They were passing the terminal, and the jet was moving fast. Crocker thought, Now’s the time!
With bullets ricocheting off the hood and tearing into the dash, he turned the steering wheel sharply left just as the plane started to lift off. The top of the tanker grazed the side of the jet engine, then slammed into the landing gear with a tremendous explosion of sparks.
“Fuck, yeah!” Akil shouted.
Crocker felt an incredible jolt and tried to hold on to the steering wheel, but lost control. The tanker was knocked off its wheels and rolled once, twice, then flipped again and landed in the grass with a thud that jarred him so powerfully he passed out. He gained consciousness briefly at the sound of an enormous explosion that lifted the truck off the ground.
“Akil?” he called weakly.
Chapter Thirteen
People are made of flesh and blood, and a miracle fiber called courage.
– Mignon McLaughlin
He woke up in a hospital. Blinked. Felt his legs and arms, which were still intact. It took him a couple of seconds to focus on the yellow walls and the man sitting in the corner in a green chair, talking into a cell phone in what he recognized as Portuguese. The first things about him that registered were the short dreadlocks and the tattoo on his neck. Then Crocker remembered his name.
“DZ,” he said, trying to sit up. “What the fuck happened? Where am I?”
The left side of his head hurt. He lifted his left arm and touched the bandage that ran from the top of his head to his ear.
DZ put the phone away and said, “You’re one crazy lucky motherfucker.”
“Why?”
“Why?” DZ threw back his head and laughed. “I can’t believe you asked that.”
“Where are we?”
“Dude, we’re in a hospital in Puerto Iguazú, on the Argentine side of the falls. You suffered a pretty bad concussion, a crack in your skull that’s been closed up with staples, some lacerations to your wrist, and a couple of bruised ribs. Otherwise you’re okay, which is totally unbelievable.”
“Okay?” Crocker asked, trying to recall what had transpired to split his head open and land him in the hospital.
“I saw the whole thing happen, man, and I still can’t believe it,” DZ continued. “Are you Irish?”
“Irish? No, some French, German, Scottish, and Norwegian mixed together. Why?”
“You know the saying, the luck of the Irish. Never mind.”
Crocker looked for his watch, which wasn’t on his wrist. The place where it used to be was covered with another white bandage. “What time is it?”
“A couple ticks shy of noon.”
Noon. The last thing he remembered was the jet taking off at the airport last night. He’d been driving a truck. Akil sat beside him. “Akil. How’s he?” Crocker asked, realizing that his mouth was bone dry, and reaching for the bottle of water on the table beside him.
“Akil was taken to the airport in Ciudad del Este about an hour ago,” DZ answered, standing and adjusting the hems of his pant legs. Crocker noticed for the first time that the young man was wearing a cast on his left foot. “His right arm and wrist are both broken, and his right foot is messed up.” DZ pointed to the night table to Crocker’s right. “Oh, and he left you his watch.”
Crocker leaned over and saw the black Luminox Colormark 3050 Series watch on the table’s gray enamel surface. The Luminox wasn’t as tricked out as his Suunto, but it was rugged, water resistant, and featured continuous-glow dive bezel, hands, and hour markers. “What happened to mine?”
“It got totaled, man. Big surprise.”
He liked that watch, which had been a present from Holly. “Totaled how?”
“Smashed to shit when the truck tumbled over like a toy, a little metal toy flicked by Godzilla. I never in a million years expected anyone to walk away from that alive.”
“Where’s Akil going?” he asked, stretching his arms over his head.
“We’re taking him back to the States to get his arm properly set.”
“Oh.” Crocker was starting to feel tired and wanted to rest, but there was one more question he needed answered first. “What happened to the guys on the plane?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Nope.”
“The plane crashed and burned,” DZ answered. “Everyone aboard died.”
“Alizadeh, too?” Crocker asked excitedly. “Was he on it?”
“Who’s he?”
“Farhed Alizadeh, a.k.a. the Falcon.”
“The Brazilians haven’t released any names so far. All they said was that everyone aboard burned to death. They also confirmed that the aircraft was packed with cocaine. They’re saying about two hundred million dollars’ worth. But they don’t know shit about you, or us, or why the plane crashed, which is one of the reasons you’re not in their custody.”
Crocker’s eyelids started to feel heavy. “Where am I, again?”
“Argentina.”
“That’s right. Argentina.”
He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
He was sitting alone in a boat on a lake eating a bowl of chocolate ice cream. The surface of the lake shone like a piece of glass. He saw his reflection, then, looking up, realized the lake was vast, maybe endless. He couldn’t make out a shore past the bluish mist in the far distance. He thought, Maybe I’m dead. But even if I am, I trust in God.
Crocker woke in a sweat, sitting on the edge of the bed in his underwear. Hands were holding him up and pulling on a pair of pants and a shirt. The hands belonged to DZ, Hamid, and a woman he’d never met.
“What’s going on?” he asked, trying to focus.
“The Brazilian authorities are looking for you, so we’re going to move you,” DZ answered.
“We’re taking you to a house we have in the city,” Hamid added.
Crocker’s head felt swollen and heavy. His entire body felt numb from the medication he’d been given. “Who’s she?” he asked, nodding at the dark-haired woman tying his sneakers.
“Her name is Mercedes,” DZ answered.
The walls looked a richer shade of yellow than before. The fluorescent light that glanced off them bothered his eyes. “Mercedes, like the car?”
“Correct.”
“Hi, Mercedes.”
“Ciao.”
He remembered bouncing on the backseat of the SUV. The woman, illuminated by the headlights, opening a rusted green gate. She wore dark green pants and a cream-colored sweater.
Now he was seated outside by a swimming pool, and a doctor with a shaved head and a deep crease between his friendly blue eyes was taking his blood pressure. He pressed a stethoscope to Crocker’s chest and back, then started asking questions. “Where were you born? What are your parents’ names? Where did you go to school?”
He had no problem answering, but was starting to feel impatient.
He saw DZ standing off to one side, seemingly intent on the leaves floating in the pool. Mercedes, who was short, with round hips, stood behind him smoking a cigarette. Her hair was cut parallel to the line of her jaw, and he thought she looked vaguely French. Crocker waved DZ over.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
DZ said, “The doctor’s checking to see if you’re healthy enough to fly.”
“Where am I going?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“What have you learned about the three men on the plane?” Crocker asked.
“The Brazilians recovered four bodies. They haven’t released any information about them, but we’ve heard they’re communicating with both the Venezuelan and Iranian embassies.”
“That’s a good sign,” Crocker said. The fact that the Iranians had been notified meant that some of their people were involved. He remembered the two sets of dark eyes glaring at him from the cockpit window. Something about them-the thickness of the brows, the way they were set, the pride and outrage in them-told him they were Iranian eyes, not Venezuelan.