“You’re probably in a hurry,” Eddie said, flashing a few hundred American dollars he was holding in his hand. “Maybe we can both get out of here sooner.”
The inspector eyed the money and slowly nodded. “I think that is best.”
He handed over the clipboard so that Eddie could sign the customs form. He tucked the bills under the paper and gave it back with a smile.
“Thank you, señor.”
“De nada.”
As the inspector walked off, tucking the money in his pocket, Raven said, “Have you ever had to show an inspector that there really is fuel in those drums?”
Eddie shook his head. “But I always offer, which makes them think that we aren’t hiding anything.”
Although the six drums were actually full of spare fuel, the ones behind them, that would be exposed by their removal, were simply half shells concealing the real cargo bay.
The PIG was Max’s brainchild, and he had designed it from the ground up. The beefed-up Mercedes Unimog chassis was fitted with an armored body strong enough to withstand rifle fire, and the self-sealing tires were driven by an eight-hundred-horsepower turbo-diesel that could be nitrous-boosted for short periods up to one thousand horses.
A .30 caliber machine gun was hidden in the front bumper, and rockets could be fired from racks that swung down from the PIG’s sides. A seamless hatch in the roof would slide back to allow the launch of mortar rounds, and a smoke generator could lay down a thick screen of fumes behind the truck.
Eric and Murph had persuaded Max to add a feature to the drive-by-wire system that would let someone operate the PIG remotely with a handheld control. Raven had it in her pocket.
Although the cargo bay could hold up to ten fully kitted soldiers, Eddie, Linc, and Raven would be the only passengers until they were able to rescue Juan.
They got into the cab, which was painted to look filthy. Though the leather seats were torn and stained, they were soft and supportive. Eddie took the passenger seat, while Linc stepped into the back and opened the cargo bay hatch so he could unpack firearms. Raven got behind the wheel and fired up the engine. It burbled like a regular diesel would, but Eddie could feel the immense power coursing through the chassis.
Raven toggled a switch, and the antiquated dashboard retracted and flipped over, revealing a high-tech control panel that gave them access to all of the onboard weaponry. It also had a large LCD screen displaying a map of Argentina. Juan’s tracker was flashing in red.
“Looks like they’re seventy miles outside of Buenos Aires,” Raven said.
Eddie did the math and said, “That makes our intercept point about twenty-five miles north of the prison at Las Armas. It’ll be close.”
“Don’t worry,” Raven said. “I’m a leadfoot.”
She put the PIG into gear and steered it out of the port. As they left, the Oregon was already untied from the dock and putting out to sea.
* * *
—
The convoy from Buenos Aires had been on the road for two hours now, and Juan continued to flex his fingers behind his back to keep the blood flowing to them. The cuffs weren’t too tight, but sitting in that position for so long in the back of the SUV was awkward. At least they didn’t put a seat belt over the jumpsuit he was wearing. That would have made it more difficult to act if the situation presented itself.
Still, he was impressed with the precautions taken by Colonel Sánchez, who sat in the passenger seat in front of Juan. Tate must have warned him not to take any risks.
Next to Juan was a huge mercenary holding a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun with the barrel aimed at him. He never took his eyes off Juan. Both in front of and behind the SUV were Swiss-made MOWAG Grenadier armored cars that each carried a .50 caliber machine gun mounted on a turret. Juan had also seen the mercenaries loading several Rocket-Propelled Grenade launchers into the vehicles.
If Sánchez had truly taken Tate’s advice seriously, he would have ridden with Juan in the armored cars. However, it seemed the colonel preferred the comforts of leather seats and air-conditioning instead and wanted to keep his prisoner close by.
Juan had been nonchalantly watching the road traffic ever since they’d left Army headquarters. If the Oregon was tracking him and attempted a rescue, the highway would present the best opportunity. Or he hoped it would.
A few minutes later, a truck with a familiar logo passed them going in the other direction. He saw it for only a moment, but he recognized the false name VERTEGAS on its side.
It was the PIG.
“Colonel, what if I have to go to the bathroom?” Juan asked.
“You’ll wait. We’re only thirty miles from the prison.”
“And if I can’t?”