Storm Front

CHAPTER 30

EAST RUTHERFORD, New Jersey

The East Rutherford Field Office of the FBI is one of the less advertised posts of America’s mightiest law enforcement agency. It can be found alongside Route 17, a clogged commercial byway, tucked in among the big box stores, chain restaurants, and gas stations. It is housed in an unmarked office building that resembles a Tic Tac, because it’s long and white and some 1970s-era architect thought rounding the edges at each end would make his creation look distinctive.

And if you are a Wall Street trader, it is the last place you ever want to find yourself.

The East Rutherford Field Office is the home to the famous — or infamous, depending on your point of view — WCCU. The White Collar Crimes Unit. Often working in concert with the Securities and Exchange Commission, the unit employs some of the smartest agents the FBI has, which is important because they go after some of the most sophisticated crooks in America. Most of the agents who land in the WCCU are there because they have MBAs or other advanced degrees; and most, in truth, have a chip on their shoulder.

That, it turns out, is just as important as what ever formal training they bring to bear. The people they deal with seldom recognize they’ve acted unlawfully and rarely view themselves as criminals. The thief who steals money from a bank understands he is doing something wrong. The thief who illegally leverages a pension fund thinks he’s just pushing around paper.

As such, when you catch a white collar crook, there’s a certain amount of indignant, I’m-just-doing-whatever-everyone-else-does rationalizing to suffer through. And, to be fair, they’re actually right. They are just doing what many of their peers do but haven’t gotten caught at. The haphazard nature of it is easier to reconcile if you bring a certain attitude — and a certain moral rectitude — to the job.

Storm was coming to this place improvising to a certain extent. He had not yet made contact with the FBI — only his father had — and he did not know how cooperative or forthcoming the fibbies would be with someone who wasn’t of their number.

But he hoped they played nice with him. In order for the plan he was currently formulating to work, Storm needed — unfortunately — a rehabilitated Whitely Cracker, one who was financially solvent.

If nothing else, Storm could enjoy the irony of it: He was taking a trader to a place that would feel like prison as a first step to getting him out of it.

He pulled the Jaguar off the busy road and into the parking lot as Whitely stared at the building in stunned awe.

“I’ve heard about this place,” Whitely said.

“Oh?”

“You know how Boy Scouts sit around the campfire and tell ghost stories? This is the kind of ghost story they tell at my tennis club. About people who got taken here. They call this building ‘the Poison Pill,’ because that’s what it looks like and that’s what you want to have handy if you’re ever asked to go there for questioning. For people in my world, this is like the principal’s office, the dentist’s chair, and Pa’s woodshed — all rolled into one and then made a million times worse.”

Storm let the comment pass. He wasn’t in the mood for gallows humor from this man. Death wasn’t funny to Storm. It was a dull ache in the empty spot once filled by Ling Xi Bang.

Storm parked and got out of the car. With misgiving, he took the Dirty Harry gun out of his shoulder holster, knowing it wouldn’t make it past the metal detector. He tossed it in the Jaguar’s trunk, away from any skel who might wander through the parking lot and take a shine to it.

They entered the building, crossing the FBI seal on their way to a metal detector, a thorough wanding, and a briefly invigorating pat down.

Once they were through the outer layer of security, an agent asked if they had an appointment.

Storm didn’t. But he said, “I’m here to see Scott Colston.”

The agent frowned. “I’m afraid Agent Colston is out.”

“We’ll wait,” Storm said.

The man pointed them toward a stiff-backed wooden bench in the lobby. There were no pillows on it. The FBI did not particularly care whether its visitors were comfortable.

About five minutes into their wait, a phalanx of agents burst in through the front doors. Two of them held the double doors extra wide for a burly, goateed agent who was escorting a short, fat, balding man in a wrinkled suit.

A wrinkled suit and handcuffs.

If Whitey Cracker’s jaw hadn’t been hinged, it would have fallen to the floor. The look on his face was pure confusion, as if he was seeing someone incredibly familiar to him, but in the completely wrong place.

“Teddy?” Whitely said loudly, as Theodore Sniff and his escorts were waved through security. “Teddy, what are you… what are you doing here?”

The agents were stone-faced. The burly guy was gently prodding Sniff forward. The accountant was doing anything he could to avoid making eye contact with his boss.

“Teddy, what’s going on?” Whitely asked.

Sniff’s attention was now firmly fixed on the floor in front of him. They were passing by Storm and Cracker on their way to the elevator. But Whitely was finally starting to put things together: No moneyman was brought into the Poison Pill wearing handcuffs so he could get a good citizenship commendation.

