Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers (275 page)

In that instant Young knew he had made a very serious mistake.

CHAPTER TWENTY

When the radio call had come in from Dimitrios, telling them that the Army transport truck carrying the Stinger missiles had passed the billboard located two miles east and would arrive at their position in approximately two minutes, Jackie and Joe-Bob started their vehicles simultaneously and pulled them together nose-to-nose over the double yellow line separating the opposing lanes of traffic. The cars were positioned perpendicular to the yellow stripes so as to take up as much available road space as possible.

They shut down their engines and leapt out in unison, Joe-Bob carrying a smoke bomb, which he ignited with a Bic lighter and placed in the road under the two front bumpers. Instantly, thick black smoke began billowing into the air, creating the illusion that the vehicles had sustained serious damage.

It took no more than a few seconds for the front ends of both cars to become obscured by the heavy black shroud, and as the smoke continued to accumulate, the men checked their weapons one final time. Each placed his Glock 9mm semiautomatic pistol under the waistband of his trousers, snug against the small of his back, covered by his untucked shirt.

In the distance the transport truck lumbered over a shallow rise and into view. It was still too far away to make out any detail, but they knew it was the right truck. It had to be, since there was now no one else traveling on this closed-off section of highway.

Joe-Bob looked at Jackie, a smirk crossing his face and then disappearing. “Let’s dance,” he said, shoving the other man hard. The two began exchanging blows, hesitantly at first, then with increasing gusto as each connected with the other and adrenaline and instinct took over.

Jackie and Joe-Bob had been selected to run this portion of the operation due to both men’s advanced fighting skills – Joe-Bob’s having been perfected in the military, and Jackie’s learning to scrap and fight on the streets of the Bronx, running with some of the most brutal gangs in New York from the time he was eight.

They heard the truck pull up behind them, its headlights washing them in a bright white glare as they traded haymakers. By now they were actually fighting; there was no chance the truck’s occupants might suspect the whole thing was being staged for their benefit. The brakes on the big vehicle squealed long and loud as it slowed to a stop.

Blood mixed with sweat flew off the bodies of the sparring terrorists in great arcing droplets, illuminated in the truck’s headlights. They grunted and strained and paid no attention to the Army vehicle idling just a few feet away. A couple of minutes that felt like much longer passed. Then a door opened and a young soldier stepped down from the truck and crossed the pavement warily. He stood, ignored by Jackie and Joe-Bob. A few seconds later, the door on the far side of the truck opened and the other occupant climbed down as well.

This was what they had been waiting for.

The two Army privates moved forward unwittingly, and when they reached a point approximately five feet away, Jackie growled, “Now!” They dropped their fists simultaneously, each man pulling his weapon from behind his back and leveling it in the stunned face of the soldier closest to him.

Shock—and an instant later understanding—etched itself onto the faces of the soldiers.

Jackie and Joe-Bob squeezed their triggers, their moves choreographed with the same split-second timing they had displayed in their fight, and two human heads exploded in a spray of blood and pulverized silver-grey bone. Milt Stanley and Eric Young dropped instantly to the ground, dead before their bodies hit the pavement.

Still breathing heavily from the staged fight, Jackie and Joe-Bob shoved their guns back into their waistbands and grabbed the ankles of their lifeless victims. They dragged the men off the road and into the scrub brush dotting the side of the highway, leaving two wide swaths of blood on the pavement. There the trail disappeared, the blood soaking into the sandy terrain.

The terrorists jumped into their cars and fired up the engines. Tony, who had been sitting motionless in the back seat of Jackie’s sedan, had already clambered into the Army transport truck, which was still idling in the middle of the road. The three vehicles moved out, traveling in a single-file convoy east for two miles, where they retrieved their compatriots waiting behind the big billboard and then continued into the night. They encountered no cars traveling in either direction.

Back at the scene of the staged auto accident, the black smoke bomb smoldered a little longer and then extinguished itself. The desert grew quiet and still.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The vast desolation of the Arizona desert was pockmarked by clumps of scrawny scrub brush sprouting randomly from the ground, casting skeletal shadows from the washed-out light of the full moon. Thousands of stars glittered in the cold sky. The few buildings visible were spaced far apart, appearing delicate and insubstantial. Three vehicles—a nondescript sedan in the lead, followed by an olive-drab U.S. Army truck with a canvas-covered cargo box, and another sedan trailing behind—approached a massive parking lot.

As they turned into the property, three sets of headlights flashed across a mammoth sign:
Welcome to Southwest RV Center—Arizona’s Largest!
Below, in only slightly less enthusiastic letters, it proclaimed,
RVs, Campers, Motor Homes of all sizes for Sale or Rent, Long- or Short-Term! All Price Ranges!
The three vehicles snaked around the campers and motor homes. In less than a minute the convoy had arrived at the back of the lot.

