13

Jack was on the leading edge of rush-hour traffic so he and the Buick made decent time over to the GEM plant in the Marine Terminal area. Found a parking spot a few blocks away and wandered back to the GEM loading dock. A ten-foot Cyclone fence topped with razor wire separated him from the action where two-hundred-pound barrels stamped with gem pharma and tricef rode a conveyer belt into the rear of an 18-wheel semi. Heat-packing uniformed security guards patrolled the area.

Obviously a very valuable antibiotic.

Jack wished it were five hours from now with the sun down and night well settled in, but Nadia's disappearance was urgently bumping him from behind. Daylight did have certain advantages, though.

Jack returned to his car, pulled the P-98 from its holster, and fitted the silencer to the barrel. Drove back to GEM and double-parked by the loading area. A quick glance around showed nobody on the sidewalks. He chambered a round, raised the window to the height he wanted, rested the pistol on it—with the front sight gone he needed all the aiming help he could get. Took a bead on the leading edge of a cardboard barrel just starting its conveyor ride, made sure no one was standing behind it, pulled the trigger.

The phut sounded loud in the car, but he knew it had been swallowed by the ambient street noise. Saw the target canister wobble on the belt. Bull's-eye. Lowered the pistol and raised a pair of compact binoculars. Powder trickled from a tiny hole beneath the g in gem. Blue powder. Berzerk blue.

To kill some time Jack drove around the area, wending his way through blocks of warehouses, under the BQE and back again, down to the rows of old docks. Couldn't see Manhattan from here—Red Hook got in the way—but had a nice view of Lady Liberty. The sight of her, standing tall and green out there holding her torch over the water, never failed to tweak some deep-buried part of him.

When he passed the factory again, the conveyor belt had been moved away and a guy who looked like the driver was closing and locking the rear doors. He and one of the security guards climbed into the cab. Another uniform opened the gate, and they were rolling.

Didn't matter what their final destination, they had to reach the expressway first. Jack got a head start, then pulled over next to a fire hydrant on the right. Leaned his elbow out the window to hide the pistol…

And had second thoughts.

This was so crude, not at all up to his standards. What he should do is follow a couple of trucks to their destinations, see where and how they off-loaded their cargo, then figure a way to get his hands on a load of Berzerk without anyone being the wiser. Do it with style.

Fuck style, he thought as the rig rambled by. He pumped two quick rounds into the sidewall of the tractor's right front tire. No time for style this trip. Barely had time for crude, direct, and effective.

Like a massive beast that doesn't know when it's been wounded, the truck kept rolling, but its front tires were the only set not doubled. Eventually it would get the message that something was wrong.

Jack followed until the next corner, then turned off and parked in a tow-away zone on the side street—didn't plan to be long. Adjusted the boonie cap and shades, added a Saddam Hussein mustache, tucked the pistol into his belt under the loose shirt, and hurried after the truck on foot.

Found it half a block down, the driver and the guard standing by the flat tire, scratching their heads. Probably made a hundred of these runs without a lick of trouble, so they weren't expecting any. Jack slowed to a stroll, approaching along the sidewalk behind them, then ducked between two cars. No strollers about—this was strictly industrial and burnoutville—so he pulled the pistol, snaked his turtleneck collar up over his nose, and came up beside them on the right.

"OK, guys," he said through the fabric of his collar. "This is what flattened the tire." He held his pistol where it was shielded from the street but these two couldn't miss it. "And it will flatten you guys too without a peep if you don't play nice."

The driver, a twenty-something with a wispy blond goatee, jumped and raised his hands chest high, palms out. The guard was an older, heavier black. Jack saw the fingers of his gun hand twitch.

"You're thinking about doing a very bad thing, aren't you," Jack said quickly. "You're thinking, they're paying me to protect this shipment and that's what I've got to do. I respect that, my friend, but a word of advice: don't. Not worth it. I'm not here to hurt you or hijack your truck. I'm here just for a sample. So take off your gun belt, hand it to me gently, and we can all end the day with the same amount of blood in our veins as we started with."

The guard stared at him, chewing his neatly mustachioed upper lip.

"Hey, Grimes," the driver said, his hands shaking. "Come on, man!"

Grimes sighed, unbuckled the belt, and handed it over. Jack tossed it into the cab of the truck.

"Good. Now let's go get that sample."

At Jack's prodding, the driver led the way around to the rear of the semi. Jack kept both men ahead or to his left where he could cover them and keep the pistol out of sight. The driver unlocked and opened one of the doors, revealing canisters stacked four high, right to the edge. Jack noticed the guard eyeing him, looking for an opening, so he put him to work.

"Here," he said, handing him a medium-size Ziploc. "Fill this."

"With what?"

Jack quickly angled the pistol toward one of the barrels and snapped off a shot. The pop of the impact with the cardboard was louder than the bullet report.

The driver jerked back. Grimes only raised his eyebrows appreciatively.

Jack pointed to the fine stream of blue power dribbling from the hole. "Fill 'er up."

Grimes held the bag under the stream.

"Hell of a way to fill a prescription, man," the driver said.

When the bag was full, Grimes zipped it closed and tossed it to Jack.

Jack backed away and lowered the pistol.

"Thanks, guys. Sorry about the tire. I'd help you change it but… gotta run."

Before turning away, Jack raised his chin, causing the turtleneck collar to slip from the lower half of his face, exposing the mustache. Then he ran back the way he'd come, hiding the pistol under his shirt. He hopped into the car. He removed the hat, sunglasses, and mustache immediately, got rolling, and wriggled out of the turtleneck at the first red light. He had everything plus the pistol safely stuffed under the front seat by the time he reached the BQE ramp. The driver and guard hadn't seen his car, and any description they'd give would include a mustache, so no need to worry or hurry. He took the Brooklyn Queens Expressway north, obeying the speed limit all the way.