Jeff Abbott: Trust Me

No matter the cost.

He crossed the road. Aubrey’s import emporium was the anchor at one end of the mall; the other stores belonged to an accountant and tax preparer; a women’s clothing store; a nail and hair salon; a liquor store. Everyday America.

He could see six small moving vans parked in front of Perrault Imports. All from the same rental company.

He walked toward the vans and twenty feet away from the first one a shadow stepped out from between them.

A guard. He was skinny and looked scared and wasn’t much older than Luke. ‘Hi,’ Luke said. ‘I’m here to see Mouser. I’m late, sorry.’

The guard said. ‘Password?’

He prayed the password Henry gave him hadn’t been changed. ‘Determination.’

The guard nodded.

‘I got orders to come here and get a van,’ Luke said.

‘You walked?’

‘I wanted to be sure cops weren’t here. I look less suspicious walking than driving.’ He stopped now, five feet from the guard.

‘Come here, put your hands on the side of the van. Everybody’s got to be frisked.’

He stepped close to Luke and Luke thought that’s the kind of mistake I would have made. Luke hit him hard, once in the face, and then pistol-whipped him with the gun. The guard collapsed, unconscious. He didn’t need to use a bullet.

Luke searched the guard’s clothing. He found keys with the van rental agency tag on it. He tried the door of the nearest van. Locked. He tried the one next to it. The door opened.

The van was empty. Which meant that some of the bombs, at least, were still inside. He pulled the guard into the van, left him there. Luke figured either he would have won or would be dead by the time the guard was awake.

He tried the passkey he’d taken from Henry. The door clicked open.

The first floor was the wholesale showroom and delivery area. It was stuffed with decor, a melange that showed just how small the world was getting. He made his way through a maze of cheap reproductions of African masks and wooden fertility symbols, Chinese lanterns and Asian-inspired furniture, stacks of china from eastern Europe. A stairway with a bright orange arrow reading MORE BARGAINS UPSTAIRS. He came to the bottom of the stairs and heard voices.

He thought. The bombs would have been delivered here, since Snow could not distribute them from Houston. Chicago was central. But where would they be kept? Presumably the store had not been open with Aubrey gone, or she might have told her employees she was closing down if told to by Eric. Aubrey had not mentioned a staff. The bombs would have to be kept where they would not elicit surprise or alarm if found.

He headed toward the back storage area. Boxes were stacked high in the dim light.

He saw unopened boxes of Chinese figurines, knockoffs of Swedish furniture, a desk, a scattering of papers. On the bulletin board were photos of Eric and Aubrey: at dinner, on a boat, walking along Lake Michigan.

Where would they hide the bombs? He started to open a box and thought: no. Mouser’s here, he would have checked them, and plus he has to show them how to work the mechanisms. Whatever packaging the bombs were in, they’ve been opened.

He pulled one box open. Inside were gray uniforms and surgical-style masks, folded neatly. There were a stack of photo IDs, for a company called Ready-Able. At least twenty. They were photo IDs, with bar codes for electronic access. The first ones read NYC in small print. He thumbed through the others. Washington, Atlanta, Dallas, Chicago, Boston.

Each was keyed with the name of the mass transit system in the city. DART for Dallas, MARTA for Atlanta, CTA for Chicago, MBTA for Boston, Metro for Washington, MTA for New York. Henry had lied. It wasn’t shopping centers. It was the transit systems. A hundred-plus bombs for the rail and bus systems in six major cities, separated by only a time zone, so a simultaneous attack would be devastating. Thousands would die; the sheer number of bombs would ensure a mind-numbing tally.

On a table across from the desk he saw a half-dozen boxes that had been opened. In Spanish they said on the side Botiquin de Primeros Auxiolios. His Spanish wasn’t good and he looked inside the box.

First-aid kits. Plain, white, with the red cross on them. But larger ones than you’d find at a store, ones that you might find mounted in a public place, like a shopping center, or an airport. Or a school.

Or a commuter rail train, or a subway.

He opened one of the cases. Inside were nails and screws, packed into thin plastic bags so they wouldn’t rattle. And in the middle was an orange brick, like a clay, a simple lacing of wires webbing to a cell phone.

A bomb, armed with what he guessed was plastic explosive. He set it down carefully and began to count the first-aid kits. A dozen to a box. And how many opened boxes? A dozen. He checked kits in each box. Each contained a bomb.

A hundred and forty-four bombs. Henry had told him the truth about this, at least. The first-aid kits could be placed on the transit system walls by the uniformed ‘cleaning crews’, who need only show up, plant the bombs and leave. The surgical masks – used by real cleaning crews – would hide their faces, since they weren’t suicide bombers. One hundred and forty-four bombs, divided among six cities. Multiple cars on multiple tracks. Targeting people simply going to work for the day – just like 9/11 or the Madrid or London bombings. A dirt-cheap attack that would inflict millions – even billions – in damage to the economy and worse, end thousands of innocent lives.

The thought chilled his blood.

The scale staggered him. The cell phone – it had to be the trigger. But would the bomb be detonated by calling the cell’s number? No. There were far too many of them, and he suspected the bombs were supposed to go off simultaneously, or as near to it as possible. So. How?

Then he saw the simple answer. His throat went dry.

He had a choice. He could detonate one of the bombs now – killing himself but also the best of the Night Road, and his father and Aubrey if they were here. They’d be dead. The plan would be over. Or – there was another possibility.

And he heard the front door open and shut. Decision made. He didn’t have much time.

What the hell, he thought. He’d be dead in a few minutes anyway.

A minute later, ‘Hello, Luke.’

Henry Shawcross stepped into the storage room, gun leveled at his stepson, who knelt by an open file cabinet, rifling through its papers.

Luke stood.

‘They don’t know you’re here, do they?’ Henry said. Very quietly. ‘No.’

‘You killed the guard outside.’

‘No, he’s just beaten up and dumped in a van.’

‘You’re nicer than I am.’

‘You got out. And got here.’ He didn’t need to answer Henry’s question.

‘The keys to the handcuffs were in the pocket of the man you killed. Your grand gesture backfired.’

Luke closed his eyes. A stupid mistake that was going to cost him dearly.

‘I left quickly, right after you, I commandeered a Travport plane directly here.’ Henry flicked a smile. ‘I knew you’d be here. Playing the well-intentioned idiot. What possessed you? What were you looking for?’

‘Evidence of where Eric hid the money.’

‘The money. Why do you care?’

‘I need it. To hide.’ Luke put his gaze directly on Henry’s. Let Henry think – if only for a moment – that Luke was as mercenary as he was, since he’d hoped Luke would become more like him. ‘What now?’

Henry shrugged. ‘Hard choices. The good things in my life are all gone, Luke. You’ve betrayed me, too.’

‘You destroyed your life. Not me.’

‘No. Warren destroyed my life. It was hard enough to compete with a dead man. It’s much harder when he turns up alive.’