Point of Contact

71

Five minutes later, the drenched and weary threesome stood on the empty elevated expressway overlooking what appeared to be a used-car lot. The fenced property bordered on a two-lane road that ran east-west through a tunnel beneath the expressway.

A flash of lightning revealed more detail.

“Criminy. It’s a pick-n-pull,” Paul said.

“What?” Lian asked.

“A junkyard,” Jack explained, as booming thunder echoed overhead.

Paul counted thirty cars in the yard, but they were all parted out. Some were stacked three and four high, wheels missing, engines gone. A large steel garage stood at the back of the lot.

“Well, at least there are plenty of cars to choose from,” Jack said, grinning and grimacing at the same time.

Lian said, “Let’s get out of the rain.”

“Maybe there’s a clunker down there that actually runs,” Paul said hopefully. He eyed the steep, grassy embankment. It wouldn’t be easy for Jack to traverse it. Farther up, there was fencing along the expressway, which prevented a descent, and the embankment got even steeper, so this was as good as it was going to get.

Paul’s eye caught sight of movement north, up on the expressway. He pointed. “Is that a car?”

Jack’s eyes narrowed, trying to focus. Two miles away, a pair of headlights barreled toward them.

“They’re flying,” Jack said.

“An emergency vehicle?” Paul wondered.

“No emergency flashers? Not likely,” Lian said.

“Then who?” Paul asked.

“Something’s not right,” Jack said.

A flash of lightning cracked overhead.

The vehicle’s xenon high beams popped on, pointing right at them.

Lian shouted, “Run!”

A flash of lightning illumined the three figures standing on the expressway.

All four North Koreans saw them, but it was the section chief in the front seat who shouted and pointed at them.

The driver popped the xenon high beams on and stomped the accelerator to the floorboard. The two men in back drew their pistols and checked mags just as the Sorento hit a puddle and the SUV hydroplaned.

A collective “Ah!” rose from the three men not driving, but the driver was too busy concentrating. He avoided the natural inclination to tap the brakes; instead, he took his foot off the accelerator and pointed the steering wheel at a dry patch farther up.

The section chief shouted, “Faster!”

“I can’t, sir! Too wet!”

The station chief cocked his pistol and held it to the driver’s head. “FASTER!”