They parked neatly in a row next to a plain white panel truck. One by one, the drivers shut down their engines. The truck they had parked next to was obviously a recent addition to the RV center’s lot and clearly did not belong. It had been stolen the day before in Tucson and would be used to transport the Stinger missiles Tony’s group had successfully acquired. The Army transport truck was much too conspicuous for Tony’s taste, and he knew it was imperative they lose it immediately. Once the bodies of the two murdered soldiers were discovered, the authorities would seal off the entire area like a drum, and they would risk being apprehended if they hadn’t moved the Stingers to another truck.

The men piled out of their vehicles and stepped onto the tarmac, stretching their backs and yawning. Southwest RV Center may have been Arizona’s largest, as the sign proclaimed, but the facility’s owners hadn’t spent much of their income over the last few years on pavement maintenance. The acres of blacktop were cracked and rutted from exposure to the relentless desert heat, with sandy potholes forming dangerous and randomly located landmines all over the lot. To step in one meant the possibility of a turned ankle or worse. An injury now was something the group could not afford.

Tony pulled out a Maglite and examined the area immediately surrounding the four vehicles until he was satisfied there was no possibility of injury to himself or one of his men. Shining the light represented risk, but it was minimal. This portion of the lot was mostly invisible from the road, with dozens of bulky campers and RV’s forming a very effective screen, and vehicular traffic was virtually nonexistent this time of night anyway.

His men stood next to the vehicles smoking cigarettes and mumbling quietly to each other until he was ready. After a few seconds, Tony swung the rear gate of the transport truck down and said, “Let’s get this done.” He left the rest of the crew to do the heavy lifting and strolled toward the front of the deserted facility, semiautomatic rifle slung over his shoulder and toothpick hanging out the corner of his mouth.

The men set to work unloading the crates containing the precious cargo from the Army vehicle and moving it onto into the stolen panel truck. There were no markings of any kind on the truck; it was completely anonymous and would blend nicely into the landscape as the team moved west to east across the United States until arriving back home outside Washington. There they would go to ground and prepare for the next step in the operation.

First things first, though. They needed to put as many miles between the dead soldiers and themselves as possible before morning. The U.S. Army didn’t take kindly to its soldiers being murdered, particularly on American soil, and the search for the killers would be more intense even than the search for the thieves who had taken the Stinger missiles. The weapons were useless without the appropriate guidance system, and the government had no way of knowing the group that had taken the Stingers was also in possession of that critical component as well.

They would find out soon enough.

The four men worked quickly and efficiently at their backbreaking task. Dimitrios knelt in the back of the Army truck sliding the Stinger crates along the floor of the cargo bed to the open tailgate, where Joe-Bob and Jackie trundled them the short distance to the waiting panel truck. There, they dropped the crates on the cargo bed with a thud. Then Brian slid the crates along the wooden floor, moving each crate as close to the front of the cargo box as possible, securing each with bungee cords to ensure there would be no shifting of the material.

They were breathing heavily but moving at a brisk pace, a light sheen of sweat coating each man’s body in the cool desert air. Their breath crystallized and then disappeared. Conversation was kept to a minimum, with each man concentrating on his own role in securing the heavy crates so the group could get back on the road as soon as possible and disappear.

The reinforced wooden boxes contained two Stingers apiece, each weighing about thirty-five pounds. With the pallet-like crates added into the equation, each one weighed in at close to eighty pounds. Even the heavily muscled young men began to tire as the job approached completion.

Joe-Bob and Jackie were precisely halfway between vehicles, duck-stepping one of the heavy crates toward the back of the panel truck, when a bright spotlight blazed on, bleaching the scene in its glare.

From beyond the light source, a tense voice grated, “Tucson Police! You all stay right where you are and keep your hands where I can see them!” The thin, dry air amplified the cop’s voice, making it sound loud and intimidating.

The team had been so involved in their work, so intent upon getting the crates secured in the panel truck, that no one had noticed the Tucson PD cruiser gliding through the parking lot, lights off, the deep rumble of its Police Interceptor engine lost in the stillness of the night.

Now everything stopped and time stood still. Jackie and Joe-Bob were completely neutralized, trapped in the spotlight’s unblinking eye holding an eighty pound box filled with stolen military hardware. Dimitrios stood helplessly in the back of the Army truck, hands held out at his sides, while Brian crouched on his knees in the panel truck with his hands on top of the crate he had been pushing toward the front of the cargo box.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The doorbell rang, and Nick walked across the living room, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. He had just finished washing and drying the few dishes generated by his solitary dinner—it struck Nick as unnecessary and maybe even a little pathetic to use the dishwasher to clean one plate, one glass, one fork and one knife. He glanced at the clock hanging in the living room as he approached the front door. Nine o’clock exactly. Right on time. He wasn’t sure why, but Nick had expected the FBI agents to be late.