King and Maxwell

CHAPTER 2

THE FIRST THING TO GO wrong was his running out of gas as he pulled through the stone building’s open overhead door. He had extra fuel tanks, but apparently someone had miscalculated.

The second thing to go wrong was the gun being shoved in his face.

This was no turban toting a subgun. It was a white man like him with a .357 pistol, its hammer already pulled back.

“Is there a problem?” the driver said.

“Not for us,” said the man, who was heavyset and jowly and looked closer to forty than thirty.

“Us?” He looked around and saw other white guys creeping out of the shadows. They were all armed, and every gun they had was pointing at him.

This many white faces here stuck out like a planet going out of its orbit.

“This is not part of the plan,” the driver said.

The other man held out a cred pack. “There’s been a change in plan.”

The driver studied the ID card and badge. It showed that the man’s name was Tim Simons and identified him as being an agent with the CIA.[3] He said, “If we’re on the same side, why the gun in my face?”

“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?”

“I just do. And I have to believe you want to get back to them.”

“And how do I explain losing the cargo?”

“You won’t have to, trust me,” replied Simons.

“That’s the problem, I don’t trust you.”

“Then we’re all going to die right here. It’s that simple.”

The driver eyed the pickup trucks. He didn’t believe anything he had been told. But he desperately wanted to get out of this alive, if only to make things right later.

Simons said, “Look, we’re obviously not the Taliban. Hell, I’m from Nebraska. My creds are the real deal. We’re on the same side here, okay? Why else would I be here?”

The driver finally said, “So you want me to just withdraw quietly from the field?”

“That was my offer.”

“How do you propose doing this?”

“First thing, don’t release the button,” advised Simons.

“Then don’t pull your triggers.” He edged toward the pickup trucks. The men parted to allow him passage.

“I’ll be taking the green truck,” he said abruptly. He saw Simons give a nearly imperceptible flinch, which was good. He’d made the right decision. The black truck was obviously booby-trapped.

He reached the green truck and eyed the ignition. The keys were in there. There was also a GPS mounted on the dash.

Simons called out, “What’s the range on the detonator?”

“I’ll keep that to myself.”

He threw his knapsack on the front seat, climbed into the truck, and started the engine. He eyed the gas gauge. Full. He kept his free hand ready with the detonator.

Simons said, “How can we trust you not to detonate when you’re well away?”

“It’s a question of range,” he replied.

“Which you haven’t told us.”

“So you just have to trust me, Nebraska. Just like I have to trust you that this truck isn’t wired to blow up as soon as I’m out of here. Or maybe it was the other one that was.”

He pushed the gas pedal to the floor and the truck roared out of the stone building. He expected shots to be fired at him. None came.

He imagined they believed that would lead to their deaths when he released the button in retaliation.

When he was far enough away, he looked at the black box. If the guys back there were CIA, there was a lot more going on here than he cared to think about right now. But he wanted to see it through. And the only way to do that was to let this play out. And stay alive.

He disengaged the detonator and tossed it on the front seat.

Now he just had to get the hell out of here.

He hoped that was possible. Most people came to this part of the world simply to kill or be killed.