Part 25 (1/2)
OMAR NAZAD SAT IN THE CAB OF THE VAN, FEELING HIS STINGING HANDS AND feet begin to thaw, and stared through the winds.h.i.+eld at the one hundred and twenty cubic yards of snow and ice that still lay between him and M Street.
He and the Algerians had broken up and removed at least that amount in the past three hours. They were still only halfway to the road. They hadn't eaten in twelve hours. And they hadn't had anything to drink for six. The snow they put in their mouths seemed to make them even thirstier.
”Inshallah,” the Tunisian kept muttering to himself. The will of Allah. It is G.o.d's will that we must suffer and sacrifice and suffer again in order to defeat His enemies. This is a gift, somehow. A blessing. The will of Allah. It is G.o.d's will that we must suffer and sacrifice and suffer again in order to defeat His enemies. This is a gift, somehow. A blessing.
”We should leave, brother,” Mustapha said from the pa.s.senger seat.
”I agree,” Saamad said. ”Leave while we still can.”
Nazad looked at them like they were mad. ”Leave the best weapon the Family's ever had? No. That is not what G.o.d wants.”
”But what if Allah wants us to get caught and sent to prison?” Saamad demanded.
”Shut up,” Nazad said. He was sick of the Algerians, how quick they were to cut and run. It had to be the French influence.
”I have to eat something, drink something,” Mustapha complained.
”I can't help you.”
”Maybe there was food in that shed,” Saamad said. ”Water too.”
Nazad looked at him again. ”You didn't search the entire place?”
Mustapha shrugged. ”The shovels and picks were right by the door.”
Moments later they were all following the path the Algerians had taken to the toolshed earlier. The door hung open on its hinges, flapped in the wind. They went inside, flashed their lights, and saw a portable generator, half a dozen power tools, a jackhammer, three sledgehammers, more picks, a row of hard hats, a surveyor's transom, and a cooler. Mustapha and Saamad went straight to the cooler, yanked it open, and cried out in delight.
Saamad grabbed a granola bar and a frozen bottle of Gatorade, shook them at Nazad. ”Allah be praised! Food and drink, brother.”
”And a jackhammer!” Mustapha cried.
But the Tunisian paid them no mind. He was staring at a metal box attached to the wall and sealed with a Master Lock. On instinct, he retrieved one of the sledgehammers and tried to break the lock, but he couldn't. He looked closely at the other tools now at his disposal and smiled.
Nazad started the generator. Then he plugged in a Benner-Nawman rebar cutter. He fit the hasp of the lock into the jaws of the cutter and flipped it on. The jaws bit and snapped it in less than a second.
The Algerians had been gnawing on frozen granola bars while he worked. Only when Nazad set the cutter down and pulled open the door to the box did Mustapha become interested.
”What do you find in there, brother?” he asked.
The Tunisian was beaming already, feeling blessed once again by G.o.d. The first thing his headlamp had revealed in the box was a row of keys hanging on hooks, all neat and orderly and tagged.
The first key on the right said CAT D6K CAT D6K.
CHAPTER
103
”YOU WOKE ME OUT OF A PERFECTLY GOOD SLEEP TO RIDE IN A SARDINE CAN?” John Sampson groaned, trying to get his ma.s.sive frame into Mahoney's Subaru at around four in the morning. He wore a snorkel jacket, hood up, and peered at me blearily from inside the fur trim. He took the travel cup of coffee I offered him.
”Need help checking out a potential crime scene before I call in an evidence team,” I said, putting the Forester in gear. All-wheel drive and weighed down with Sampson's and my combined four hundred and thirty pounds, the car moved like a mini tank into the tracks other cars had made going up and down Sampson's street.
”Potential crime scene?” Sampson asked, annoyed.
”I don't know exactly where the crime scene is, John,” I explained. ”That's why I need you. To help find it.”
He groaned, drank the coffee. ”Why do I feel like I'm two hundred moves behind you, Alex?”
”Because in this case you are,” I said, and I filled him in, finis.h.i.+ng with the information that members of Al Ayla had likely pulled nerve-gas components off a freight train stopped near the entrance to the tunnel system.
”I know where that is.” Sampson grunted. ”Remember running out of there when we were kids?”
”Probably the only time I've ever beaten you in a race,” I said.
”Found a body in the right-of-way there six or seven years ago.”
I'd forgotten, but now I nodded and said, ”Emily Rodriguez.”
”Poor little thing,” Sampson said. ”What was she, seven? Son of a b.i.t.c.h tortured her something awful before he killed her.”
I flashed on Hala's daughter, also seven, arching against the electric current, and said, ”But what do you think? Freeway side of the tracks, or M Street?”
”Freeway,” Sampson said. ”M Street, you're gonna need boots. It's a good walk to the tracks and they've got construction going there on that off-ramp they've been building forever.”
”But the freeway side is super-steep going down to the tracks,” I reminded him. ”Fifty-five-gallon drum weighs a lot, and being up on the freeway is just too visible, even in a blizzard. I'm thinking they went in on the M Street side, big walk or not.”
”h.e.l.l, what do I know?” Sampson said. ”I'm just along for the ride.”
The s...o...b..nks along Eleventh Street were as high as I'd ever seen them, like in pictures of Anchorage or Nome. Sampson and I had to strain to spot the security fence where Eleventh Street crossed over the tunnel's mouth.
I parked right in the middle of the street above the tunnel, threw on the hazard lights, told Sampson to move the car if someone came along. Before he could grumble about that, I got out, went to the s...o...b..nk, and crawled up it to the fence.