“Teddy, what have you done?”

Still nothing from Sniff. Whitely walked toward the burly guy. “Excuse me, sir. My name is Whitely Cracker and this… this is my accountant. Can you please tell me why he’s being brought here?”

The man turned to Cracker, sized him up for a moment, opened his mouth, closed it as if he’d thought better of it, then ultimately decided there was no harm.

“Embezzlement,” he said.

“Embezzlement? But… but who is he embezzling from?”

The man looked at Cracker like he was a prize idiot. “Well, from you, of course.”

Cracker’s jaw was now through the floor, the subfloor, the basement, the bedrock, and drilling its way to the Earth’s core. The worst day of his life had somehow gotten worse: he was not only broke and hunted, he had been betrayed by one of his closest associates.

Another man might have been angry to learn this. That was not Whitely Cracker’s nature. He was mostly just bewildered.

“But Teddy… Teddy, how could you? After all we’ve done together? I’ve… I’ve treated you like family. I’ve given you extra bonuses, extra vacations. You’re my baby girl’s godfather, for goodness’ sakes. We started out together….”

The elevator had arrived. Sniff and his escorts were getting on board.

“I’d appreciate if you gentlemen could wait here,” the burly man said. “It’s actually quite helpful to have you here. We’re just not quite ready for you yet.”

Whitely was only dimly hearing the man. He was busy beseeching some reaction — any reaction — out of the man who until moments ago had been his trusted right hand.

“Just… talk to me, Teddy. I don’t… I don’t understand. How could you do this to me, Teddy? What did I ever do to you, Teddy?”

Finally, Sniff turned to his boss, brought his chin up, and said in a deadly serious voice: “Don’t call me Teddy. I hate that name. I’ve always hated that name. My name is Theodore. Understand, motherfucker?”

After the elevator doors closed, Storm and Cracker were shunted over to the bench. It suited Storm well. He needed time to think anyway, to fill in with meat and skin the skeleton of the plan he had made.

Cracker mostly paced. He had a lot to think about, too.

“So,” he said at one point, “all those bugs in my house. Was that all the FBI?”

“Actually, that was the CIA,” Storm said. “They… they were looking to protect the assets of one of your more strategically important foreign clients.”

“Ah, yes. Prince Hashem.”

“You got it.”

They lapsed back into contemplation. About a half hour later, an agent came down and said Agent Colston — the burly guy with the goatee, apparently — was grateful for their patience, but he needed a little more time to interrogate the defendant.

Sniff wasn’t the suspect anymore. He was now the defendant.

An hour later, Storm received a text message from Kevin Bryan’s cell phone. “A truck has departed Volkov’s Bayonne location. Will advise of further movement. You safe?”

Storm thought about his current location and texted back: “Couldn’t be safer.”

The reply: “Good. Stay that way.”

Storm hadn’t expected Volkov to remain in Bayonne. He was a predator. Predators stay on the move. It’s a fact in the animal kingdom that carnivores tend to have much larger home ranges than herbivores. The equivalent could be said about the human world. Storm was just trying to think about how to use that fact against Volkov.

He wished he could somehow harness the Bureau’s considerable muscle, but he knew too much about how they operated. They had laws to follow, jurisdiction to respect, procedure to which they adhered. Most of all, this wasn’t their investigation. They had no evidence that would justify action against Volkov. The say-so of one private investigator wouldn’t begin to do the trick.

He was back to thinking about what he would be able to accomplish on his own, when an agent came back downstairs, invited them into the elevator, and led them to a conference room on the second floor.

There, Agent Colston received them.

“Thank you for staying, Mr. Cracker,” Colston said, then turned to Storm. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Derrick Storm.”

A smile crept across Colston’s face for a brief moment before he tamped it down. “What a coincidence. I was just chatting with a man named Carl Storm earlier this morning. Is he a relative, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Storm said.

“And what is your interest in this matter?”

“I’m a private investigator,” Storm said, presenting his Storm Investigations business card. “Mr. Cracker has me on retainer.”

“Fair enough,” Colston said. He pivoted his attention away from Storm. “Mr. Cracker, I have to say, it’s a little unusual to have the victim of a crime waiting in our lobby when I come in with the man we’re accusing of defrauding him. But I suppose it’s also convenient.”

“Saves you a trip to Manhattan,” Cracker said amiably.

“Well, yes.” Colston paused, folded his hands, unfolded them. “I guess we should start at the beginning. I’ll spare you some of the details, but I can give you a rough outline of our investigation. We got a tip that there were some financial irregularities at Prime Resource Investment Group that were worth investigating.”

