The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [160]
The plainclothesman lowered the papers and turned to Tyler, his head slightly cocked to one side. He blinked startling china-blue eyes beyond his old-fashioned bifocals.
“We had an earlier call at a Lebanese takeout down on Mulberry Lane,” Tyler said. “I have the papers in the cabin. When we flagged this call, we drove straight here. Plenty of room in the tank.” For once, Tyler delivered his lines without gesticulating with his hands.
“Open it,” the man said.
Tyler gaped. “Here?”
“I didn’t say empty it. That thing at the top opens, doesn’t it?” The man nodded to a circular lid on top of the tank.
“Yes, but …” The two FDU men had already shouldered their weapons and climbed the truck, negotiating the front and rear handholds. When they reached the top, one grabbed the wheel of a screw fastener and twisted with energy. Then he lifted the lid and jerked his head out of the way.
The man in charge raised an eyebrow.
“Shit,” the DHS officer blurted.
The man in the hat nodded and turned to the police officer. “May I borrow your flashlight?” Then he rammed the offered device in his coat pocket, neared the truck, and climbed. He leaned over the opening, pointing the flashlight downward and flicking his wrist. Then he nodded and retraced his steps. “It’s shit, all right.”
Once on the tarmac, he returned the flashlight to the police officer and dug his hands once more into his coat’s pockets. “You may go through.” Then he turned on his heel, walked a few steps, and stopped, only to turn around slowly, drawing a finger to his lips. “Say, you mentioned a greasy spoon—er … a Lebanese takeout—didn’t you?”
Henry tensed and glanced at Tyler, following his slow nod.
“It smells like pig shit to me, but then, I’m not an expert.” With that, he once again raised his face to the sun and strolled toward the van on the opposite side of the road.
chapter 56
09:56
At the intersection of South Dakota and Rhode Island Avenues, something strange happened. When the traffic light changed, they turned onto Rhode Island, but the light must have changed again, because no other car followed. Someone had to be controlling the lights from a remote location. Before them opened a vast stretch of road, also empty of traffic.
“This is it, then?” Lukas gripped his seat belt, as if ready to withstand impact.
“Looks likely,” Raul said, steering closer to the dividing line down the center of the road.
Laurel leaned forward, peering into the distance as a dark line of trucks converged from both sides of the next intersection, like sliding doors. She narrowed her eyes, imagining that a similar scene would be unfolding at their back. Her fingers tightened around the syrette Floyd had slipped in her pocket.
Barandus rustled on the stretcher and wrapped the drab blanket tighter around him, before breaking into the chorus of “We Shall Overcome” in a deep voice.
Raul reduced their speed even further and slammed an open hand on the steering wheel. “For crissake, shut up!”
Lukas lowered his head, his lips moving, and Laurel thought there couldn’t be a much better reason to pray.
“Stop the vehicle and switch off the engine,” boomed a voice with a Hispanic accent coming out of nowhere and everywhere at once. Raul jerked and slammed on the brakes. Barandus resumed his singing in a low voice.
“Stay in the vehicle. Don’t attempt to leave it,” the same voice echoed once more.
Raul yanked out the van’s ignition card. The chunky piece of plastic swung from a thin chain attached to the steering wheel, clicking against the dash. Otherwise, there was silence.
“Now what?” Laurel asked.
Raul placed both hands on the steering wheel at ten and two. “Now they blow us to kingdom come.”
Lukas sat straighter.
Ahead, the trucks disgorged never-ending lines of armor-clad DHS FDU teams, who deployed in an advancing semicircle. Through the driver’s-side mirror, Laurel eyed a dark wave approaching from the rear. She thought the ancient Roman legions must have looked like that. Not like individuals but one unit: