Point of Contact

48

He woke to the sound of rain drumming on the roof, his eyes still tightly shut.

For a moment, Jack thought he was in a tin-roofed bungalow on a beach in Aruba, where he had once spent a week with a blonde who had laughing green eyes. He couldn’t remember her name. Maybe he’d never known it.

But the splitting headache throbbing inside of his skull killed the dream and opened his eyes. The spattering raindrops sparkled in the lamplight against the spiderweb of the cracked windshield.

He woke fully now, and cursed, remembering what happened.

What the hell time is it? He glanced at his watch. He’d been out for about ten minutes, maybe more. As his mind cleared, the pain intensified. Mostly his headache, but also his face and neck, and his chest, still strapped tightly against the seat. He twisted around as best he could, expecting to see an ambulance or a police car, or at least a concerned civilian racing to his aid. He hurt like hell, on the verge of serious. He had no idea if he’d sustained internal injuries. But his momentary lapse of self-pity melted away. He couldn’t be found here. Technically, he’d stolen the van. More important, he needed to stay out of the newspapers, and certainly the police blotters.

His first task was just to get out of the van. He was trapped by the belt, strapped so tightly he couldn’t move his arms to hit the belt release. He pushed his legs against the floor panel as hard as he could, pressing his body deeper into the seat to give the locking mechanism the opportunity to release and slacken the belt. When it did, he reached over and freed himself from the seat belt, then pushed away the deflated airbag, dusty and crumpled on his lap.

Jack reached for the door latch and pushed, but nothing happened. He twisted around and unlocked the door, then tried again, launching against it with his sore shoulder. Nothing. It was jammed.

Of course.

Jack glanced through the smashed windshield. Still no cars in sight. Good. But it wouldn’t be much longer until somebody came by and called it in. He grunted as he crawled out of his seat and over to the passenger side, finally managing to open the door and work his way out onto the street. He quickly hobbled over to the sidewalk and out of the light of the streetlamp. He surveyed the damage on himself first. No blood, no broken bones. He checked the van. The big truck struck the van in the rear quarter panel on the passenger side. It was perfectly aimed to damage the van but allow the tractor to keep going. A hit-and-run accident? Or intentional?

Running with its lights off. Jack assumed it was intentional.

And that made it personal.

Bastards.

His throbbing head suddenly turned dizzy. He laid a hand on the van to catch himself as his legs began to buckle, but he willed himself to remain standing. A moment later his vision returned. Must have stood up too quickly, he told himself. Or I’m in shock.

And shock would kill him. So would a brain bleed or a dozen other injuries he might have sustained.

Jack grabbed his phone and started to dial the emergency operator but stopped. If he went to the hospital now he’d be there for hours, and whatever was in that warehouse would be gone by the time he got back. The other problem was that Rhodes said to keep a low profile. If he called this in, there would be hospital records to deal with and, worse, hard questions, probably from the police.

More important, he had a job to do.

He knew he was pushing his luck, but he needed to get inside that warehouse. He’d figure out his injury status later. As far as he could tell, he had all of his fingers and toes, and he could still make a fist.

One of the van’s two rear doors was actually smashed open. Jack shoved it open further and checked the back. The cargo area was trashed, though still intact. Boxes of electrical components, spindles of colored wire, and thick paper-bound catalogs and technical manuals were heaped in a pile, having all been thrown from the metal shelving. He spotted a medical kit bolted to the wall and opened it, and found a box of Tylenol packets. He tore one open and tossed the pills in his mouth, chewing them into a bitter paste, his face souring as he swallowed. That would take the edge off, at least.

He crawled around in the pile further, searching for something else — exactly what, he wasn’t sure.

Until he found them.

One was a toolbox. He rooted around in it. Mostly electrical stuff — needle-nosed pliers, wire strippers, small screwdrivers. The heaviest tool he could find was a crescent wrench. Not exactly a weapon of choice, but it was a good hunk of cast steel. No telling who or what he might encounter. He pocketed it.

The other thing he grabbed was heavy but pliable. Probably a dumb idea, but his pounding headache wasn’t going to let him solve any quadratic equations tonight. He decided to trust his instincts.

He extricated himself from the pile of electrical supplies and exited the van with a grunt. When he stood up he saw the street number on the building in front of him. That meant the warehouse was two blocks farther up.

He arranged the items he’d pulled from the van on his person, then checked the street in both directions. He saw a pair of headlights a mile behind him, heading in his direction. Cop car? No flashing lights. But who knows? And if not this one, maybe the next.

If he was going to get in that warehouse, it was now or never.

He dashed across the street in a kind of a run-limp, every muscle in his body screaming, his brain bobbling against his skull with every thudding step.

Jack smiled. It suddenly occurred to him that this easy, white-side vacation Gerry sent him on just might wind up killing him.

Yong and Meili were dressed now, and staring at the computer screen, watching Jack’s red tracking dot advance toward the warehouse.

“I told you he was persistent,” Yong said.

Meili was on her cell phone.

“He’s on the way.”