Robin Cook - Vector

It was well past midnight when they drove into Sagamaunatuck, a thriving summertime town that served as a-commercial hub for that section of the island. Slowing deliberately to less than the posted speed limit, Curt advanced down Main Street. Most of the shops had been long since shut for the night. The only activity emanated from two local bars that sat opposite each other across the main drag. Their doors were ajar to the mild mid-October night. Each had a handful of patrons. A bit of competing, low-volume music spilled out into the street.

“A nice quiet town,” Steve commented.

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Curt said.

“Hey, there’s a kosher Jewish delicatessen!” Carl said excitedly from the back seat. He pointed to the dark store. “Look at all that stupid foreign writing on the window.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Curt said. “We’re here for one reason only.”

Curt and Steve had reconnoitered the place a month earlier and knew where they were going. The pest control company was on the next street over running parallel with Main Street.

Curt turned left at the next corner onto Banks Street and then left again onto Hancock. Wouton’s Pest Control was on the right in a one story cinderblock building. A large sign advertised that their expertise ranged from residential to agricultural and other commercial applications. To the right of the building was a parking lot surrounded by a chain-link fence with a gate secured by a padlock. Three vehicles featuring the Wouton logo of a cartoon wasp were nosed in at the side of the building. Two were vans. The other was a pickup with a load in its bed covered by a mounded vinyl tarp.

Curt pulled to the curb. He cut his engine, turned out his lights, and motioned for Nat to come alongside. Windows were lowered.

“How many communicators do you have?” Curt asked. In order to coordinate on missions, Curt had purchased an inexpensive radio system that worked within a radius of several city blocks.

“Two,” Kevin said. He was sitting in the front passenger seat of Nat’s truck.

“Here’s another,” Curt said. He handed over an additional communicator. “Now here’s what I want to do. I want two guys up at the next corner of Hancock and Willow with a radio. I want two guys back behind us at the corner of Hancock and Banks with another radio. Nat, I want you to position yourself so that you can pick up either group if the need arises.”

“What are we supposed to do?” Kevin questioned. “Just stand out there in the dark?”

“You’re going to be point men, you big lunkhead,” Curt snapped, “Lookouts.”

“What are we to look for?” Kevin questioned. “This town’s deader than a doornail.”

“The local fuzz,” Curt said. “Last time Steve and I were out here, they cruised around a lot. Let’s hope they don’t show up, but if they do, you’re to create some kind of diversion: whatever it takes to keep the cops busy while we get the truck out of the enclosure, and on its way.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Kevin persisted.

“Just make a fuss,” Curt said with exasperation. “Argue or yell at each other. Once the cops get a load of your appearance, it’ll be like flies to flypaper. If they want to take you to the stationhouse, let them. As usual, tell them nothing. The worst-case scenario is that they might keep you overnight, but that would be it. Trust me.”

“I got it,” Nat called from the driver’s seat.

Kevin started to argue that he had no intention of being in jail overnight, but Nat cuffed him on top of the head and told him to shut up.

“Nat, you give me a call when everybody is in position,” Curt said.

“No problem,” Nat said, and he drove forward.

Nat had advanced no more than fifty feet when a police cruiser rounded the corner ahead and started toward the two trucks.

“Shit!” Curt cried. “Everybody down!”

Curt and the others hunkered down in their seats as the police cruiser’s headlights penetrated the cab.

“This is just what I was afraid of,” Curt whispered. The sudden appearance of the police reminded him of the experience they’d had when they’d stolen the fermenters from the microbrewery in New Jersey. They’d been startled by a security guard who’d walked into their midst while the crew was busy unhooking the plumbing. Curt had not thought about positioning lookouts, so they’d been caught completely unawares.

Unfortunately the security guard happened to be African-American, and Stew Manson, who’d had his usual Olympian quota of beer, went berserk. He shouted “nigger” at the guard, who was unarmed, and smashed him over the head as hard as he could with a heavy-duty plumber’s wrench. The man’s head squashed like an uncooked egg, skyrocketing the risk of the mission. Instead of participating in a robbery, they were all suddenly accessories to a murder. Curt was determined to avoid comparable surprises on this mission.

“What did Nat do?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know,” Curt said. “I didn’t see.”

The police cruiser rolled past. Curt craned his neck to watch the car’s progress in his rearview mirror. Luckily, it didn’t stop. Rather, it turned right on Banks Street. Glancing ahead, Curt saw that Nat had stopped at the intersection and two figures had gotten out. The passenger door closed and the truck disappeared around the corner. The men stepped into the shadows.

Curt let out a breath of air. He’d not been aware he’d been holding his breath.

“Let’s hope that means they won’t be back for a while,” Clark said from the back seat.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Steve said.

“I’m with you,” Curt agreed. “But we’ve got to get the truck.”

“How about coming back tomorrow night?” Steve suggested.

“It would be no different,” Curt said. “And we promised Yuri we’d get it tonight.”

The four men sat in silence for a few minutes as the tension rose. Eventually Mike spoke up: “Anybody got any beer left?”

“No drinking until the mission is over!” Curt snapped. He couldn’t believe how juvenile his troops could be. There were times he thought they had no common sense whatsoever.

Just when Curt was becoming concerned that too much time had elapsed, the communicator in his hand vibrated. He pressed the “listen” button and, through static, heard Nat say that everybody was in place, That meant Kevin and Luke on Willow Street, and Matt and Carl on Banks.

“Ten-four,” Curt said. He pocketed the small radio. “That’s it, everybody, let’s go!”

They piled out of the vehicle. Clark had a Slim Jim and a flashlight. Mike had a couple of small screwdrivers, a pair of wire cutters, and several lengths of insulated electrical wire. Curt reached into the bed of his truck and extracted a pair of heavy bolt cutters that he’d borrowed from the firehouse. He slipped them under his jacket. The steel jaws felt cold through his thin T-shirt.

“Act as if we belong here and we’re just checking things out,” Curt said as they approached the padlocked gate. He knew that if. anybody happened to be looking out the windows of the apartments across the street, they’d be seen. Although there were no streetlights, it wasn’t particularly dark. The night was crystal clear with a bright, gibbous moon poking in and out amid scudding clouds.

“Which truck are we taking?” Clark asked.

“I hope the pickup,” Curt said. “Depends on what’s in it.”

Clark’s question took Curt back to his and Steve’s reconnaissance to Sagamaunatuck the previous month. At that time they’d seen the same truck. When they’d checked it out parked on Main Street, there’d been pest control equipment attached in the bed, along with cylinders of compressed air. The driver was a friendly, ruddy-faced bearded man wearing a baseball hat with the Wouton wasp logo emblazoned above the visor. He’d just been into the local diner for lunch and was in an expansive mood.