“A dog always runs to familiar territory. Kumar and Yousseff built KDDE from the ground up. It’s a huge company with extensive holdings with frontage on Karachi Harbor. That’s home turf. There will be endless modes of transportation there. They build and repair ships there. They probably have a helicopter on the premises. They will have endless numbers of vehicles, and they will have an absolutely loyal staff. That’s how Yousseff and Kumar built their businesses. The means for them to get out of Pakistan is with that company. That’s where they have to be going. That’s where we intercept them. We can work with ISI. Remember, they want Kumar dead as much as we do. Surely we have someone on Air Force One here who can get that ball rolling for us?”
The president smiled. “Atta girl, Tyra. Yes, we have a few hard-core types on staff who can help us out here.”
23
The vehicle thefts and swaps continued. Zak, with the various tools embedded in his prosthesis, and Richard, with his technical skills, boosted more cars than a gang of meth-fueled New York locksmiths. They never remained in one car or truck for longer than an hour. They were heading generally in a southwesterly direction, using the M-9 or the various feeder routes that ran parallel to it. Turbee, who had been quietly monitoring them from the TTIC control room, had been able—using the comm-link technology that Zak carried with him in his prosthetic forearm—to patch into central dispatch of the Sindh Provincial Police Force. The three fugitives were rising rapidly on the constabulary radar screen. They were able to anticipate where the roadblocks were being thrown up and take various sideroads and alternate highways. The orders were becoming obviously more pressing, as low-flying helicopters bearing the markings of the Sindh Police and the ISI became more abundant in the sky above the highway, and police cars with sirens blaring threaded their way through the heavy traffic. They were well within the Karachi city limits, and less than ten miles from Karachi Harbor, driving an ancient three-axle farm truck when traffic again began to slow.
“Roadblock up ahead, Rich.”
“What do you suggest here, Zak?”
“Block the highway with this truck.”
“What?”
“Block it, Rich. Slow it down and just park this piece of crap truck directly across the highway. Somebody’s got to stop. Then we, you know, we do what we usually do.”
“Zak, this is the major route between Islamabad and Karachi—”
“Block the fucking road, Rich. We don’t have much time. We do not want to get into a box before we’re at the harbor. Do as I tell you.”
Richard did. What followed was not particularly surprising. He hammered the brakes and cut the wheels sharply to the left, bringing the lorry to a skittering halt, blocking both southbound lanes. Several cars were able to dodge the obstacle, but a couple drove off the traveled portion of the highway. One rolled. A few smashed into one another and several smashed into the flatbed. They were being cursed at in multiple languages.
“Hop out, Rich. There’s an Audi back there with a solo driver in it. Let’s take it and scram.”
Richard hopped down from the cab of the flatbed and took several long steps toward the Audi. The driver of the Audi committed several errors. He remained stationary when he should have driven away. And he opened the driver’s door, swearing in English, “What the fuck are you guys doing? Have you completely lost your minds?”
The Audi driver stood all of five-foot-two, while Zak stood at six-footone and Richard topped out at just shy of six feet. He immediately saw the folly of his actions, but it was too late. Richard walked past him without acknowledging his presence and stepped into the car. Zak directed Kumar to get into the back seat. When the driver, realizing he was now the victim of a hijacking, began screaming even louder at Richard, Zak gave him an unblinking, grey-eyed death stare, and the man settled down.
“Pin it, Richard,” Zak said. “Around the back of the flatbed, into the northbound lanes, and take the first side road off the freeway.”
“Okay, now we’re in a stolen Audi. What’s next, hotshot?” Richard asked, ruefully.
“We need to change vehicles a few more times, in the next few minutes. If we do this three or four times, we will likely confuse the cops. And keep her heading toward Karachi Harbor. I think I know how we can get ourselves out of this jam. But we’ve got to stay off the N-5. Then we follow Kumar’s plan.”
Richard looked in his rearview mirror at Kumar, sitting in the back seat. He remained eerily quiet. He had seldom broken his silence. He was staring ahead, defocused and mute.
The day of joyriding continued unabated. At Dumlotteen Road, they swapped the Audi for another ancient Volvo, and near Karachi International Airport, they downgraded further to an aging, multicolored Volkswagen. As they traversed the industrialized reaches of Sindh Province, they swapped the VW for an antique six-axle Peterbilt pulling a fifty-three-foot box trailer.
They were driving south along Muhammad Jinnah Freeway, a major entry point into the downtown Karachi business district, when they saw yet another police roadblock ahead of them. The roadblock had been cleverly stationed, located along the southern end of a mile-long overpass. Traffic slowed and then stopped as the police pulled over and inspected every vehicle.
“I think we’re screwed here, guys,” Richard said, downshifting and braking. “We can’t get off the highway. We can’t avoid this one, and certainly not driving a big rig like this.”
“Why don’t you run the bastard,” Zak said. “There’s the inside shoulder lane just there,” he said, pointing. “I don’t see any spike belts. You should be able to squeeze between two of those PCs just ahead. When we get through, we can ditch this old pig for something a little more nimble.”
“Zak, come on. I just can’t blow through a police checkpoint like this. People are liable
