No Shelter (32 page)

So the driver is doing everything he can to buck me off. But I don’t let go. No, in fact what he’s doing pisses me off even more than I already am, which is a lot, and it’s with that anger, that rage, that determination, that I reach with my right hand and grip onto the rope and spin myself so I’m facing the side of the trailer and then I plant my feet square against the unmarked side and I move my feet, first to the left, then to the right, to the left, to the right, making a pendulum, giving me force, giving me momentum, the wind screaming past me at eighty miles an hour, the tractor-trailer passing cars, trucks, buses, and then I’m as far left as I can go and I move right, move right, move right, and before I know it I push off with my feet and go airborne and soar for an instant, half an instant, a quarter of an instant, the rope growing even more taut in my grip, and I hold on and swing around the door and straight into the light and gaping maw of the trailer.
 

I come in feet first. An agent is standing there and I kick him to the ground. I let go of the rope and hit the floor and scramble back to my feet while the other agent steps forward. He shoots at me just as I turn away. The bullet punctures the side of the trailer and then I turn back, reach out, grab his arm just as he shoots again. He has his teeth gritted and he’s trying to move the gun toward me again, right at my face, and I give him a little leeway and then push the gun back into his face, into his nose, drawing blood, and he falls just as the first agent climbs back to his feet.
 

I reach for Atticus’s special gun. I pull it out and shoot the first agent in the neck, then turn and shoot the second agent in the neck. Both agents lift their hands to their throats, hold it there like that will erase what just shot them. One of them tries to take a step forward but the tranquilizer darts work fast. A few seconds and already the stuff is spreading through their systems. Their eyelids grow heavy. Their heads roll on their necks. Their legs give out from under them and they go down.
 

I stay in a shooting stance for a moment, just standing there, holding my breath. Slowly, very slowly, I lower the pistol.
 

Atticus must sense the sudden silence, because he asks, “
Holly, are you okay?
”
 

“I’m fine. There were two in the trailer and they’ve been taken care of.”
 

“
How long before you find the flash drive?
”
 

The front end of the trailer is filled with filing cabinets, two rows facing each other. Two desks are positioned against the sides, chairs underneath. A mini-fridge, a large cardboard box full of food, laptop computers set up on the desks.
 

I say, “I’m not sure. It might be awhile.”
 

“
You have two minutes, maybe less
.”
 

“Until?”
 

“
Until the cavalry arrives. Oh, and Holly? They’re coming fast, and they’re coming strong
.”
 

59

I start with the desk on my left, ripping open drawers, dumping them on the floor, papers and pens and paperclips scattering everywhere. The same with the desk on my right, only difference here are some Pop-Tarts stashed in a far corner of the bottom drawer, an old issue of
Men’s Health
.
 

The driver keeps swerving us from one lane to the next. I feel like I’m in a boat on a tumultuous sea, like I’m back on that yacht where I thought I witnessed what I did but obviously did not.
 

As I start on the first filing cabinet, tearing open the top drawer and sorting through the files, I ask Atticus how much more time.
 

“
A minute if you’re lucky
.”
 

Slamming the drawer shut, opening the next one, yelling, “Nova, where are you?”
 

“
Ready when you are
.”
 

“Can you slow them down?”
 

“
Not all of them
.”
 

“How many?”
 

“
Right now looks like three
.”
 

Tearing apart files, throwing out papers, finding guns wrapped in plastic bags, bullets concealed in dime bags, until I come to a drawer that has PDAs and discs and pieces of hard drives—

And flash drives.
 

“
Holly
,” Atticus says, “
you have about thirty seconds
.”
 

Quickly sorting through the bagged items, looking for a printed name, a flash of gold, I say, “Nova, do your magic.”
 

“
I’m trying, I’m trying
.”
 

Nothing in this drawer. I slam it shut, open the next, find even more bagged items. I start whispering a mantra—“Come on, come on, come on”—and then I slam the drawer shut, open the next one.
 

Nova: “
They’re right on your tail
.”
 

I pause and glance up and see the doors swinging back and forth as the driver swerves from lane to lane; I see the three black BMWs spread out, taking a lane each, coming at me.
 

I reach for my gun—my actual gun, the one loaded with live ammunition—but then I stop, realizing that won’t work, at least not yet. I hurry forward, stepping over the agent with the broken nose, gripping the one steel desk and pulling and pushing, pulling and pushing, until it starts to move. It weighs a ton but it starts to slide across the floor, and I push it toward the back, the three BMWs gaining ground, I push the desk until I reach the edge and then I push some more and the front two legs drop over the side and I keep pushing until the rest slides over and the desk tumbles front over end to the highway.
 

The desk hits the asphalt, bounces back up spinning once in the air. By that point the middle BMW has reached it and the driver tries to swerve out of the way but all he does is jerk the wheel too hard and the spinning desk lands right where the turning wheel is and jams there and causes the car to flip.
 

Nova, his voice loud and hurried: “
What the hell was that?
”
 

The two remaining BMWs continue on like nothing’s happened, taking up the space the third left behind, keeping pace with each other as they come even closer. Both passenger side windows lower. The upper parts of bodies pop out, AK-47s in hand.
 

I pull my gun, aim not at the men or the windshields but at the BMWs’ grilles, at their front tires. I pop off a half dozen rounds, enough to give me some time, and I turn back around, run to the other desk, pull it from the wall and then flip it over just as the men in the BMWs open fire.
 

Crouched behind the desk, feeling the vibration of every bullet, I yell as loud as I can: “Nova, get your ass up here and take care of these cars!”
 

