accelerator and stomped on the brake. The semi stopped just two feet short of the other truck’s trailer.
Grant came to a stop next to the cab.
“What in God’s name is going on? Whoever is in there is fired!”
“The cab’s empty,” Locke said.
He picked up the object that had been mashed against the pedal. A length of wing strut from the crashed 737.
“Someone did this on purpose,” Locke said, waving the wreckage at Grant and leaping to the ground. He looked back and saw Dilara round the corner.
“You okay?” Locke yelled. Then he added, “Everyone okay?”
She nodded. “We’re fine!”
Grant’s voice boomed. “I want to know who did this, and I want to know right now!” The hangar became dead quiet.
His walkie-talkie interrupted the silence. “Mr. Westfield?”
Grant yanked the walkie-talkie from his belt. “What?”
“This is Deputy Williams. I know you said nothing should be removed from the hangar, but these guys from the NTSB…” The voice abruptly cut off.
“Who was that?” Locke asked.
“One of the deputies guarding the front entrance to the hangar.”
They looked at each other and suddenly realized what was happening. Someone had deliberately caused a distraction so they could smuggle something out of the building.
“Come on,” Locke said and ran toward the far entrance. He and Grant arrived to find both deputies lying on the ground. Locke bent down to take their pulses, but they were dead. Their necks were expertly broken. The men had been ambushed. They were also missing their automatic weapons. Locke was furious. These men were killed on his territory.
Grant was just as mad as Locke was. He got on the radio as he threw the keys to his car to Locke. “This is Grant Westfield. Put the TEC on immediate lock down. No one goes in or out. Is that understood? We have subjects on the move who are armed and dangerous. Gamma protocols are in effect.” That meant if anyone tried to ram the gates, the guards were authorized to shoot first and ask questions later.
They jumped into the Jeep, and Locke shifted it into drive. Whoever had killed the deputies was speeding away in a sedan about 200 yards ahead. Two security vehicles were heading toward them, so the sedan veered off and skidded to a stop next to the Liebherr dump truck. They must have realized that getting back through Gordian’s massive gates would have been futile and were making a last stand at the truck.
The Gordian workers around the truck scattered when they saw the two men jump out with the machine guns spraying bullets into the air.
The gunmen climbed the left-side stairs of the truck, and when they reached the top, they sent two Gordian workers in the cab tumbling down those same stairs. Locke suddenly understood what the intruders’ plan was.
For such a huge machine, the Liebherr was surprisingly easy to drive. Anyone who could start a normal truck and get it into gear would be able to drive the Liebherr. And that’s just what they did. The massive truck’s two 16- cylinder diesels roared to life as the two security vehicles came to a stop in front of it and their occupants jumped out, aiming pistols from behind the open car doors.
“What are they doing?” Grant said.
“Making a mistake,” Locke said.
The dump truck rolled forward, crushing the hoods of both vehicles into an origami of steel. The men beside the cars dove out of the way.
Locke pulled even with the 200-ton behemoth, trying to find a way on board, when he heard the clatter of an AR-15. Bullets tore into the hood, and steam and oil spurted up, coating the windshield. The engine sounded like it was grinding itself to pieces.
Locke pounded his fist on the dashboard and pulled to a stop. The Jeep was destroyed. No way could they follow in it. He watched the gigantic truck as it rolled toward the hurricane security fence, which it would rip through like a damp Kleenex.
Locke threw open the door and got out. They needed a vehicle, but the nearest ones were back at the hangar more than a quarter mile away. By the time they ran back there to get another car, the truck would be long gone.
Grant, who was on the other side of the punctured hood, pointed at something past Locke’s head. “Tyler, behind you.”
Locke whirled to see the wide-eyed stares of five people who had been testing the Tesla sports car. Next to them was a trailer, but he didn’t see their service vehicle. He recognized one of the men, who stood there slack- jawed.
“Del, where’s your Jeep?” Locke said.
“Fred used it to go get us some lunch,” Del said.
Then Locke’s eyes settled on the Tesla.
“Del, Grant and I are going to borrow your car.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
“You drive,” Locke said to Grant. “Let’s toss the targa.”
The Tesla had a removable targa roof, and Locke knew the only way to catch the men in the Liebherr was to get aboard it too, which would be easier if he didn’t have to climb through the Tesla’s window. He flipped a couple of latches, and Grant did the same. Then they picked up the roof section and pitched it backwards where it clattered to the ground.
Grant squeezed himself into the driver’s seat and punched the accelerator even before Locke had his door closed. Except for the squealing of tires and high-pitched whine of the electric motors, the car was eerily silent, which made the roar of the lumbering dump truck even louder.
Locke hated to see the truck damaging his beloved TEC. The Liebherr plowed its way across the dirt obstacle course, mowing down everything in its path. Even concrete and steel was no match for the huge truck. Once it got out of the TEC, no one would be safe, and there would be virtually no way to stop it.
Locke remembered a few years back in San Diego when a psychotic had stolen a tank from a National Guard armory. Although the tank’s gun was disabled, the impregnable vehicle rampaged through city streets at a stately 20 miles per hour, dozens of police cars following. There was nothing anyone could do. It destroyed homes, cars, RVs, telephone poles. The police had been reduced to watching the destruction, hoping the tank would run out of gas. The only reason the rampage stopped was because the driver stranded the tank on a concrete median. It was only then that police could assault the tank and kill the driver.
This was worse. That tank was a slow, Vietnam-era M60. Maybe 50 tons. The Liebherr 282 B weighed four times that, was 25 feet tall, and could reach a top speed of 40 mph. Nothing short of a precision-guided bomb would be able to stop it.
This escape couldn’t be the hijackers’ original plan. It was too noisy and dangerous. They wanted something from the Hayden wreckage, but for some reason they weren’t able to sneak it through the TEC front gate. The intruders had seen the Liebherr, and going through the gate would be unnecessary if they could steal the dump truck.
Whatever the hijackers had was worth an awful risk to obtain. That meant Locke needed to get it back.
The local police would already be on their way to track the truck by helicopter. There was no possibility the truck would be able to slip away. But Locke thought the hijackers would know that and have some kind of escape plan. In the meantime, there was a 200-ton truck under Gordian’s responsibility that was about to blast through suburban Phoenix.
Because the Tesla was a low-slung sports car, it wasn’t able to take the direct path that the Liebherr had taken. It made up for the difference with speed and handling. Grant steered it onto the smoother parts of the dirt course, careful to avoid the rubble the truck was creating.
