King and Maxwell (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 6)

“In this part of the world I’ve learned not to trust anybody. Out, now!”

The driver slung his fully loaded knapsack over his shoulder and stepped down onto the dirt floor holding two things.

One was his Glock, which was useless with so many guns centered on him.

The second item was the black box. That was entirely useful. In fact, it was the only real bargaining chip he had. He engaged the detonator and pressed down the button.

He held it up to Simons.

“Fail-safe,” he said. “Red button gets released, we all get vaporized. Truck is wired all the way around with cakes of Semtex. Enough to make this just a hole in the ground.”

“Bullshit,” countered Simons.

“Guess you weren’t entirely wired in on the op.”

“I think I was.”

“Then think again. Look under the wheel wells.”

Simons nodded at a colleague, who drew a flashlight and ducked under the truck’s right rear wheel well.

He backed out and turned. His expression said it all.

The armed men looked back at the driver. Their superior numbers had just been rendered irrelevant. He knew it, but he also knew this advantage was precarious. A game of chicken could only have, at best, one winner. But it could likely also have two losers. And he was running out of time. He could sense this in the fingers gliding to triggers, in the backward steps the men were trying to make surreptitiously. He could read their minds in every movement.

Get out of the Semtex’s explosive radius and either let him detonate and kill himself or take him out with a kill shot and hopefully save the cargo. Either way they would live, which would be their primary objective. There would be other cargo to hijack, but they could not conjure additional lives.

“Unless you can run a lot faster than Usain Bolt, you’ll never get outside the blast zone in time,” he said. He held the box higher. “And we’ll have an eternity to think about our sins.”

Simons said, “We want what’s in the truck. You give us that, you go free.”

“I’m not sure how that would work.”

Simons nervously eyed the box. “There’re two pickup trucks parked in the far corner over there. Both are fully fueled with extra cans in the back and each has a GPS. They were our rides getting here, but you take one of them. Your choice.”

The driver eyed the black truck. Next to it was a green pickup.

“And where exactly do I take it?” he asked.

“I’m assuming out of this shithole.”

“I have a job to do.”

“That job has changed.”

“Why don’t we just end this?” He started to lessen the pressure on the button.

“Wait,” said Simons. “Wait.” He held up his hand.

“I’m waiting.”

“Just take a truck and get out of here. Your cargo is not worth dying for, is it?”

“Maybe it is.”

“You’ve got a family back in the States.”

“How do you know that?”