“
What do you want me to do?
”
 

“I don’t give a shit! Just don’t let them kill me!”
 

There’s a lull in the gunfire. I look around at the two tranquilized agents, both still knocked out cold, both appearing in no danger from hastily fired bullets.
 

Keeping low, I crawl back toward the nose of the trailer, to the filing cabinet with the bagged electronic items. On my knees, I start sorting through it again, tossing out bags, tossing out more bags, until I slam the drawer shut and go to the next cabinet.
 

Nova says, “
I’m going to be so pissed off at you if I get killed doing this
,” and then I hear the steady staccato of gunfire.
 

I pause for a moment to stand up straight and look back. I can see Nova’s pickup behind the BMWs, Nova leaning out his window, gun in hand, shooting at one of the cars.
 

The tractor-trailer swerves again, from the left to the right, and gravity finally has its way and sends me falling to the ground. I knock my head on one of the filing cabinets, see white for a moment, and then I crawl forward again, open up the next drawer, start sorting through it.
 

“
Holly
,” Nova yells, “
I’m taking on gunfire!
”
 

I raise my head a bit, enough to see over the barrier of the desk. The two men with the AK-47s have stopped firing forward and are instead firing back at Nova’s pickup.
 

Standing up quickly, I tell Nova to get ready.
 

“
Ready? Ready for what?
”
 

I crouch down at the desk, plant my feet, and start pushing, pushing, this desk moving a whole hell of a lot easier than the last, moving like it’s on ice, and then it’s at the edge and it tips over and crashes down to the ground and slams right into the grille of the one BMW.
 

Nova’s pickup swerves behind the BMW as it comes to a sudden halt, coming right around it, and the agent with the AK-47 in the last car swings back around, starts firing at me.
 

I dive back into the trailer, crawl up to the filing cabinet, just start tearing things out. More files, more papers, more bagged items of discs and PDAs and cell phones and flash drives and—

Holy shit, there it is.
 

Wrapped in a plastic bag just like all the rest.
 

A golden flash drive, one of a kind, the name delano, roland printed on the attached label.
 

When I speak, my voice is barely a whisper. “I got it.” I have to say it again. “I got it.” And again. “I got it!”
 

“
About time
,” Nova says. He’s back there behind the BMW, swerving from lane to lane, trying to stay directly behind the car whose passenger is firing at him. “
You ready now to make your exit?
”
 

I stuff the flash drive in my pocket, pat it once to make sure it’s secure. Then I work my way forward, grab onto the rope, pull it until it grows taut.
 

“Yeah, I’m ready whenever you are.”
 

“
What side?
”
 

“The left-hand side.”
 

“
My left or your left?
”
 

“Your left, Nova! Now come on, I’ll hold the BMW off.”
 

With both strands of the rope in one hand, I grab my gun and fire at the unit’s car with my other. Again I don’t try to hit the passenger or the driver but I want to slow them down, force them to swerve away, give Nova enough time to swing around them and come up the left side.
 

Which he does, the black Dodge Ram coming on strong, speeding directly at me, and as it comes right up to the trailer I hear Nova’s voice in my ear—“
Do it now!
”—and I fire off one more round and drop the gun and reach into my pocket for my knife and then start running, sprinting forward toward the left of the trailer, the rope now in both hands, sprinting as fast as I can, until I reach the doors and gripping the rope as tight as ever I jump and hold on and swing out toward the last BMW, the rope catching at the top and the momentum forcing me again like a pendulum toward the left-hand side of the tractor-trailer, where Nova is now, riding as close as possible to the tractor-trailer, making sure I have enough space, and I’m over it for just a second, just an instant, and in one deft motion I flick my wrist and extend the switchblade and slice the rope until nothing more is keeping me up and I fall.
 

60

The Dodge Ram has a nice open bed. Normally it’s empty, but just an hour ago Nova went to Walmart and stocked up on every single pillow and comforter they had. He loaded up the pillows in back of the pickup and placed the comforters on top of them, and while it’s not the most ideal thing to land on when just jumping out of a speeding tractor-trailer, it does the trick.
 

I lay there staring at the empty sky for a couple seconds. My heart is pounding. My body is shaking. I’m half aware that both of those things have been going on this entire time but what matters is that I realize it now and that I’m happy to be alive.
 

The Dodge Ram has a partition on the cab’s rear window. Nova slides it open and shouts out at me, “You okay?”
 

I open my mouth to answer but can’t speak. I try again and realize that I’m holding my breath, that I’ve
been
holding my breath. I release the breath and take a few large gulps of air before telling Nova that yes, I’m okay.
 

“Good.” He slides an AK-47 through the partition. “Mind taking care of our company?”
 

At once I’m back into autopilot. I sit up and grab the rifle and turn just as the tractor-trailer’s driver lowers his window and sticks out a handgun. I can’t tell what kind of gun—it looks like a .38 or a .45—but that doesn’t matter; what matters is that he has a gun and is now firing at us, a few random shots in the pickup’s direction, Nova swerving to the farthest lane and then back to fake him out.
 

I lean forward and prop my weight on my knees and raise the rifle, holding it as steady as I can. I aim not for the driver but for the empty passenger seat and I let off a few rounds, the windshield cracking and then shattering, the driver pulling back in the gun so he can grab the wheel with both hands.
 

The BMW has swung around and is headed up our lane, directly behind us. The passenger is still hanging out his window. He’s not firing because he’s not at a good angle and right now the driver is trying to do that for him, veering to the left as quickly as possible.