to make it back here until next week.” He waited.
The guard eyed him, and then Rafiq, who sat in the passenger side, twenty years added to his looks with gray hair and a mustache, thanks to Lisette’s makeup skills. The guard turned his attention back to the paperwork, finally saying, “Open up the truck.”
Marc exited, walked to the back of the truck followed closely by the guard, and slid open the rear door, revealing case after case of motor oil. The guard signaled for Marc to lower the lift, so that he could get up and inspect the cargo. He took a knife from his belt, slit open one of the cases, pulled out a can of oil, then punched the top of the can with his knife. He removed the knife, touched his finger to the tip, rubbing the oil, then smelling it, as he walked between the stacks of cases toward the front of the bed, where he was about to do the same to another case. There was a damned good chance that he was about to drive his knife into either a case containing the explosives or the combustible fluid needed to incinerate the bioweapons. The former was bound to raise his suspicions when his knife didn’t come out covered in oil. The latter was a different problem. The slightest spark and they were toast.
The guard shoved the tip of his knife into the top of the case to open it, and Marc called out, “You want a case of the oil to take home?”
The guard hesitated, looked over at him. “Two cases.”
“Two cases,” Marc said, patting the two toward the front. He hopped up on the lift, then removed two cases. “Where do you want them?”
The guard walked over to Marc. “Bring them into there,” he said, pointing to the guard shack. Marc followed him in, glancing at the monitors as he placed the cases on the floor before them.
“Not there,” the guard said, pointing toward the desk. “There.”
Marc lifted the cases and moved them behind the desk, where they would no doubt stay until the guard was off duty. In about forty minutes, the oil would be the last thing the guard would be thinking about, and Marc walked out, again trying to get a glimpse of the monitor of the warehouse. No sign of Tex. He wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad.
The guard called for an escort, who drove up a few minutes later in a jeep old enough to probably use half the oil in the truck at any given time. The escort was also uniformed in the same security coveralls, armed with a semiauto. He stood about five inches shorter than Marc, and when he removed his cap from his head, he swiped at his forehead with his sleeve as he looked over the paperwork. “Why are you a day early?”
Marc gave a casual shrug. “I only know I was supposed to deliver it today.”
The second guard returned the invoice to Marc. “Follow me. If I am not with you, you will be shot.”
Finally. Marc climbed into the truck, started it, and followed the jeep into the compound. The compound was like a mini military base, with a handful of bunkhouses, perhaps where the guards and laborers slept, and a number of Quonset huts. The Quonset they needed was closer to the airstrip, which bordered the open desert. Fortunately, the oil was destined for the same locale, and guard number two stopped his jeep in front of the tan Quonset, got out, and unlocked the door.
“Ready?” Marc asked Rafiq.
“Ready.”
Rafiq got out and opened the back of the truck, while Marc took the clipboard in one hand, and a pair of leather work gloves in his other, and walked into the hut after the guard. He glanced around, noticing that the cameras were pointed toward the large doors of the interior, and the office area, where a second guard stood sentry. That, he figured, was the entrance to the actual lab, or where Tex was hidden, otherwise why have a man guarding an empty office? In the meantime, Marc wanted their escort guard out of sight of the camera. “We need to have this signed before we make the delivery,” he said, stepping outside the door near the back of the open truck.
The guard took the paperwork just as Rafiq walked up and asked, “Where do you want us to put the oil?”
“That way,” he said, pointing toward the interior.
Which was when Marc hit him over the head with the lead weight hidden in his gloves.
The guard crumpled to the ground, and Rafiq and Marc dragged him away from the doorway, into the back of the truck, where they stripped him of his uniform, gagged him, then tied his feet together and his hands behind his back. By the time he came to, Rafiq, being the shorter of the two, was dressed in his clothes, and pointing his gun at the man’s head.
The guard looked around, his eyes wide, his nostrils flaring. His muffled cries barely made it through the gag.
“We’re looking for someone,” Marc said. “A man was brought into that warehouse yesterday. He was hurt. Did you see him?”
The guard nodded.
“Where is he?”
Rafiq lowered the gag.
“Die you pigs of hell.”
Rafiq pressed his gun into the man’s temple. “One more chance. Where is he?”
“He’s dead. Like you’ll be.”
When he started to scream, Rafiq stuffed the gag back in his mouth, saying, “Another sound and you die. Be quiet and live. Understand?”
Apparently he didn’t. He tried to kick out at them, and Rafiq hit him over the head with the gun butt.
Marc looked at his watch. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to find Tex. He moved a few cases rigged with explosives onto the dolly, and for benefit of the camera, Rafiq escorted him, directing him into the interior.
Rafiq stood guard, his hand on his weapon. “You’re sure he was in there?”
“Like I said, it was a quick glimpse, but those cowboy boots sure looked like his.”
“Where do you think he was?”
Marc looked around, saw the remaining guard glance their way, but then, seeing Rafiq in his uniform, relax. Marc nodded toward the far side, his heart pounding. If they didn’t find Tex…“Over there. That pallet that looked like it was filled with sacks of rice. You’ll have to go look while I unload the truck.”
Rafiq ran his fingers through his hair, then put on the guard’s cap so it sat low, covering his face. “I don’t like this. What if we can’t find him?”
“We have no choice. We go ahead as planned.”
Rafiq nodded, then walked across the floor, past the shelves and pallets to have a look. He returned a few minutes later. “Looks like maybe dried blood, but nothing else. If he’s in here, he could be anywhere.”
Rafiq was right. Some of the pallets were stacked on shelves up to the roof. There were dozens of barrels that contained the alleged biohazard material that needed to be destroyed. Anyone of those could hold a body, conscious or unconscious. He could be stuffed behind any number of boxes and cartons stacked around the premises, and they had yet to make entry into the actual lab.
“I’ll finish,” Marc said. “You take another look, while I set the charges.”
Several minutes later, Marc was unloading the last of the cases inside the Quonset, placing them in precise locations meant for optimal performance. “Anything?” he asked Rafiq, hoping for good news.
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Let’s take out the other sentry. See what he’s guarding. Maybe Tex is there.”
Marc, his clipboard in hand, approached the other guard. “I think there is some sort of mistake on here,” he said, holding out the clipboard.
“This area is forbidden,” the guard said.
“Can you just take a look? I have a full truck, and this says only half. Should I just deliver it all?” He casually walked past the guard into the office, placing the clipboard onto the desk, noting a steel door just inside.
The guard followed him in. “You are not permitted-” And then Rafiq took him out as easily as they had the first guard.
Marc searched him, found an electronic key for the door. He opened it and saw a stairwell that led down. He grabbed two boxes of the explosives, and then he and Rafiq descended. Inside several men and one woman in white lab coats were working at tables in the vast underground space of glass-enclosed cubicles. One looked up in alarm, a sheen of sweat on his dark skin, and it took Marc a moment to recover his senses once he recognized him. In English, he said, “Dr. Balraj? We were told to deliver these supplies for your work.”
Balraj eyed the boxes with suspicion, stepping out of his room. “What supplies?”
