“Maybe he’s learning how to drive his rig,” Tank said. “What should I do here?”
“Take the Turnpike,” I told him.
It was a gamble. There were three main roads going south from Bordentown. The Turnpike was the fastest. Tank took the Turnpike south, and after a few miles, I was feeling insecure. The road stretched like an endless ribbon in front of us, and I didn’t see the flatbed. We passed Burlington and Cherry Hill and came to the Atlantic City Expressway exit.
“Now what?” Tank asked.
“Take the exit to Atlantic City,” I told him. “We’ve gone this far. We might as well look around the Marbury area.”
This was depressing. I’d come so close to capturing Munch, only to have him slip through my fingers. A whole bunch of what ifs was running through my head. What if I’d gone out and looked at the driver when the truck was idling at the radio station? What if I’d called Ranger for help with the car chase? What if I was smarter, faster, braver, thinner … It was endless.
Tank drove through Marbury and doubled back along the road to the gift shop. He passed the gift shop and went north on a secondary road. It was a two-?lane, blacktop road running through pinewoods, dotted here and there with small ranch houses. Every house had a mailbox set at the edge of the road. Single-?lane gravel and dirt roads shot off the blacktop road into the outback of the Barrens.
Tank stopped the SUV, and we all stared at the dirt road and pale green bungalow in front of us. The mailbox to the bungalow was demolished and heavy-?tread tire tracks were cut deep into the bungalow’s front yard. The tire tracks ran over the smashed mailbox and swung onto the single-?lane road, where they almost entirely disappeared on the hard-?packed dirt.
“Bingo,” Lula said.
Tank turned onto the dirt road and followed it through the forest for almost a mile into a cleared area that reminded me of a small landing strip for a plane. The flatbed was parked in front of us, but it was missing the transmitter, Munch, and his uniformed crew.
A rutted path large enough for an ATV led into the woods at the end of the cleared strip. Tank drove to the path, and we got out to take a look.
“I can’t get the SUV down this path,” Tank said. “Do you want me to walk it to see where it goes?”
“We’ll all walk it,” I said.
I had no desire to lag behind and run up against Wulf all by my lonesome. I still had his hand imprinted on my wrist. Call me chickenshit, but if I came across Wulf, I wanted to be hiding behind Tank.
Tank led the way and Lula and I followed. It was twilight, and Tank had taken a flashlight from the SUV. The path obviously served a purpose, because the scrub had been worn away at the edge and there were some recently broken branches kicked to the side. We trudged through a thick stand of pines and stepped into a woodland fuel depot. There were rows of tanks that were the size you might use for a gas grill. Neatly placed in front of the tanks were some steel drums. Maybe twenty feet away, stacked like cordwood under the roof of a three-?sided shed, were rockets. Not BlueBec. These were smaller. From what Diesel had told me, I knew the BlueBecs were about eighteen feet long. These were closer to six and narrower in diameter.
“You could have a barbecue here,” Lula said. “Only thing missing is the ribs.”
It would seem logical that if fuel and some rockets were here, then the command center and Gail and Munch shouldn’t be far away. Problem was, there were no other paths. And no buildings. There was only one way in to the tank farm, and we’d just walked it. Beyond the flatbed and what looked like a landing strip, there were no roads, no buildings, no ATV trails.
Tank tipped his head back and looked at one of the pines by the shed. “There’s a camera stuck into that tree,” he sai
d. “This area is under surveillance.” He looked around. “There are two more cameras that I can see.”
Total panic attack. I felt like someone was squeezing my heart. “We have to get out of here.”
“Only one way to go,” Tank said.
We turned and started to head out, and four ATVs driven by guys in khaki uniforms powered in at us.
“Am I getting punked?” Lula said. “Is this real? This shit don’t happen in real life.”
My eyes were rolling around in my head, looking for an escape route.
“Through the woods,” Tank said, grabbing my hand, shoving Lula.
“Stop!” one of the men shouted. “Stop, or I’ll shoot.”
And he fired off a couple rounds.
“Damn,” Lula said. “Those are real bullets.” She pulled her Glock out of her bag and fired back. Her round missed the guy in the uniform and zinged into one of the tanks. The cylinder exploded into a fireball and flew forty feet into the air. It hit the ground and ignited every other cylinder and steel drum. Cylinders were shooting into the air like firecrackers, and the fire spread to the rockets. It was the Fourth of July, Chinese New Year, and Armageddon.
“Oops,” Lula said. “My bad.”
“Run!” Tank yelled in my ear. “Now! Run back to the SUV.”