“A tip? From whom?”

Colston again wrestled with how much to say. But, ultimately, Cracker would probably learn it anyway.

“Actually, it was your wife.”

“Melissa?” Cracker said, as if he had more than one wife and her identity needed to be clarified.

“That’s right.”

“But how did she…” he started, then he shook his head. “And to think people don’t believe me when I say she’s smarter than me.”

“Anyhow, we got some warrants, and sure enough, we were able to find that there had been a steady drip of money out of your accounts, going back years. Like a lot of embezzlers, Mr. Sniff started out small, then got more bold as time went along and he didn’t get caught. Eventually, he figured out that you just weren’t minding the store at all, and the drip became more like a torrent. He was very sophisticated about how he did it, and it took us a while to unravel it all. But, essentially, he was robbing you blind. He has buried billions in offshore accounts, both in the Caribbean and Switzerland.”

“I knew it!” Cracker said.

Colston and Storm looked at him incredulously.

“Well, okay, obviously, I didn’t know it. But I just… It’s like I was telling Mr. Storm before. I knew my trades were mostly good. It just didn’t make any sense that I was out of money. Like, a few weeks ago, I had converted some grain futures into…”

“Mr. Cracker, if you don’t mind, I have a lot of work to do here,” Colston said.

“Sorry, sorry. Continue.”

“Anyhow, he maintained fake books for you, for a while, anyway. Then he figured out it was actually more fun — for him — if you thought you were broke. It would not only stress you out, it would make you borrow money to try and make up what you had lost, thus putting you in an even deeper hole when he eventually pulled the plug. He wanted you humiliated as much as possible. He maintained fake account ledgers for your clients and the SEC, of course. So it took us a while to untangle it all. Eventually, we were able to establish what he was doing and how he was doing it. But it was more on the level of being able to observe general patterns secondhand. We still had to catch him in the act. So we convinced Lee Fulcher to pretend that he had a margin call and ask for all his money.”

“That was fake?”

“That was a trap,” Colston said. “Mr. Sniff had grown incredibly greedy. Again, he wanted to put you in the deepest hole possible. We knew that if there was a sudden demand for forty-three million dollars, it would put him into action.”

“Because it would make him have to come up with the money?”

“No, actually, the opposite: because it would make him steal the last little bit he could. He knew the margin call would be the thing that pushed you over the edge. This was his last withdrawal before you got closed out for good. Lucky for you, we were watching. He made his move right before the end of business yesterday. We made sure we had it fully documented, then picked him up earlier today.”

A look of utter amazement had washed over Cracker. “Unbelievable,” he said. “So what happens now?”

“Well, we’ve been having, ah, discussions with Mr. Sniff for the last few hours,” Colston said. “We showed him some of our evidence and presented him with two scenarios. One is where he decides to fight us. He has no assets with which to do so, because we’ve gotten a judge to freeze all his accounts. But he goes down swinging anyway. We pile on the charges, insist on consecutive sentences rather than concurrent ones, and send him to the nastiest hole of a prison we can find, where he is more than likely raped and beaten by his fellow inmates until he either dies of old age or sheer exhaustion. Or…”

Colston allowed himself another small smile before he continued: “Or he cooperates, admits wrongdoing, returns the money he stole from you and your clients, and serves ten years in a minimum security prison for white collar felons. It may be too generous an offer, but it’s one that saves us a lot of time and resources that are better spent catching other crooks. And it makes you financially whole a lot faster than if the thing had to drag through the courts.”

“And?” Cracker asked, leaning forward.

“He’s waiting to sign the plea bargain documents as we speak,” Colston said. “The good news for you is that he hadn’t spent any of the money he stole. Actually, he had done quite a fine job investing it. I think you’ll end up liking the return he got for you.”

His fortune restored, Cracker was beaming, enough that Storm was quite sure he had — at least momentarily — forgotten that he still had a sociopathic Russian on his tail.

But after he received assurances that he would get updates from Colston and left the building, it didn’t take long for him to remember. He and Storm had made a right turn out of the Poison Pill’s parking lot, pulling onto Route 17’s three lanes of southbound traffic.

They were no more than a half mile down the road when the bullets started flying.

Three slugs slammed into the back of the Jaguar, making three nickel-sized holes in the bumper.

Cracker promptly dove into the well of the passenger seat. “Someone’s shooting at us!” he yelped. “Why is someone shooting at us?”

