staggered him. The cell phone - it had to be the trigger. But would the bomb be detonated by calling the cell’s number? No. There were far too many of them, and he suspected the bombs were supposed to go off simultaneously, or as near to it as possible. So. How?
Then he saw the simple answer. His throat went dry.
He had a choice. He could detonate one of the bombs now - killing himself but also the best of the Night Road, and his father and Aubrey if they were here. They’d be dead. The plan would be over. Or - there was another possibility.
And he heard the front door open and shut. Decision made. He didn’t have much time.
What the hell, he thought. He’d be dead in a few minutes anyway.
A minute later
, ‘Hello, Luke.’
Henry Shawcross stepped into the storage room, gun leveled at his stepson, who knelt by an open file cabinet, rifling through its papers.
Luke stood.
‘They don’t know you’re here, do they?’ Henry said. Very quietly. ‘No.’
‘You killed the guard outside.’
‘No, he’s just beaten up and dumped in a van.’
‘You’re nicer than I am.’
‘You got out. And got here.’ He didn’t need to answer Henry’s question.
‘The keys to the handcuffs were in the pocket of the man you killed. Your grand gesture backfired.’
Luke closed his eyes. A stupid mistake that was going to cost him dearly.
‘I left quickly, right after you, I commandeered a Travport plane directly here.’ Henry flicked a smile. ‘I knew you’d be here. Playing the well-intentioned idiot. What possessed you? What were you looking for?’
‘Evidence of where Eric hid the money.’
‘The money. Why do you care?’
‘I need it. To hide.’ Luke put his gaze directly on Henry’s. Let Henry think - if only for a moment - that Luke was as mercenary as he was, since he’d hoped Luke would become more like him. ‘What now?’
Henry shrugged. ‘Hard choices. The good things in my life are all gone, Luke. You’ve betrayed me, too.’
‘You destroyed your life. Not me.’
‘No. Warren destroyed my life. It was hard enough to compete with a dead man. It’s much harder when he turns up alive.’
Luke said nothing. Henry cast a gaze around the room, as though checking that all was well, then settled his stare back on Luke. ‘You’re armed.’
‘Yes.’
‘Turn around. Hands on the cabinet.’
Luke obeyed. Henry frisked him, took his guns.
‘They’re upstairs,’ Luke said. He had an idea. If only he could fool Henry. ‘My dad is up there, I think.’
‘Then let’s go give you a proper reunion,’ Henry said, the hate thick in his voice.
They went up the stairs, Luke first, Henry’s gun in the small of his back. Luke felt like he was walking up to a rickety gallows.
The second floor held import furnishings, and Mouser and six men sat around a patio table in an assortment of cheap chairs. Mouser saw Luke and Henry step inside. And he stood.
‘What. The. Hell,’ he said.
A set of clocks stood above his head and Luke glanced at them. But they were set for a crazy quilt of times. He glanced past the table. His father and Aubrey were bound to chairs. Aubrey had a black eye; his father had been beaten, dried blood caking beneath his nose and mouth. They both met his gaze.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Mouser said.
‘I’m here to lead the meeting,’ Henry said quietly.
The light above the table was dim, and Luke thought of the disaffected minds he’d studied in his psychology classes, trying to decipher their passions: the fire bloods of the French Revolution plotting the incineration of a social order and the collateral deaths of thousands of innocents; John Wilkes Booth, plotting the murder of the singular man who changed the course of history by keeping the Union together through a horrible trial by fire; the Bolsheviks, planning their paradise, who ended up with a discounted ruin built on the bones of millions.
