Duarte nodded, watching the truck turn the first corner. He slowed the small Chevy Cobalt as Félix opened his door and sprang out onto the street. He wasn't graceful as he lost his balance and tumbled toward the curb, but Duarte relaxed a little when he looked in the rearview mirror and saw his friend struggle to his feet and start loping toward the warehouse.
After turning the corner, Duarte saw the truck moving at a reasonable speed and punched the gas to close the distance. He had no gun, so he knew he'd have to ram the truck to disable it. He was prepared to do anything and sacrifice anything to keep a nuclear weapon that he had allowed into the country from being detonated.
54
PELLY WATCHED AS THE BALD PROFESSOR QUICKLY COUNTED the stacks of cash in the box. He may have been a physicist, but he wouldn't finish hand-counting the crate full of cash until early morning. He'd have to count a sample then get moving. Pelly wouldn't mind sending the bald man on his way as broke as when he arrived. That was cash that could be used to expand the business. Business that would probably suffer after the colonel made the call to the trigger phone.
The bald man looked up at Pelly, apparently noticing his face for the first time. He flinched and said, "I need help getting this to my car."
It was an order, not a request. Pelly said, "It'll cost you a million bucks."
The professor stared at him.
"That's only about ten of the stacks of hundreds. You can afford it."
"I could hire a real monkey for a lot less." The man had no humor in his voice, but it didn't matter. The comment was all Pelly needed.
He turned toward the man, who had foolishly gone back to counting his cash. He shifted his Beretta for a fast draw, although right now he didn't plan to use it.
As he took a step toward the man, he said, "You think that's funny, Adolf?"
Duarte even took his foot off the gas as he came closer to the truck. Whoever was driving didn't seem to be paying any attention at all and didn't know there was a car coming up behind him. Duarte backed off as he saw a main road coming up in the distance. Traffic would give him better cover and maybe a chance to get some help.
The little Cobalt dropped back and its engine lost the constant whine that Duarte was becoming accustomed to.
The truck came to a stop at the intersection and lingered. Duarte eased up behind the truck and caught a glimpse of William "Ike" Floyd in the driver's seat. His hangdog expression and blank stare explained why he had not moved, even though there was no oncoming traffic.
Duarte made some quick calculations as to his chances of jumping out of his car and grabbing Floyd before he drove off. But he waited, wondering why Floyd was hesitating.
He had to work on the assumption that the bomb was functional and that it was still in the back of the pickup truck with the small camper top.
He considered his options as the truck slowly pulled onto the larger road.
Pelly stepped closer to the professor hunched over the box of cash. Before he threw the first punch, he knew what would hurt the man the most.
Pelly said, "Hey, look at me."
The man turned his head to look up at the standing Pelly.
Pelly drew the pistol, placed it on the man's forehead, pulled back the hammer and said, "Get out. Right now."
"But my money."
"Will do you no good in hell." Pelly tensed his finger, and the man sprang to his feet and darted toward the outside door. A smile crept across his face as he stepped out of the office and back into the warehouse.
Then Pelly heard the colonel's voice rise. He turned to see his boss leaning in toward the bound Lina and cursing at the FBI agent. He bent in close to her and placed a hand on her forearm, squeezing and speaking into her ear.
Pelly said, "Hey, boss, we need to go."
The colonel didn't turn to look at him, but said, "Not yet, Pelly. I have to teach this whore a lesson."
Pelly had heard Colonel Staub make similar comments over the years, always to disastrous effects on the women he was speaking to. Pelly felt his stomach tighten as he tried to determine what, exactly, he was feeling. Was this remorse? His hand slipped onto the handle of the Beretta and said again, "We have to go, boss."
Staub ignored him, still focusing on Lina. He whipped out the small automatic pistol he had in his belt and swung it in a wide arc, striking Lina in the temple. Her head lolled to the other side as the colonel lined up for his follow-through.
Pelly shouted, "Wait."
It was just loud enough for the colonel to look up.
He looked as shocked as Pelly felt. Somehow, without conscious thought, Pelly had drawn his gun and had it pointed at his boss.
The light traffic on the four-lane street made keeping the big F-150 pickup truck in sight easy.
Duarte kept one car in between them as he became more anxious about stopping William Floyd before he managed to get to an interstate. He had pulled alongside the truck twice. The driver's window was open and Floyd looked like he was extremely preoccupied, running his hand over his face and then hanging his head out the window slightly, trying to get air.
Duarte considered this and decided to use it to his advantage and act.
The stoplight ahead of them changed to yellow. There was a Buick in front of Floyd's truck and no one on the side. This was his chance.
The light turned red, and traffic on the cross street started to move forward. There was nowhere for the pickup to go. Duarte stopped the little Cobalt slightly behind the big truck, then, without any hesitation, hopped out of the small car, darted to the side of the truck and moved up toward the driver's door silently. It was a tactic he and other cops had used before but always with a gun drawn. This was too big to risk Floyd getting away. Even if he did shoot Duarte, it would attract police attention. Anything to get the word out.
He grabbed the outside door handle with his left hand and yanked, feeling the door swing wide immediately.
No other drivers even noticed the quick action.
He heard Floyd say, "What the hell?"
But that was all he got out before Duarte swung a right elbow hard into the big racist's face. Blood spouted from his crushed nose and split lip as Duarte stepped up on a running board and kicked him hard to the other side of the wide truck cab. Duarte threw an extra kick into the big man's head to daze him, but it bounced hard off the opposite door, and he slid off the bench seat onto the floorboard. Maybe it was a gratuitous strike.
Félix Baez was shaky from jumping out of Duarte's car. He knew the ATF man was serious about catching the truck but had thought he'd slow down a little more. He had stood up immediately and started moving toward the giant storage complex. He slipped in through the door he had pried open earlier. As soon as he was inside, he knew exactly where to head and what to do.
He had his pistol in his hand and ducked a little as he scurried toward the bright overhead lights in front of the glass office he had shot up earlier.
His right knee throbbed from his fall and tumble. His arm still hurt from his mishap.
As he came up the aisle, he saw the slender, fit-looking, hairy first mate. There was something else familiar about him that was obscured in the hair that seemed to coat his entire upper body. As he stopped to survey the area, it hit him. That was the Panamanian security officer who'd checked his identification the first time he met Colonel Staub.
Félix was exposed and couldn't see as well as he wanted from this position. He backed away and started climbing the shelves so he would have the high ground to fight from. He negotiated several large boxes on his way up, then crawled through some toasters on pallets to end up at the front of the shelf and overlooking the whole office area.