Storm’s only reaction was to press the accelerator and look in the rearview mirror for the source of the gunfire. It was a white Lincoln Mark LT pickup truck. There was a driver and a passenger, neither of whom Storm could make out, thanks to afternoon sun glare. The man shooting at them was standing on the flatbed, braced against the top of the cab. He had an AR-15, the semiautomatic, civilian version of the military M-16.

Storm’s first thought was that it was a strange choice. The AR-15 had its uses, and there were reasons it had been the standard-issue rifle of the U.S. Army for more than four decades — it was light, accurate, easy to carry, simple in its design, and cheap to mass-produce. But it was more of a peashooter in a scenario where an elephant gun would have been a better choice. On the back of a pickup truck, Volkov could have mounted a .50-caliber M2 Browning that would have needed about thirty seconds to turn the Jaguar into a shredded heap of scrap. The AR-15’s .223-caliber round just didn’t pack the same punch.

Then Storm figured it out: the tires. They were trying to shoot the tires, disable the Jaguar, then kidnap Cracker. They couldn’t risk killing him. He was their key to unlocking the power of those MonEx codes.

That, Storm knew, was their vulnerability. He relished the idea of getting into a shoot-out with people who would be afraid to shoot back.

More gunshots rang out, but this time they missed low, ricocheting off the pavement. Cars began swerving off the road to get out of the Lincoln’s way. New Jersey drivers were a hardy breed, made tough by long exposure to aggressive driving, but gunfire was a bit much even for them.

Storm’s plan was simple: find a place to pull over where no one would get hit in the cross fire, take out Dirty Harry, and take his time picking off the three assailants. He reached into his jacket for his gun then swore loudly.

“What is it?” Cracker asked.

“I left my gun in the trunk,” he said.

There could be no stopping now. And that would soon be a problem. This section of Route 17 had lights. Lots of them. So far they had been green. But that wouldn’t last.

“Get your sorry ass in that seat and put your seat belt on,” Storm ordered.

“But they’re shooting.”

“Not at you.”

“What do you…”

“Seat belt. Now,” Storm said, jerking the wheel hard to the left to swerve around a Honda, sending Cracker sprawling into the passenger-side door. When he recovered, he complied with Storm’s command.

“What are you going to do?” Cracker asked, his voice cracking with panic. “Do you… do you have a plan?”

“Yes. My plan is for you to shut up.”

Storm began weaving through and around his fellow travelers, slaloming from one lane to the next, leaving a lot of rubber on the blacktop but making sure his tires were never exposed to a clear shot from the gunman. The Jaguar was faster than the Lincoln, but in this traffic, that advantage was mitigated. He needed a clearer, light-free stretch of roadway if he was going to have a chance of outrunning their pursuers.

Then his GPS showed that, as if sent by the gods, a large divided highway was approaching. It was labeled Route 3. Storm allowed himself half a smile. Route 3 led rather quickly to the New Jersey Turnpike. There was only one light between him and more than a hundred miles of uninterrupted highway.

Then the light turned red.

This being New Jersey, a few cars ran the light. But otherwise, the vehicles in front of Storm were dutifully coming to a halt. He tugged the wheel right, steering the Jaguar into the breakdown lane, laying off the accelerator but not daring to brake. He couldn’t give the thug in the flatbed of the Lincoln a closer shot.

The traffic from the cross street was now easing through the intersection in one continuous line, feeding in from both sides, leaving only a few scant feet between each car.

“Your secretary told me you have a classic video arcade,” Storm said as he measured the maneuver he was about to attempt. “You ever play Frogger?”

“No? Why?”

“You’re about to,” Storm said.

He tapped the brake for a half second as he eyed the westbound lane, then shifted his view to the eastbound lane. More shots were coming from the Lincoln, but they were wild. An Exxon sign beside them shattered. Some flower planters exploded. Storm only prayed the drivers milling about as their gas was pumped didn’t get hit by a bouncing bullet.

The Lincoln was closing in. And fast. If he stayed on the brake much longer, he was going to be rear-ended, probably pushing him into another car in the process. He’d be at a dead stop. If that happened, he might as well fasten Cracker into the Lincoln, then shoot himself — it would save everyone some time.

Then he saw an opening, albeit not much of one. Maybe it was enough. Maybe it wasn’t. But the moment for further deliberation had passed. Two bullets plowed into the Jaguar’s trunk. If the shooter adjusted his aim just a foot lower, Storm would lose any choice he had in the matter. It was time to act. He jammed the accelerator to the floor. The Jaguar leaped forward.

