Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

Remo wiped his nose, staring at the empty space in front of them and at the tall inspector waving them forward. His fear was palpable. “We’re caught,” he yelled. “I know it and Franco knows it. Why the fuck don’t you?” He cocked his arm and threw an elbow, which caught Joseph in the temple. “You don’t know it because you want us to pull into that little party they’ve set up for us, you fucking sand nigger. The Makdisis told me not to trust you. They were right. You’ve done this, haven’t you?” Another elbow flew, this one smashing the bridge of Joseph’s nose, crushing bone and cartilage and releasing a violent stream of blood. “‘Right lane,’ you said. ‘Right fucking lane.’ Well, here we are and it’s the wrong fucking lane.”

Remo rammed his foot onto the accelerator and the eighteen-wheeler jerked forward.

Franco uttered a whooping war cry.

Sterling Thorne stood in front of the juggernaut, his arm extended and his palm upraised. Through a veil of refracted light, Joseph saw Thorne’s expression turn from surprise to confusion, and finally, terror, as the rig advanced on him. Thorne froze, unable to decide which way to move. The twenty-four-cylinder engine roared. Remo blasted the horn. Thorne dove under the chassis of the diesel monster.

Joseph grabbed at the steering wheel. He kicked at the gear shift with his right leg and thrust the fingers of his left hand backward into Franco’s face, seeking his adversary’s eyes. Franco bellowed madly, screaming for his friend to free him of the crazed Arab. Remo yelled “Kill him” as he put the rig back into gear.

Gunfire erupted to the rear of the truck. Tires exploded as bullets passed through coiled rubber and punctured pressurized inner tubes. The giant truck listed to the left. Still, Remo accelerated. Bullets showered the rear trailer, sounding like a sheet of rain passing over a tin roof. The policemen found their mark, and the benign rain turned to a murderous hail. A curtain of lead struck the driver’s door. The windshield shattered in an ejaculatory burst of glass.

Joseph dug his fingers into Franco’s eyes. He sheared an eyeball from its optic nerve and dashed it to the floor. Franco screamed louder and brought both hands to his ravaged face. Joseph reached over the wounded man’s heaving belly and pushed open the passenger door. He lowered his shoulder and shoved him out of the cabin.

Remo was wounded. Cables of rosy phlegm dangled from his mouth. A bullet hole in his gut spurted blood. His face was dotted with a dozen pinpricks where burs of glass had torn the flesh. Still, he concentrated on the road before him with the blind fury of a wounded bull.

Joseph wedged one arm against the dashboard and the other against the seat back. He swung his legs up and lashed out at Remo’s head. The heels of his work boots caught the ailing driver flush in the jaw and slammed him against the steel door frame. Remo made a last effort at defending himself, throwing his right arm weakly in his attacker’s direction. Joseph dodged the blow. He recoiled and brought his legs up to batter the injured mafioso. Again he landed a solid kick to the driver’s head. Remo tottered in his seat. He spit out a patch of blood before falling forward against the steering wheel, either dead or unconscious.

The truck gained speed. It veered precipitously to the right, accelerating toward the column of police cars camped on the dirt shoulder. Joseph lifted Remo’s inert body off of the steering column and fought to dislodge his leaden foot from the accelerator. The constant jostling of the truck rendered every effort ineffective. Each thrust served only to pinion Remo’s foot more tightly onto the accelerator.

The line of police cars drew nearer. Twenty yards separated the renegade juggernaut from the automobiles. Ten, five…

Joseph realized that no action could prevent the truck from striking the cars. He threw open the passenger door and launched himself from the cabin. He landed running and managed to place both feet on the ground before momentum swept him forward and propelled him across the pavement.

The juggernaut plowed into the first police car. Its tires crushed the automobile’s hood and thrust the truck skyward. The rig rolled on, careering over one car and then another. Windows shattered, metal tore, and sirens exploded. The downward force with which one gasoline tank was crushed provoked an incendiary spark, instantaneously igniting its contents. The blast lifted the automobile off the ground, overturning the truck’s rear trailer and setting off a chain reaction of high-octane explosions as gasoline tank after gasoline tank succumbed to the fireball. The smuggler’s rig toppled onto its side and was itself engulfed in flame.

Police surrounded Joseph. Sterling Thorne broke through the circle of officers and bent down beside him. “Welcome back to civilization,” he said.

Joseph nodded. He didn’t appreciate being at the business end of twelve automatic rifles.

“You have something for me,” Thorne asked.

Joseph looked up at Thorne, remembering all over again what an asshole he was. The guy didn’t even ask if he was okay. He fished in his pocket for a scrap of paper. It read “Ali Mevlevi. Hotel Olivella au Lac. Room 407. USB account 549.617 RR.” Exactly as Thorne had dictated.

Thorne took the scrap of paper from Joseph, raising the walkie-talkie to his lips even as he read it. “We have conducted a search of the suspect and discovered evidence of an incriminating nature. We have probable cause to believe that a suspect involved in the importation of a large shipment of heroin is currently residing at the Hotel Olivella au Lac in room four zero seven. Proceed with caution.”

A last gas tank exploded on the road behind them. A fireball rose into the morning sky.

Thorne covered his head. He extended his hand and helped Joseph to his feet. “You didn’t have to make my job so much harder,” he said. “A lot of very convincing evidence is going up in smoke.”

Moammar al Khan stared transfixed at the black and orange plume. He fumbled for the cellular phone, his right hand blindly patting the passenger seat. Look at that smoke, he thought to himself, cringing. A ton of Al-Mevlevi’s product in flames. Allah have mercy.

A customs inspector banged the hood of the car and motioned for him to pass through the portico. Khan offered an Italian passport, but it was waved away.

“Drive. Don’t look,” said the customs official before moving off down the line of stalled automobiles.

Khan ignored his instructions, slowing the car to a crawl as he passed the flaming wreckage. A circle of policemen had surrounded a lone man lying prostrate on the ground. The man was injured. Blood poured from his nose. His clothing was torn, his face blackened by smoke. It was Joseph. He was alive. Inshallah! God is great! A gangly man wearing the green jacket of the customs inspectors broke through the circle of policemen. He bent himself upon one knee and spoke to Joseph.

Khan leaned over the passenger seat to look closer.

Thorne. The American agent. There was no mistaking it. The hair. The gaunt face. The DEA had intercepted Al-Mevlevi’s shipment.

And then something strange happened. Thorne offered a hand to Joseph and hoisted him to his feet. He gave Joseph a pat on the shoulder, then leaned his head back and laughed. All the policemen were smiling, too. Their guns were lowered. Even Joseph was grinning.

Khan pulled the gold pendant from his shirt and kissed it.

Joseph is an informant.

Khan accelerated madly, driving for two minutes before pulling to the shoulder of the highway and stopping the car. He picked up the cellular phone and dialed the number Mevlevi had given him in case of emergency. Three rings passed. Finally, a voice answered.