Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [107]
“Contact. This is Vets One. You are to follow us straight down Tenth Avenue to the Holland Tunnel entrance. We’ll be maintaining strict military speed limits inside the city. So sit back. Just relax for the ride. Over.”
Two hours passed before the lead transport truck pulled to a shuddering stop at a military guardpost less than sixty yards off Route 34 in New Jersey.
Over the wooden sentry box the sign said FORT MONMOUTH, UNITED STATES ARMY POST.
The Army private on duty had been close to falling asleep. His eyes were glazed behind horn-rimmed glasses and his movements wooden as he approached the lead transport truck.
“Identification, sir.” The private cleared his throat. He didn’t look much more than eighteen years old to Hudson. Shades of Viet Nam, of wars fought by boys.
Hudson silently handed across two plastic ID cards. The cards identified him as Colonel Roger McAfee of the 68th Street Armory, Manhattan. The inspection that followed was pro forma. The regular duty guard speech was given by the sentry.
“You may proceed, sir. Please obey all posted parking and traffic regulations while you are a visitor at Fort Monmouth. Are those transport vehicles behind with you, sir?”
“Yes, we’re going on bivouac. We’re here to pick up supplies. Small arms and ammunition for our weekend in the country. Two helicopters have been requisitioned. They’ll have the details inside. I’m to see Captain Harney.”
“You can all proceed then, sir.”
The Army base sentry finally stepped aside. He crisply waved the small Army Reserve convoy onward.
“Contact. This is Vets One.” As soon as they passed the gate, Colonel Hudson spoke into the PRC transmitter. “We’re now less than twelve hours until the termination of the operation code-named Green Band. Everyone is to use extreme, repeat, extreme caution. We’re almost home, gentlemen.”
Chapter 79
INCONSPICUOUS AND DRAB, the Vets garage on Jane Street wasn’t the kind of place to draw attention. It sat in the middle of a West Village block, its large metal doors rusted and grease stained and bleak.
At both ends of the block, the desolate street had silently been cordoned off. NYPD patrol cars were positioned everywhere around the garage. Carroll counted seventeen of them.
Beneath the darkened edifice of a Shell gas station, he could see unmarked FBI cars and as many as thirty heavily armed agents.
The police and the FBI agents carried M-16 automatic assault rifles, 12-gauge riot shotguns, .357 Magnums. It was as frightening an attack force and arsenal as Carroll had ever seen.
Carroll leaned against his own car, studying the metal doors, the crooked, bleached sign that read VETS CABS AND MESSENGERS. He tapped his fingers on the car hood.
Something was wrong here. Something was wrong again.
Carroll peered hard in the direction of the Shell station. The FBI guys stood perfectly still, waiting for the signal that would bring them rushing into action.
At his side was Walter Trentkamp. Carroll had kept Walter informed. Now Trentkamp was inside the maze with him.
Carroll took out his Browning. He turned the weapon over in the palm of his hand and thought it was strange how some voice inside was telling him to be careful. Careful, he thought. He hadn’t been careful before—so why start now? Carroll thought he knew why.
“Archer.” Walter nudged him. A limousine was suddenly threading its way down the grim, quiet street.
Police Commissioner Michael Kane solemnly climbed out. The Commissioner, whose street experience was limited, and who was more politician than cop, had a bullhorn in one hand.
“Oh Christ, no…” Carroll muttered.
Commissioner Kane’s voice echoed down the West Village street. “Attention… this is Commissioner of Police Kane.… You have one minute to emerge from the Vets garage. You have sixty seconds before we open fire.”
Carroll’s eyes roamed over the red brick garage. His body was tense, his neck and forehead