Merry Christmas, Alex Cross

CHAPTER 73

For a second, with the brilliant light shining in his eyes, and the commanding voice of a stranger he could not see ringing in his ears, Omar Nazad felt bewildered, foiled, perhaps a martyr for nothing.

Where had the man come from? Who was he? Police?

Then training took over. He and Hala had gamed almost every scenario, including being spotted in or around the train.

“CSX Nashville asked us to check on this shipment,” Nazad said, holding his hand up to block the light, seeing the silhouette of a burly man standing in the doorway. “Could you put that down?”

The light was directed down, and the Tunisian saw a bearded male in his late forties wearing a snowy CSX coat not that dissimilar from his own. The rail worker held a flashlight in one hand, a radio in the other.

“We didn’t get no call about a shipment check,” the man said, scowling.

“The storm,” Nazad said, walking casually toward him. “It has affected everyone. Everything. Can you believe they make us work in this shit?”

The man seemed to relax, asked, “Where you out of?”

“Benning Yard,” Nazad said, referring to the local CSX rail maintenance facility. He glanced at footprints behind the man and saw that he’d come down the opposite side of the train, from the direction of the tunnel.

The real CSX employee scrunched up his nose. “They sent a mechanic to do a cargo check?”

The Tunisian smiled like they were allies. “In times of crisis, my friend, each man must do his part. Is that not true?”

The CSX man scratched at his beard, said, “Guess so. Hell, what’s in there they got you out in the middle of a blizzard?”

“A potentially unstable chemical,” Nazad said. “But I have checked the shipment. Everything is fine. Quite stable.”

The man’s eyes shifted from the Tunisian, drifted across the floor of the container, focused on the cut plastic strapping that had held the three drums together on the wooden pallet. He said, “No problem. Lemme just check on this. What’s your name?”

“Herb,” Nazad said. “Herb Montenegro.”

The man nodded, raised his radio, clicked Transmit, and managed to say, “Tony, you by the channel?” before the steel toe of Nazad’s boot viciously connected with his windpipe, crushing it.

The rail worker choked. Eyes bugging out, he dropped the radio and the flashlight, reached for his throat, and then crumpled to his hands and knees, fighting for air. Nazad jumped out of the container, landed square on the man’s back, and drove him face-first into the deep snow, making sure he would never be by the channel again.

From somewhere in the snow next to the suffocating man, the Tunisian heard a voice with a Boston accent say, “This is Tony. How the hell’s it looking back there?”