The Storm (NUMA Files 10)

“Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

“Wouldn’t if I could,” Joe replied. “Do you want some help?”

“I’d love some,” Kurt said. “But someone’s got to figure out where these drums are going and warn whoever they’re meant for. This way, we’re not putting all our eggs in one basket.”

They’d reached the truck. Kurt grabbed the lift lever and began to raise the drum.

“As soon as you can get to civilization, contact Dirk. We have to let Paul and Gamay know they have a mole in their midst.”

Joe nodded. “Once you grab that girl, get out of the hornet’s nest. Don’t take on more than you can chew.”

The drum had reached an even level with the truck bed and the rollers. “Hornet’s nest? I thought we established that this was a lion’s den?”

“Lions don’t fly,” Joe said. “Once you’re up in the air, it’s a hornet’s nest.”

“Now you’re getting the hang of this.”

The two men stared at each other for a moment, friends who’d bailed each other out of countless scrapes. Splitting up went against every instinct in their hearts. Fight together, survive together, they’d often said. But in this case it would mean abandoning a young woman to a terrible fate or cutting in half their chances to alert the world and their friends of pending danger. The stakes were too high for that.

“You sure about this?” Joe asked.

“You take the low road and I’ll take the high road,” Kurt said, “and I’ll be in civilization before you.”

“Define civilization?” Joe said, unlashing the barrel and sliding it forward.

“Somewhere that no one’s trying to kill us and where you can get an ice-cold Coke if you want one. Last one to reach it buys dinner at Citronelle for the whole team.”

Joe nodded, probably thinking of the menu and the ambience of the well-regarded D.C. area restaurant. “You’re on,” he said, lashing the drum into place.

Kurt watched, feeling a mixed sense of concern and relief. The trucks were not meant for cross-country desert travel, they had to go where the roads went. And even in a country like Yemen, that would soon lead to some area of civilization. With luck, Joe would be quenching his thirst and on the phone to NUMA before dawn. Kurt knew his own prospects were less certain.

Joe grabbed a tarp that would cover the back of the truck. He glanced at Kurt. “Vaya con Dios, my friend.”

“You too,” Kurt said.

The tarp dropped, Joe vanished and Kurt backed the forklift away, turning toward the staging area without another glance behind him.

All he had to do now was find out which plane Leilani was on and sneak aboard without being discovered.

CHAPTER 32

JOE ZAVALA HAD HUNKERED DOWN IN THE MOST FORWARD section of the flatbed, between the yellow drums and the front wall. No one had seen him there. Beyond taking a cursory glance from the back end of the truck to count the barrels, no one had even checked. With all accounted for, the tarp had been tied down tight. The doors up front opened and then slammed shut, and the big truck had gone into gear. Soon they were rumbling across the desert.

At periodic intervals, Joe had stealthily checked the surroundings. He’d seen only darkness and sand and the other trucks in the convoy. He wondered where they were headed.

After four hours, they finally began to slow.

“I hope we’re about to hit a rest stop,” Joe muttered to himself. He snuck a peek from under the canvas but saw no sign of civilization. Eventually the truck coasted to a stop, though the engine continued to idle.

Joe wondered whether to make a break for it. He hadn’t really considered jumping from the truck while it crossed the desert because he had no idea where they were and without water he didn’t want to go back into walking mode. At least not until there was somewhere to walk to.

He considered making a break for it now, but a second problem had compounded the first. Somehow, his truck had ended up in the front of the convoy. The other trucks sat behind him with their lights blazing away in the dark. To move now would be like going over the prison wall in broad daylight. He had to wait and hope for a better opportunity up ahead.

Shouting and orders came out of the dark. The big rig lurched as it went back into gear and began to inch forward again. It went over something that felt like a curb, and the flatbed trailer twisted and flexed as each set of wheels crossed whatever it was. The yellow drums shook from side to side. Joe put a hand out to steady the closest one.

“Take it easy on those speed bumps,” he whispered.

Then the nose of the truck angled down as if descending a ramp. The drums strained forward against their lashes, sliding his way. Joe’s sense of anxiety grew.