Ana Belova looked at the grease-stained bag thrust in her direction and shook her head. “No thanks. Even if I wanted a midnight snack, I prefer to keep my arteries unblocked.”
Her partner, an easygoing man named Petar Ralin, slipped a hand into the bag on the car seat between them, fished out the apple-filled pastry, and stuffed it into his mouth. The Bulgarian lawman never seemed to travel without a bag of bread or sweets, Ana thought, yet kept a lean figure despite it.
He brushed a crumb from his shirt. “Looks like the directorate’s informant is a bust. There hasn’t been a truck through this crossing in two hours.”
Ana peered out the windshield of their gray Škoda sedan at the Malko Tarnovo border station. The smallest of a handful of crossing points between Turkey and Bulgaria, the station catered to light car and tourist traffic traveling near the Black Sea coastline. The rugged woodlands of Strandzha Nature Park dominated the Bulgarian side of the border, while a sparse rural landscape spread across the Turkish territory.
Parked on Turkish soil less than fifty meters from the border, Ana watched as a young man on a motorcycle approached the checkpoint. As he cleared the crossing, she could see he carried a small pig in a crate attached to the rear fender.
“Late-night barbecue fix?” Ralin asked.
“You mean early-morning.” Ana suppressed a yawn. “I guess we’ve wasted enough time and downed enough banitsas to call it a night.”
“Hold on. There’s another vehicle coming.”
A dim spray of yellow light bounced across a hillside, morphing into a pair of headlight beams as it drew closer. The vehicle pulled to a stop at the checkpoint. It was a battered stake-bed truck with a canvas top over its cargo area. A muddy black-on-white license plate revealed its Turkish registry.
“Why don’t you make sure the border guard is awake while I check the plate number,” Ana said.
Ralin stuffed the last bite of pastry into his mouth then ambled toward the idling truck. Ana aimed binoculars at the truck and jotted down its license number. She traded the binoculars for a laptop computer and was typing in the number when she heard a sharp yell.
The truck was pulling forward, its engine revving. The border guard was stepping back into his office, having failed to examine the truck or even hold it up for Ralin’s inspection, as they had agreed. Ana was too far away to see the fold of currency that bulged in the guard’s shirt pocket.
Ralin had yelled, commanding the vehicle to stop. With his left arm outstretched like a traffic cop, he fumbled for his service weapon. Instead of stopping, the truck’s driver accelerated toward Ralin. The police agent had to dive out of the way to avoid getting flattened. The truck’s fender clipped his legs, sending him sprawling.
Ana clambered into the driver’s seat of the Škoda and cranked the ignition. Jamming the stick shift into first, she hit the gas, cursing as the truck rumbled past before she could block it. She hesitated a moment, looking to Ralin. The agent was clutching his ankle, but he turned and waved at her to proceed without him.
The Škoda’s tires squealed as she turned the wheel and floored the gas. The truck hadn’t traveled far, and she caught up to it in seconds. Watching the cargo cover ripple, she prayed the truck bed wasn’t filled with armed thugs. Instead, as the truck passed a streetlamp, she glimpsed a mound of watermelons under the cover. But the man behind the wheel was driving like no farmer.
The truck barreled down a winding hill and into the center of Malko Tarnovo, a dusty Bulgarian farm town twenty-five miles inland from the Black Sea. Beyond lay an expanse of dark, rolling hills that stretched for a dozen miles to the next village. The open terrain was not the place Ana would want to apprehend the truck’s occupants single-handedly. Pressing the accelerator, she tried to pull alongside. The truck’s driver caught the move and jerked to the side, closing the gap. Ana had to jam the brakes to avoid a parked car as the truck held to the center line. There was no way she could pass.
Ana pictured the town’s layout, recalling a main street that ran through the center of Malko Tarnovo and two parallel paved roads that stretched for about eight blocks. Initially approaching a side street, Ana braked again and turned the car left. She sped to the next block and turned right, running parallel to the main road. She gunned the engine and shifted hard, racing down the street and sending the sedan airborne with every bump.
The Škoda quickly ate up five blocks as Ana fumbled to click her seat belt as she drove. She veered right at the last side street, sending the tail of the car into a pair of trash cans as she slid through the corner. Sleepy residents peered out their windows at the streaking gray car whose engine sounded ready to explode.
As Ana approached the main street, the lights of the truck merged from her right. She was slightly ahead, but not far enough to allow a safe turn in front of it. Gauging the distance, Ana held down the gas a second more, then stomped on the brakes. As the car bucked under the antilock brakes, she nudged the steering wheel to the left.
The car pivoted slightly before making contact, the right side of its bumper slamming into the truck’s left front wheel well. The bang rattled windows up and down the street. The Škoda’s hood vanished under the mass of the truck, which skidded to the curb after its front wheel was decapitated. Under the force of the truck’s momentum, both vehicles slid forward until hopping a curb and striking a lamppost.
Acrid smoke filled the truck’s cabin as its driver tried to shake off the impact. “Josef?” he called to his partner, who lay motionless across the dashboard, unconscious or dead. The driver didn’t bother to check. He wedged his crumpled door open and fell to the street, intending to flee. He glanced at the shattered Škoda. A flattened air bag lay across the steering wheel, but no sign of a driver. He turned—and stepped into the barrel of a SIG Sauer P228 automatic pistol.
With air bag bruises on her face and breathing rapidly, Ana stood with her arms outstretched, pressing the gun into the driver’s cheek.
“On your knees. Hands on your head,” she said in a deep voice, trying to mask her own state of shock. The stunned driver readily obeyed.
Less than a minute later, Ralin and a border agent roared up in a state vehicle. Ralin hopped out of the car with a limp while drawing his gun on the truck driver. “You all right?”
Ana nodded and watched as Ralin handcuffed the driver and threw him in the back of the car.
The border agent checked on the truck’s passenger and returned shaking his head. “The other one’s dead.”
Ralin put his arm around Ana as she sagged and holstered her weapon.
“After he hit you, I just reacted.” She shook her head. “I didn’t wa
nt him to get away.”
“You succeeded.” Ralin glanced at the demolished Škoda and smiled. “But I’m not sure the department head will appreciate your sacrificing a new agency sedan for a load of watermelons.”