James Born - Burn Zone

Duarte considered this and decided to use it to his advantage and act.

The stoplight ahead of them changed to yellow. There was a Buick in front of Floyd's truck and no one on the side. This was his chance.

The light turned red, and traffic on the cross street started to move forward. There was nowhere for the pickup to go. Duarte stopped the little Cobalt slightly behind the big truck, then, without any hesitation, hopped out of the small car, darted to the side of the truck and moved up toward the driver's door silently. It was a tactic he and other cops had used before but always with a gun drawn. This was too big to risk Floyd getting away. Even if he did shoot Duarte, it would attract police attention. Anything to get the word out.

He grabbed the outside door handle with his left hand and yanked, feeling the door swing wide immediately.

No other drivers even noticed the quick action.

He heard Floyd say, "What the hell?"

But that was all he got out before Duarte swung a right elbow hard into the big racist's face. Blood spouted from his crushed nose and split lip as Duarte stepped up on a running board and kicked him hard to the other side of the wide truck cab. Duarte threw an extra kick into the big man's head to daze him, but it bounced hard off the opposite door, and he slid off the bench seat onto the floorboard. Maybe it was a gratuitous strike.

Félix Baez was shaky from jumping out of Duarte's car. He knew the ATF man was serious about catching the truck but had thought he'd slow down a little more. He had stood up immediately and started moving toward the giant storage complex. He slipped in through the door he had pried open earlier. As soon as he was inside, he knew exactly where to head and what to do.

He had his pistol in his hand and ducked a little as he scurried toward the bright overhead lights in front of the glass office he had shot up earlier.

His right knee throbbed from his fall and tumble. His arm still hurt from his mishap.

As he came up the aisle, he saw the slender, fit-looking, hairy first mate. There was something else familiar about him that was obscured in the hair that seemed to coat his entire upper body. As he stopped to survey the area, it hit him. That was the Panamanian security officer who'd checked his identification the first time he met Colonel Staub.

Félix was exposed and couldn't see as well as he wanted from this position. He backed away and started climbing the shelves so he would have the high ground to fight from. He negotiated several large boxes on his way up, then crawled through some toasters on pallets to end up at the front of the shelf and overlooking the whole office area.

He saw the hairy guy looking toward Staub, who was standing next to Lina. The FBI agent's head hung to one side.

That son of a bitch had to pay. Even though the hairy guy had a pistol in his hand, Félix lined up his shot on Staub. He had to make sure Lina was safe before he could turn his attention to the hairy guy.

Félix drew a deep breath and checked the scene once more. The hairy guy seemed to be covering Lina, too, but was too far away from her and had Staub between him and Lina. Félix sighted in on Staub and slowly let out his breath.

COLONEL LÁZARO STAUB WAS AT A LOSS. HE SAW HIS LONGTIME assistant, Pelly, pointing a Beretta at him, but he couldn't believe it. Had he gone mad?

Next to him, Lina shook her head to clear it, then she, too, was transfixed by Pelly and the barrel of the small pistol.

Staub said, "Pelly, have you lost your mind?" He let his eyes move off of Pelly and saw the crate of cash near the office but saw no sign of the new Ukrainian physicist.

"Where is the scientist?"

"I sent him on his way."

"Is this a money issue, Pelly?"

"A business issue. This whole plan makes no sense from a business perspective." He looked at the FBI agent and said, "I want Lina released, too."

The bound FBI agent said, "Thanks, Pelly."

Staub felt his heart skip a beat. "I get the feeling you knew each other before today."

Pelly just smiled, the fur wrinkling around his mouth.

Staub cut his eyes to his phone on the shelf next to the office window. Was it time to make the call? He didn't think William Floyd had driven far enough away. He had planned to blow the bomb shortly, in hopes of taking out Duarte and anyone else who could identify them. He had given up Nellis Air Force Base as a target. All Staub needed to do was get into Mexico, and from there he could assume the identity of Wilfredo López of Argentina, living quietly off his fortune, content in the knowledge that he had had the final laugh about the U.S. invasion of Panama. He preferred his primary plan of continuing his career with the national police in Panama, but he could live with his backup plan.

Now his concern was Pelly and his ability with a pistol.

"What do you want, Pelly?"

"Release Lina and let me take the cash. We'll call it even."

As Staub considered the offer, secretly proud that his protégé had enough intelligence to think about the cash, he jumped at the sound of several gunshots in close succession.

Staub felt the impact of the bullets in his chest, like a fist, causing him to lose his grip on the small pistol as he fell backward. Somewhere in his head he heard it clink onto the cement floor. It sounded like it echoed.

From the floor he could see that Pelly had not fired. His assistant spun and started to open up at an unseen assailant high up in the shelving, popping off three quick rounds.

Staub heard his wheezing breath and knew the wounds were serious. He fought to keep consciousness and stave off shock.

Where was his phone? He still needed to arm the warhead.

Alex Duarte didn't care if he had killed William Floyd. He ignored the man slumped on the floor of the truck and immediately hit the gas and pulled the Ford truck into the corner of an empty parking lot to some kind of furniture store.

He reached down and found the little SIG-Sauer in Floyd's waistband and pulled it out, tucking it in his own belt.

He checked Floyd's pulse, which was steady, although blood from several lacerations pooled on the floor of the truck.

Duarte jumped out of the truck and raced to the rear. He popped open the tailgate and tried to slide out the open crate but realized it was too heavy. Instead he crawled up into the covered bed of the truck.

He ran his hand up the front of the metal cylinder in the crate, wiping packing straw away as he moved. Near the top of the open crate, he found several wires and a cell phone attached to it. He knew immediately that this was the triggering system. The question was whether they had installed an antitampering device. If this were really a nuclear weapon and they had spent such a large amount for transportation and arming, he doubted they would have overlooked something as simple as a method of keeping someone from disarming the bomb.

He swept away the straw from the small cell phone attached to the device. He could clearly see the open hatch in the bomb and the connection to the phone. He wondered when Staub planned to detonate the bomb.

He backed out of the truck bed, bounded back to the cab and tugged the limp form of William Floyd onto the ground. He dragged him back to the tailgate, ignoring the couple of street people who had taken notice and started to stare at him and the truck.

He sat William Floyd up and checked his eyes. He appeared conscious but dazed. Duarte patted him on the face, not sure exactly what to do. He shouted, "William Floyd, wake up. Wake up." Slapping him a little harder.

The man mumbled something unintelligible, then said, "What? What?"