The door isn’t a rolltop, where it locks and opens at the bottom and is raised up like a garage door. No, this one is like a barn door, split right down the middle.
I lean forward even more, squint to see whether the door is locked. It isn’t. Of course it isn’t, not with the level of security riding inside the trailer, one or two or three or more just waiting, weapons already drawn.
I take another step back, so I’m right on the edge. I readjust my grip on the rope. The wind keeps slapping at my face, howling in my ears, the air cold and sharp. And before I know it I take another step back and drop down, extending my arms above my head, still gripping the rope, holding on but not as tight as I go down, down, down, until my feet touch the bumper, maybe a half foot of bumper, but enough so I can put my toes there.
Headlights splash me. I raise my head, thinking the unit has already arrived, wondering how many seconds I have to reach for the holstered Glock before the tractor-trailer’s driver jerks the wheel again and sends me flying.
But the car belongs to a civilian, just an average person heading home or heading to work.
I bring both sections of rope together, grip it tight with my left hand, then lean forward, slowly, until my right hand grasps the latch. I jerk it up and pull the door open and immediately jump back as bullets tear into the door and disappear into the night. A half moment passes where I see the car behind us has been hit, white splats marking the windshield, and the driver slams on the brakes, swerves to the right, the cars behind blaring horns as they swerve to get out of the way.
The gunfire is still heavy, unabated, and the tractor-trailer’s driver decides right then to jerk the wheel again. This time it’s to the left, and the door swings open even wider. Then the driver swerves back to the right and the door I’m using as a shield comes undone and opens and before I know it I’m off the bumper, hanging against the side of the trailer, holding onto the rope as tight as I can while feeling it slither between the thin fabric of my gloves, burning my hands, the highway now racing underneath my feet.
Hanging by the rope on the side of the trailer, I’m aware that the gunfire has stopped. I’m aware light is spilling out onto the highway directly behind us, light coming from inside the trailer, and there are shadows there, at least two of them, standing at the edge.
The driver—who must surely see me dangling behind him on his left—jerks the wheel again, and again, and again. His purpose is to make me lose my grip, send me to the asphalt. Like Atticus said, they will not stop the tractor-trailer until the threat has been neutralized; even when the unit shows up they won’t stop, because they would rather be a moving target than a stationary target.
So the driver is doing everything he can to buck me off. But I don’t let go. Instead, I reach with my right hand and grip onto the rope and spin myself so I’m facing the side of the trailer. I plant my feet square against the unmarked side and then start to move, first to the left, then to the right, to the left, to the right, making a pendulum, giving me force, giving me momentum, the wind screaming past me at eighty miles an hour, the tractor-trailer passing cars and trucks, and then I’m as far left as I can go and I move right, move right, move right, and before I know it I push off with my feet and go airborne and soar for an instant, half an instant, a quarter of an instant, the rope growing even more taut in my grip, and I hold on and swing around the door and straight into the brightly lit gaping maw of the trailer.
I come in feet first. An agent is standing there, and I knock him to the ground. I let go of the rope and hit the floor and scramble back to my feet while the other agent steps forward. He shoots at me just as I turn away—the bullet puncturing the side of the trailer—and I turn back and grab his arm as he shoots again. He tries to move the gun toward me, right at my face, and I give him a little leeway and then slam the gun back into his nose, drawing blood, and he falls just as the first agent climbs back to his feet.
I reach for Atticus’s special gun. I shoot the first agent in the neck, then turn and shoot the second agent in the neck. One of them tries to take a step toward me but the tranquilizer darts work fast. A few seconds and already the stuff is spreading through their systems. Their eyelids grow heavy. Their heads roll on their necks. Their legs give out from under them. They go down.
I stay in a shooting stance for a moment, just standing there, holding my breath. Slowly, very slowly, I lower the pistol.
Atticus must sense the sudden silence, because he asks, “Holly, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. There were two in the trailer and they’ve been taken care of.”
“How long before you find the flash drive?”
The front end of the trailer is filled with filing cabinets, two rows facing each other. Two desks are positioned against the sides, chairs underneath. A mini-fridge, a large cardboard box full of food, laptop computers set up on the desks.
“I’m not sure. It might be a while.”
“You have two minutes, maybe less.”
“Until?”
“Until the cavalry arrives. Oh, and Holly? They’re coming fast, and they’re coming strong.”
Fifty-Nine
I start with the desk on my left, ripping