“Brace yourself,” Storm called out.

Horns blared. Cracker screwed his eyes shut. Storm gripped the steering wheel as if it were his hold on life itself. He had aimed for a clearing in the westbound lane — the first lane of cars they had to negotiate — but there was no such gap in the eastbound lane. He was heading straight for the passenger-side door of a Subaru. He could see the driver’s eyes grow wide and her mouth drop to unleash a scream as she realized she was about to be speared by what appeared to be a runaway car. But Storm couldn’t adjust course without clipping another eastbound car. A collision was imminent.

Then at the last second, he nudged the wheel to the right. He squeezed past with inches to spare. Storm let out a rebel yell as they charged toward Route 3, now totally unimpeded.

Behind him, he could hear the crunching of metal as the Lincoln T-boned the Subaru.

Storm only hoped that, because neither car was going too fast, the drivers would be okay. He was not a deeply religious man, but he uttered a quick prayer.

Storm kept the gas pedal to the floor until they reached the left-hand exit that led to the highway. As they wound around the ramp onto the highway, he eased up on the speed, relaxing his grip on the steering wheel.

Cracker looked like he was going to faint. He started doing some strange breathing exercise. Storm was about to tell him to stop — it was annoying — but then decided to let the man huff and puff. It was better than having to hear him talk.

Storm kept one eye on the road, one eye on his rearview mirror. As soon as they straightened out and reached the merge, he accelerated. A welcome sign told him the exit for the New Jersey Turnpike was a mere three-quarters of a mile on the right.

“So was that… was that Volkov?” Cracker asked.

“You got anyone else in your life who might have reason to shoot at you?”

“If I had gone bankrupt? Yeah, a horde. But not now. He’s the only one.”

“Well, there you go.”

“So what are we going to…”

“Shit,” Storm said.

“What is it?”

The pickup had reappeared in his rearview mirror. Its front grille plate was bashed in and its front bumper was missing, but it was otherwise intact. Its engine must have had enough torque to power it through the wreckage.

The only blessing was that it appeared the shooter had been thrown from the…

Never mind. He was reestablishing his position, with his arms draped over the top of the cab. He must have seen the accident coming and saved himself by hunkering down in the flatbed.

“What’s going on? Tell me,” Cracker said.

“Your friends are back.”

He was able to join the southbound lanes of the New Jersey Turnpike without sustaining any more fire from the Lincoln, but by now it was late afternoon. No one was going anywhere at much more than the speed limit. Storm could use the breakdown lanes to pass, but he didn’t dare use them to travel: They were a minefield of shredded truck tires and other debris. He’d be too likely to blow a tire.

In those conditions, he couldn’t open up any ground on the Lincoln. If anything, the driver of the pickup was taking more chances in his passes, not caring if he clipped the occasional car’s bumper, and therefore was gaining slightly on them. The guy with the AR-15 was taking potshots. Even if he was too far away to be able to reliably hit a fast-moving, weaving target, it was tempting fate to let him keep blasting away. Eventually, one of those bullets was going to find its target. Storm was just grateful none of the other cars had been hit. In truth, not many of them seemed to even notice the gunfire. An AR-15 muzzle blast was easily mistaken for a backfiring muffler.

Storm’s brow furrowed. Running away was frustrating him, and not just because it wasn’t working. He wanted to feel like he was doing something proactive to improve his situation. His current course of action was too passive. Storm hated passive.

“What do you have in this car?” he asked.

“What do you mean, like weapons?”

“That would be a good start.”

“Well, I’ve got a mini Swiss Army Knife on my key chain.”

“A two-inch stainless steel blade and a nail file. They might as well surrender to us now. Anything else?”

“Nothing. I’m a hedge fund manager, not a soldier of fortune.”

Storm sighed. This was the problem with amateurs. You had to spell out everything for them. “No, I mean, what else do you have in this car? I want you to list every single item in this car that isn’t bolted down.”

“Uh, okay, let’s see,” Cracker said, turning around to catalogue the contents of his backseat. “I’ve got my tennis bag… a six-pack of Poland Spring water… a CD case… a bottle of Macallan I was going to give to a buddy of mine at the club… my daughter’s car seat… a cigar case and… That’s it. Except for what’s in the glove compartment.”

Storm felt like he was rescuing a six-year-old. “And what’s in the glove compartment, Whitely?”

“Uhh, let’s see… Some napkins… aspirin… a tire gauge… my insurance and registration… and, oh, that’s where I put my sunglasses!”

“I’m thrilled for you. Anything else?”

