Lauren handed him the wax stick so he could dull any shine from his face and hands. “A woman that manipulative can hide her true self so easily it becomes second nature. And I hate to say that most men wouldn’t pick up on the subtle signs. Another woman can spot a phony in a second, but it’s not in a guy’s nature to look for the small clues. Believe me, your buddy died thinking he had the perfect wife.”
The conversation ended when they felt the train decelerate, the play in the couplings snapping closed like a string of firecrackers. “We’re close,” Mercer whispered, even though a shout would barely penetrate the container’s walls.
Another ten minutes trickled by as the last three railcars were detached from the train and shuttled into Hatcherly Consolidated’s main yard. They heard an occasional muffled yell from outside and the blast from a signalman’s whistle as the train was positioned for the forklifts to unload the two containers placed on each of the cars. Then came a metallic crash and suddenly they were in motion again as the crate was lifted from the train. Hopefully by Victor Herrara. If something went wrong, and he wasn’t the one driving them through the terminal, Mercer and Lauren could easily find themselves trapped in one of a hundred containers lashed to the deck of a ship on its way to the West Coast or Asia.
After bouncing over numerous sets of tracks and kidney-punishing rents in the pavement, the forklift eventually reached its destination and the container was lowered to the asphalt with a hydraulic sigh. Lauren extinguished her light. They waited for what seemed like an eternity until Victor rapped on the container with a hammer—his signal that it was clear.
A moment later the door swung open and Mercer stepped out into the moist night. In front of them loomed an enormous crane specially designed to move freight containers, its boom like a medieval battering ram. All around them towered ranks of containers like steel building blocks. In the distant glow of gantry lights Mercer could see one of the warehouses Victor had drawn on his map, orienting him to the layout of the terminal. Victor had placed them where Hatcherly stored their empty containers, a paved field that stretched for acres.
Victor was larger than his cousin, with dirty hair tied in a ponytail and a rather dim expression. Through the smoke of a dangling cigarette, he and Lauren spoke in low tones. Victor kept looking over his shoulder to where the bulk of the facility’s work was carried out, troubled that he had no excuse for driving the container so far away if a foreman questioned him.
“Sí, sí, sí. Gracias.” Lauren turned to Mercer while Victor looked longingly at the cab of his Kalmar 3500 reach-stacker crane. “We’re in luck. Victor says that there’s some big operation going on in the smallest warehouse. In the past couple of weeks Hatcherly’s completely emptied the building and no one other than a few Chinese workers have been allowed in. Last night a special cargo was brought in from a Chinese freighter. He thinks it’s being transferred out tonight.”
“Does he know what it is?”
“No idea, but he said that security around the building’s been beefed up.”
Mercer recalled Victor’s detailed drawing. “Wait, the smallest warehouse is the one that sits by itself surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire.”
“Yup.”
“Damn.” He thought furiously, finally looking up when he got an idea. Lost in the darkness above them were the guy wires for the cableway crane system, a grid of heavy-gauge steel lines that crisscrossed the terminal like a spider web. “Ask Victor if the cableway goes near the warehouse.”
“Yes,” she translated. “One of the cables passes in front of the building.”
“Can we climb up a support tower to reach the main cables and then crawl over the security fence to the warehouse?”
Lauren asked the stevedore and translated his answer. “Yes, but the cables are eighty feet off the ground so they don’t interfere with the stacked containers or vehicles.” Victor said something else and Lauren blanched under her camo paint. “Damn. The main cableways are made of three wires, two for holding the container grapple and one to supply electricity. It’s always hot.”
Their high-wire act just got doubly dangerous. “Ask him if there’s another way.”
Victor looked Mercer in the eye and said no.
“You afraid of heights?” Mercer asked. Lauren shook her head. “Electricity?” She nodded. “We’re in the same boat. How long until the train comes through to take us back to Cristobal?”
“Two hours.”
“Tell Victor we’ll be waiting.” Before setting off to find one of the support towers, Victor gave them each a pair of leather gloves he kept in his giant forklift.
Once they left the relative security of the deserted container storage area, Mercer began to feel the tension. There were thirty guards patrolling the facility and dozens more workers. Any one of them could shout an alarm. Considering what he knew of the company, he doubted Hatcherly would let them go with a stiff warning. More like a one-way ticket to China in a sealed container.
He drew his pistol and checked that the silencer was screwed on tightly. Lauren padded silently at his side.
Fighting the instinct to climb the first tower they came across, Mercer and Lauren needed to get closer to the warehouse in order to cut the distance they’d need to shimmy along the cableway. Lauren tapped him on the shoulder, pointing to a line of trucks that would provide partial cover. Step in step they moved across an open expanse of cracked asphalt, ever alert for a roving guard. In the distance, a large freighter secured to the quay was lit like a cruise ship, and gantry cranes methodically lowered cargo containers into her hold. The air was sharp with the smell of bunker fuel and diesel smoke.
Bent double, they edged along the row of silent trucks, careful not to let their motion draw attention. Once they reached the lead vehicle, they saw they next had to cross multiple sets of rail spurs. Longshoremen in dark overalls and hardhats worked on coupling a locomotive under the glare of pole-mounted arc lights.
Mercer slid onto his chest and crawled across the filthy ballast rocks, angling to pass on the far side of the train. He rolled off the last rail and into a wild tangle of bushes that had somehow taken root in the oil-soaked ground. Lauren reached him as a small forklift raced past.
“Jesus,” she breathed. “He came out of nowhere.”
“The closer we get to the warehouse, the busier it’s getting.” The approach of another truck forced them deeper into the bushes. The risk of discovery was growing too great and Lauren suggested they climb the next tower they came across. Mercer agreed.
The nearest support structure for the cable crane was fifty yards away. They dodged from their cover, racing hard for another group of containers that was halfway to their goal.
Thirty feet from the closest container, Mercer saw a figure suddenly emerge from around its far side. He raised his pistol just as a dockworker looked up.
Mercer dropped his aim, unable to shoot an unarmed man. He quickened his pace so his boots slapped. He was just ten feet away when the Panamanian opened his mouth to yell a warning. Without slowing, Mercer threw himself in a cross block that slammed into the worker’s chest, crushing him against the container. The man was doubled over, gagging to catch his breath when Lauren ran up and clipped the side of his head with her Beretta. He fell silent.
“Thanks.” Mercer struggled out from under the unconscious laborer. They stuffed the worker in the gap between two containers and waited in the shadows to see if anyone noticed. Everything appeared normal.
The support tower was a skeletal frame resembling a radio mast topped by a set of pulleys and gears for manipulating the cable crane. It reminded Mercer of part of a ski lift. Securing their weapons, he and Lauren climbed the integrated ladder. The machine was so new it had yet to show rust from the tropical humidity. Eighty feet up, they found a precarious perch and a vantage to check their location.