“What, in broad daylight?”

“Yes. In broad daylight. Right now, they’re split up—two in the cab, one back with the goods—and they are more on guard when they’re stopped. They won’t expect an attack now.”

“That’s because attacking them on the highway is stupidity,” Piet said. “What do you suggest we do?”

“Get behind them, then go past them,” I said. “I want a better look at the cargo door.”

He inched up past the two sedans between us and the Ling truck and swerved back over. I studied the back of the truck. A sliding door, secured at the bottom by two separate padlocks. Hard to pick, roaring along at seventy miles an hour.

“Now go past them.”

He floored the van and hurtled past the truck. The cab door appeared to be normal, no modifications. I didn’t give it more than a glance; I didn’t want to attract the driver’s attention. But I saw him, and he was laughing.

“Stay ahead of them.”

I studied the map, unfolded on my lap. There was another highway intersection, cutting across northern France, perhaps fifteen kilometers distant.

“Floor it. Get us there now. I have an idea.”

“This is insane,” Piet said, but he smiled. The Ling truck would be here within minutes, and the van was parked on a bridge over the expressway.

“You understand what to do?”

He nodded. “If this fails, you’ll have wrecked everything.”

“If this fails, I’ll be dead. So don’t bitch. Just do what you’re supposed to do.”

“Good luck.” He offered me his hand. I dared not show my revulsion for him. So I shook hands.

“They’re coming,” he said, looking south. I could see the truck approaching in the heavy gray mist.

I put my legs over the side of the overspan and I heard Piet’s van roar off, but my mind was on counting.

The truck should pass under me at fifteen.

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…

I was wrong. The Ling truck hurtled beneath me at fourteen and if I hesitated I would miss it, landing onto unforgiving asphalt, tumbling into fast-moving traffic. I threw myself off and caught the last third of the truck, trying to land on all fours and roll with controlled parkour grace. A roll would be far quieter than hammering feet against the roof.

But my legs slipped and the truck veered slightly. I started to go off the roof’s edge, on the passenger side. My legs danced in the air.

I swung myself hard, every muscle in my arms screaming, thinking, If they see me in the wing mirror I’m dead. I yanked myself up with a jerk that felt like I’d torn flesh from my arms and settled into the slight depression in the truck’s roof.

Then I lay very, very still.

Had they seen me? I had to assume radio communication between the cab and the guy in the hold of the truck. Either could have reported an unexpected sound, or the passenger in the cab could have seen my blue-jeaned legs swinging out into the empty air when I struggled for a grip. Maybe they’d take the next exit, search for a place of privacy, then dispatch me.

No. I saw the next exit sign pass. A light rain began to fall from the granite-gray sky. The truck pressed onward.

I started to crawl along the length of the truck. Slowly, steadily, keeping my head down. I didn’t want a motorist to see me. I risked a glance behind me. Piet had rejoined the highway and his van was there, staying close but not too close.

The rain increased, slicking the metal. I needed a firm grip for the next step, and nature had just made my job harder.

I reached the forward edge of the truck. The cab’s roof was about two feet below my hands. I could ease onto the roof, but I’d be more visible to anyone in approaching traffic. Cell phones were everywhere; I didn’t want the French police getting reports of a crazy man truck-surfing the expressway.

The other choice was to ease down between the cab and the truck, into the narrow space, so that’s where I went, feet first, my back to the cab. The truck jolted over a rough patch of road and my right foot slipped. Gravity seized me and I caught my hand in the jumble of cables at the cab’s rear. My foot landed on the metal strut connecting the cab. Below me I could see the road passing between the crushing wheels.

I steadied myself. Now or never.

I inched my arm, holding Piet’s gun, around the cab’s corner. I planned to grab the passenger door, wrench it open and yank myself inside. All without the cab’s guard shoving me back out into empty air at seventy miles an hour. The wind whipped hard around me, the rain seeping into my eyes.

I put my head around the corner and stared into a man’s face, leaning out of the window.

65

THE PASSENGER’S EYES WERE BRIGHT with shock that someone stood behind the cab; he looked to be about forty, heavyset.

Time froze for three seconds. Then his shoulder made a sudden hard shrug, bringing up his arm.

I jerked my head back around the cab’s edge as he fired. The bullet made a bright spark against metal, ricocheted out into the rain.

The truck veered hard, shuddering into the other lane, then whipped back.

They were trying to throw me off. I gripped the rain-slick metal and saw Piet’s van race up to the driver’s side, a spray of water fountaining from the tires. A muffled shot, from the truck, aimed at Piet.

I took a risk that the driver wasn’t driving and firing at the same time—that it was the passenger shooting at Piet. All I had now was force, calculated and vicious. I went back around the corner and heard another crack of shot. I yanked on the door just as a hand from inside tried to pull it back.

I threw myself forward, the door’s handle in a death grip. Then my feet gave way on the wet metal of the doorstep, my legs shot out and my shoes dangled inches above the tarmac.

I dropped my gun. It clattered onto the metal, onto the road, and was crushed under the wheels.

The window, inches above my head, exploded. Shards blew out, stinging my scalp. The passenger, firing in panic. I wrenched my hand, shifted my weight, pulled my legs against the door for leverage, covered my head with my arm, all in one fluid move, like I was jumping onto a public-housing railing in London.

I threw myself through the window, head first, my back slamming against the edge of it. I wriggled, trying to get leverage, elbowing the passenger hard in the throat, knocking him into the driver.

I had five seconds to win this fight. The driver whipped a gun from his left hand to his right, toward me. He fired, and the bullet skittered a path along the very top of my scalp, hot and vicious. I seized the gun’s barrel and pushed down; he had to keep one hand on the wheel and he pulled the trigger in reaction. The next bullet hammered into the seat by the passenger’s leg. He screamed and, in panic, wriggled past me. I threw a kick at him and he slammed into the door and crumpled.

Now I barreled hard into the driver, shoving him into his door. Where the bullet had grazed me, the pain was like a burning match dragged along my skin.

He knocked me back, but my heels hit the windshield and I powered back into him. I threw hard, fast punches into his throat, eyes.

The truck veered wildly and he dropped the gun, but I felt the tires leave the asphalt and brush along an unpaved surface, grass, a skid beginning.

I levered my foot up, snaked an arm around his neck. “I’ll break it,” I said in Mandarin. “You listen to me. The man with me, he will kill you. I will not. All we want is the cargo. He will kill you if you do not cooperate. I will let you live. Do you understand me?” And I gave his neck the slightest wrench. He nodded.