“Nope. That’s it. Sorry, there’s not anything useful. Like I said, I’m not…”

“Actually, that’ll do just fine,” Storm said. “Get the tennis bag up here and hand me your racket.”

Cracker fished out a Head YouTek IG Speed MP. It was made of carbon fiber–reinforced polymer. There were two more identical to it in the bag.

“That’s the racket Novak Djokovic uses,” Cracker said enthusiastically.

“I’m sure he’d be very proud,” Storm replied, rolling down the window and allowing air to rush into the car.

Storm looked at the Lincoln in his rearview mirror, still keeping pace a few cars behind him, weaving in and out of traffic like he was. Storm maneuvered until he had a length of open pavement behind him and drifted into the right breakdown lane.

Then he jammed the brakes, pulled the wheel hard left, and executed a perfect one-eighty into the left breakdown lane — directly into the oncoming traffic.

A chorus of car horns blared at Storm, as did a small army of one-fingered Jersey salutes, but Storm ignored them and focused on what he was about to attempt.

A little known fact about Derrick Storm — one he seldom bothered to share, because it seldom seemed relevant — was that he was ambidextrous. He could throw with his left arm and his right. The right tended to be more powerful. But the left was, for whatever reason, more accurate. He was relying on that as he got the Jaguar straightened out and pounded the gas pedal.

Gripping the racket, he put his left arm out the window. He waited until the onrushing Lincoln was nearly on them, then hurled the racket, boomerang-style, at the gunman.

At the moment Storm released his improvised projectile, the Jaguar had gone from a dead stop to perhaps twenty miles an hour. The Lincoln was only just starting to slow in response to Storm’s move and was still traveling fifty. Counting the fifty miles an hour Storm was able to generate throwing from a seated position, the racket was coming at the gunman at an effective speed of a hundred and twenty miles an hour.

It struck him square in the forehead, knocking him unconscious and sending him careening backward, out of the flatbed and under the tires of an eighteen-wheeler. The truck didn’t have a chance to react before flattening the unexpected pedestrian.

“I guess that’s one down,” Cracker said.

“More like fifteen-love,” Storm said.

As they sped past the still-confused occupants of the pickup, Storm spied a break in the concrete Jersey barriers that separated the northbound and southbound sides of the Turnpike. It was an official-use-only U-turn, and Storm decided to officially use it. It seemed prudent to join the travel lanes of the direction he was currently pointed. He allowed himself to creep through the gap, then exhorted the Jag’s V12 forward, quickly joining the northbound left lane.

He knew better than to think that simple move would lose Volkov’s pickup. Sure enough, as Storm looked back, it was in the midst of pulling its own U-turn. It was not as adroit as the Jaguar, and Storm watched it clip the front bumper of a Chevy Cavalier then slam into the Jersey barrier, gouging its side panel but then speeding forward through the same U-turn that Storm had used.

The Jaguar had gained some ground, but the northbound lanes were not flowing any more smoothly than the southbound lanes had been. The pickup was four cars back, matching the Jaguar’s passes car for car. But at least, Storm thought, they weren’t being shot at anymore.

Then gunshots rang out again. Storm guessed, from the sound of them, it was either a .38 or a .357. Enough to shred a tire, for sure. Some cars were swerving out of the Lincoln’s way into the breakdown lane. Others honked. Others seemed oblivious — a man in the car next to the Jaguar was talking on his cell phone as if he was out for a Sunday drive.

Storm looked in his rearview window and saw a man with half his body leaned out the truck’s passenger-side window. It wasn’t Volkov. He must have been driving.

So it turned out getting rid of the gunman in the back of the truck had only improved their circumstances marginally. A shooter who had to lean out a car and use a handgun would be more errant than one planted on his feet using a rifle. So the probability of being hit by any one bullet had lowered. But each bullet still carried with it that possibility.

“Okay, I want you to listen to me very carefully, and follow each one of my instructions exactly,” Storm said. “And I don’t have time for you to question me. Can you do that?”

“I… yes, I… Yes.”

“Very good. Okay, first step. Take the Swiss Army Knife off the key chain.”

“What? We’re going to challenge them to a knife fight?”

“What did I just say about questions?”

“Sorry,” Cracker said, and worked the knife away off the key chain as Storm deftly picked his way through traffic.

“Now I felt some shirts in your tennis bag. Are those made of some kind of blended fabric? Something that wicks away moisture?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Cut one of them into six long strips.”

