What the hell? Where’s the treasure?
Frustrated, Sammy stood up and scanned the walls, searching for another door or exit that might lead to offices or a storage room. Behind the platform, almost invisible amidst the geometric patterns, a brass doorknob jutted from the wall. Sammy smiled to himself.
Bingo!
He walked over to it and put his ear to the door. No sound. He turned the handle, pushed the door open, and peeked into another room. It was about twelve feet by twelve feet and lined with shelves containing stacks of black leather-bound books. Arabic writing — at least, he thought the squiggly lines were Arabic — was impressed in gold leaf on the spines.
How the hell is anybody supposed to read that scribbled-up language?
He moved stacks of books, but found nothing else. At the end of the rows of shelves, he noticed another door. It was partially open, and when he drew closer, he saw sunlight from outside streaming into yet another room. He pushed the door open. The light came from a small, rectangular frosted-glass window about seven feet up on the end wall. It made him think of a gas station bathroom. He stared at the black plastic crates stenciled with pale gray letters stacked below the window.
PROJECTILE — MORTAR — 60MM HIGH EXPLOSIVE
LOT354 051002 24EA SL040812
Sammy’s heart stopped and his jaw dropped open as he realized what he was seeing.
“Holy shit,” he whispered. A wave of terror crashed over him like a bolt of lightning exploding through his nervous system. A shiver rattled through his body and he nearly wet his pants. “Terrorists,” he said in a choked whimper. “I knew it. They’re freakin’ terrorists. Arab bastards. I gotta call the cops.”
He took out his cell phone and dialed 911. As his finger moved over the green call button, Sammy suddenly realized his predicament. The cops would ask him how he knew about the weapons, and he’d have to tell them how he had arrived in the room.
“Stupid Sammy,” he muttered. “How do you get yourself into crap like this?”
He started for the door, but a quick thought hit him. He turned back, and using his cell phone camera, he snapped several pictures of the room and its contents. He’d email them to the FBI’s website with an anonymous letter. They’d have to believe him.
Sammy put his hand on the doorknob. Deano barked outside, the kind of bark he gave when someone was coming to the door of their house. His heart leaped in his chest and the hair on his neck bristled. A moment later, voices echoed across the expanse of the main room. A lump formed in Sammy’s throat, and his mouth felt dry and sticky like after a dozen bong hits with cheap weed.
The voices spoke in a language Sammy couldn’t understand. Heavy and guttural, it sounded rough and violent. Then silence. Sammy thought he heard footsteps, light on the tiles, sneaking toward his hiding place. He spun around in a panic. Taking three fast steps across the room, he clambered up the ammunition crates until he reached the window. He twisted its latch and pushed it outward. It swung out on the hinge across its top.
Sammy propelled his body from the shelving to the window ledge. The door into the storage room creaked open. He thrust his body through the window and fell heavily onto the ground outside. A painful whoosh of air burst from his lungs as he landed on the hard soil, sending up a puff of dust. He drove the pain into the back of his mind, willing himself to suck in a deep breath and rise to his feet. He rounded the corner of the building, barreling toward the parking area and his truck.
Angry voices shouted in the strange language. He sprinted around the last corner of the building. Deano barked again and charged out of the trees after him. A dark shape loomed. Unable to stop, he slammed into an old man, knocking him to the ground. Sammy tumbled, rolled back to his feet, and continued toward his truck. He leaped into the driver’s seat and thrust the key into the ignition. Deano jumped in after him, forcing Sammy’s hands back as he passed. The old V-8 engine coughed to life on the second try. He threw it into gear and punched the accelerator to the floor. It burst into motion and he snapped the steering wheel around, spinning the truck toward the exit. The tires spewed gravel like a water skier's wake in a high-speed turn, spraying two men who were near the tail with a shower of hard-edged stones.
As the truck swung around, the old man he had knocked down glared at him. Even in his panic, Sammy clearly recognized the rage in the man’s eyes. Then a pop like a burst balloon grabbed his attention. Sammy cried out in shock, a high pitched girly squeak from the center of his throat, as the back window of his truck turned into an opaque spider web of cracks. His whole body flinched and he let out a another yelp as a second shot sprayed bits of glass that peppered his head and shoulders. Deano stood on the seat and barked ferociously at the men behind them.
Sammy looked into the rearview mirror, wide-eyed. Two neat holes dotted the shattered glass inches from his head. He glanced at the side mirror on the driver's side and saw two men standing by the door of the mosque, one with a big afro-like hairdo shouting and gesticulating like an animated cartoon character. The other, holding a pistol in his hand, ran toward the side of the truck. Deano, teeth bared with excitement, bounded back over Sammy and out the open window as the man raised his weapon and fired. The dog hit the ground, still running. Sammy hesitated for half a second, partly wanting to turn back and grab his dog then realizing he’d be killed if he tried. Deano charged the man with the gun and leaped at him. Sammy floored the gas and shot out of the parking lot, turning with a squeal of tires onto the pavement of Goldenview Drive.
The old truck’s springs bottomed out as the vehicle came over a hump in the road. Sparks exploded from underneath as the metal frame scraped the pavement. Rising over the next hill in the road, Sammy snapped his eyes left for a look into the side mirror. A white Audi pulled out of the mosque’s drive, bearing down on him, its firm suspension hugged the road tightly like a race car.
“Shit! God damn! Shit!”
Tears rolled from his eyes, making driving difficult as he crushed the accelerator pedal all the way to the floor. He glanced at the mirror again and caught a glimpse of Deano running behind the Audi as if he could do something if he caught it. Sammy lost sight of his faithful dog as the needle of the speedometer stretched toward ninety miles per hour and the RPM indicator quivered into the red bar at the three-thousand mark. Goldenview Drive stretched for eight more miles before it met Rabbit Creek Road. The South Anchorage police station was another four miles away. For the first time in his life, Sammy began to hope that a patrol officer would see him speeding and intervene before the men in the other car caught up with his truck.
The white Audi gained on him, growing larger in his rearview mirror. His truck barreled down the road at maximum speed, climbing a gradual incline. He crested a small rise and thought he might get a break after all. The road ahead descended for several miles. His truck was heavy — he might be able to gain more speed than the car and break away from their pursuit.
With the pedal held firmly against the filthy rubber floor mat, he nearly flew over a short hill, came crashing back to the pavement, then accelerated. The downhill slope indeed allowed his vehicle to gain speed. The speedometer turned at the rate of a second hand until it met its limit of 120 miles per hour. The steering wheel trembled in his hands, and the rusty old truck quaked and shook as it shot down the road like a runaway train. The junction with Rabbit Creek Road came into sight just beyond a dip in the pavement.
Chapter 5