“Okay,” Cracker said and went to work with the knife on the shirts. Storm heard the ripping of fabric. More bullets were coming from the Lincoln. One shattered the right side-view mirror, evoking a yelp from Cracker. But, to his credit, he kept at his work.

“What next?” he said when he was through.

“Take those Poland Spring bottles and empty them.”

“Where?”

“I don’t care. On the floor.”

Cracker did as he was told. “Now?”

“Pour the Macallan in equal portions into all six bottles. And try not to spill any. We need those bottles as full as possible.”

Cracker apportioned the Scotch equally, filling each of the bottles roughly a third of the way. “Okay. Next?”

“Stuff those shirt strips in the bottles. Get as much of the fabric into the booze as you can, but leave some of the shirt sticking out the top.”

“Uh-huh,” Cracker said and applied himself to his task. He was apparently struggling with it: “The mouths of these bottles aren’t very big. I’m having a tough time getting them in there. Should I cut narrower strips?”

“No. We actually need a nice tight fit. Tight enough that it won’t spill if held upside down.”

“All right.”

Cracker worked diligently for two minutes, during which time Storm managed to keep the Jaguar shielded from gunfire.

“Done,” Cracker said.

“Great. Leave the bottles upright so that they lean against the back of the seat,” Storm said, then jerked his thumb toward the rear of the car. “Then go back there and unbuckle your daughter’s car seat.”

“Uh, all right.”

Storm allowed himself to feel optimistic for a moment. He was confident he would soon be rid of the Lincoln.

But the moment didn’t last. The Turnpike bent to the left, and Storm needed to make a decision: Going into the left breakdown lane would allow him to pass several more cars and reach an opening that would give him the opportunity to put some significant space between him and the Lincoln; but doing so would also give the shooter a more direct line of fire to the Jaguar’s tires for a few seconds.

Storm decided to risk it. He gunned the engine and burst into the left breakdown lane.

It turned out to be the wrong decision. The moment his tires were exposed, a burst of fire came from the pickup.

And the left rear tire exploded.

The Jaguar skidded and swerved to the left, scraping concrete. Storm fought the steering wheel to keep them from losing control altogether, engaging his triceps and biceps in the battle. There were still pieces of tire clinging stubbornly onto the rim, but they were little help. It was all he could do to wedge the Jaguar back into the left lane.

“What’s going on?” Cracker called out from the backseat.

“We lost a tire,” Storm said. “It’s not your problem. Just concentrate on what you’re doing.”

“Okay. I’ve got it loose.”

Storm was thankful the Jaguar was front wheel drive. The car hadn’t lost its power. Just its handling.

It made threading his way through and around the slower traffic an impossibility. Merely keeping the car in its lane had become a struggle. Storm was now limited to moving at the speed of the other traffic.

The Lincoln had taken advantage of this disability and had closed to within two cars. It would soon be directly behind them, or next to them, or wherever Volkov wanted it to be.

“Hand the seat up to me,” Storm said.

The car seat was a dense, unwieldy hunk of padding, composite plastic, and metal. It weighed in at roughly thirty pounds, and was bottom heavy, since that’s where the metal parts that anchored it to the car lived. Cracker struggled to get it through the narrow opening between the two front seats and into Storm’s lap.

“Terrific. While you’re back there, get that cigar case. There’s a lighter in there, yes?”

“Yeah, of course. It’s actually more like a small blowtorch.”

“Perfect. Put it behind my back in this seat. I’m going to need to grab it quickly when I turn around.”

As Cracker completed that task, Storm rolled down his window and punched on the cruise control at fifty. A small gap opened up ahead of him, but that was fine: He wouldn’t have to worry about ramming the car ahead of him while he attempted the stunt he had been planning.

There was now only one car — a green Toyota — between the Jaguar and the Lincoln.

“I’m going to need you to come up here and grab the steering wheel,” Storm said. “Keep us straight as best you can. It’s going to battle you and try to tug you to the left. But if you get to the side of the wheel, left becomes up and right becomes down. You can use gravity to keep it down. Does that make sense to you?”

“Yeah, got it.”

Cracker got himself in position, then put both hands on the wheel. The Lincoln pulled into the left breakdown lane to pass the one car that had separated it from the Jaguar. It was the move Storm had been waiting for.

“I’m letting go now,” he said.

The wheel tugged left, but Cracker had all the leverage he needed to hold it in place. Storm grabbed the car seat, twisted his body so he was facing backward, then perched himself on the side of the door, so that both the seat and his torso were outside of the Jaguar.

With both hands, he heaved the car seat at the windshield of the Lincoln, putting as much strength as he could muster into the throw.

It hit the windshield dead center, creating a huge crater. The Lincoln swerved violently, rocking on its suspension, and Storm briefly hoped it might spin out. Instead, it righted itself by side-swiping the green Toyota, which sparked a chain-reaction accident behind it — but did not, unfortunately, slow the Lincoln.

Storm focused on the pickup truck, assessing the damage he had caused. The force of those thirty pounds hurtling backward had not broken the entire windshield, as Storm had hoped — the shatterproof glass did its job and held — but it did punch a car seat–sized hole in the middle. That would have to do.

Storm retreated back into the Jaguar, which was being held steady — or at least somewhat steady — by a very determined Whitely Cracker. Storm seized the cigar lighter and the first Poland Spring bottle and lit the piece of shirt sticking out the top. He hoped Volkov appreciated this tribute to Vyacheslav Molotov, the Russian foreign minister who introduced the world to the crude, homemade bomb that still bore his name.

Storm waited until he was sure the wick was lit, then leaned back out of the car and tossed his creation toward the hole in the Lincoln’s windshield.

Unfortunately for him, because he was on the left side of the car and facing backward, he was using his less-accurate right arm. He missed. The bottle bounced harmlessly off the top of the Lincoln’s cab and did not ignite until it hit the pavement, well behind the pickup.

There was no more gunfire coming from the Lincoln. Perhaps the car seat had injured or killed the passenger as it hurtled through the pickup. Or maybe he was just reloading.

Storm lit the next wick, then tossed. It missed wide right. Attempt number three splattered into the grille plate and burst into a fireball, but it was like hitting a charging rhino with a BB gun. The Lincoln was not affected.

Attempt number four hit the windshield in front of the driver but bounced the wrong way and, more to the point, did not go off until it struck blacktop.

Storm had two more chances. Worse, there was once again sniping coming from the Lincoln. The shooter was leaning out his window and squeezing off rounds in steady succession. The first six missed. The seventh struck the Jaguar’s right rear tire just as Storm got the next shirt lit.

Storm was thankful he was inside the car when it happened. The wild lurching of the Jaguar might have thrown him had he been trying to hang on outside.

As it was, he was tossed against the side of the vehicle, taking a chunk out of his forehead. It was not a serious wound, but it was a bleeder. Storm cursed as blood poured into his eyes.

“Oh my God, are you hit?” Cracker said.

“Just drive,” Storm growled.

The Jaguar was now on its rims on both sides in back, pouring a steady stream of sparks behind it. The engine was working double to maintain the speed requested of it by the cruise control, its twelve cylinders firing furiously.

Storm looked down at the second-to-last Molotov.

“Come on, Derrick,” he urged. “Let’s do this.”

He twisted himself out of the car, exposing more of himself so he could get his left arm free. He focused on the hole in the wind-shield, except it wasn’t a windshield anymore. It was a catcher’s glove. And he wasn’t a grown man anymore. He was a twelve-year-old pitcher, in his backyard, standing on the makeshift pitchers’ mound his father had created for him.

“Keep your eyes on the mitt,” his father always told him when he was struggling with his control. “Don’t aim. Just throw.”

The old man had kept him on target in so many aspects of his life.

This would just have to be one more.

He whipped his left arm, following through as best he could with the throw.

The bottle traced a straight line toward the pickup truck, spiraling gently as it sailed in the air. Throwing a two-inch-diameter bottle through a hole no more than two feet wide from out the window of a fishtailing car traveling at fifty miles an hour was, Storm knew, a nearly impossible task.

But impossible is what Derrick Storm did for a living.

The bottle passed through the hole. The interior of the pickup’s cab was suddenly engulfed in flame.

The Lincoln veered suddenly to the right, clipping a car in the right lane then going into a spin. Midway through the spin, it lost its grip on the pavement and rolled.

It rolled once, tossing the erstwhile gunman from out his open window into a stream of oncoming traffic.

It rolled twice, caving in the roof of the cab.

It was when it rolled a third time that the combination of several factors involved — the growing conflagration inside the cab, the rupturing of the gas tank, the twisting of metal — came together to create an enormous explosion.

Storm did not bother to watch the rest. He settled back in the Jaguar, grabbed control of the steering wheel, and went back to the battle of keeping them on the road.

“Is that… is that it?” Cracker asked, his face having lost all its color.

“One more thing,” Storm said. “Hand me the last bottle.”

Storm braced the wheel with his leg as Cracker gave him the bottle. Storm yanked out the cloth, tilted it back, and let the Macallan slide down his throat.