The driver keeps swerving from one lane to the next. I feel like I’m on a boat on a tumultuous sea, like I’m back on that yacht where I thought I witnessed what I did but obviously did not.
As I start on the first filing cabinet, tearing open the top drawer and sorting through the files, I ask Atticus how much more time.
“A minute, if you’re lucky.”
Slamming the drawer shut, opening the next one, yelling, “Nova, where are you?”
“Ready when you are.”
“Can you slow them down?”
“Not all of them.”
“How many?”
“Right now looks like three.”
Tearing apart files, throwing out papers, finding guns wrapped in plastic bags, bullets concealed in dime bags, until I come to a drawer that has cell phones and discs and pieces of hard drives—
And flash drives.
“Holly,” Atticus says, “you have about thirty seconds.”
Quickly sorting through the bagged items, looking for a printed name, a flash of gold, I say, “Nova, do your magic.”
“I’m trying, I’m trying.”
Nothing in this drawer. I slam it shut, open the next, find even more bagged items. I start whispering a mantra—“Come on, come on, come on”—and then I slam the drawer shut, open the next one.
Nova: “They’re right on your tail.”
I pause and glance up. Three black BMWs are spread out, each taking a lane.
I reach for the Glock but then stop, realizing that won’t work, at least not yet. I hurry forward, stepping over the agent with the broken nose, gripping the one steel desk and pulling and pushing, pulling and pushing, until it starts to move. It weighs a ton but it starts to slide across the floor, and I push it toward the back, the three BMWs gaining ground, I push the desk until I reach the edge and then I push some more and the front two legs drop over the side and I keep pushing until the rest slides over and the desk tumbles front over end to the highway.
The desk hits the asphalt, bounces back up spinning in the air. The middle BMW tries to swerve out of the way, but all the driver does is jerk the wheel too hard and the spinning desk lands right where the turning wheel is and jams there and causes the car to flip.
Nova, his voice loud and hurried: “What the hell was that?”
The two remaining BMWs continue on like nothing’s happened, taking up the space the third left behind, keeping pace with each other as they come even closer. Both passenger side windows lower. The upper parts of bodies pop out, submachine guns in hand.
I pull the Glock, aim not at the men or the windshields but at the BMWs’ grilles, at their front tires. I pop off a half-dozen rounds, enough to give me some time, and I turn back around, run to the other desk, pull it from the wall and then flip it over just as the men in the BMWs open fire.
Crouched behind the desk, feeling the vibration of every bullet, I yell as loud as I can: “Nova, get your ass up here and take care of these cars!”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t give a shit! Just don’t let them kill me!”
There’s a lull in the gunfire. I look around at the two tranquilized agents, both still knocked out cold.
Keeping low, I crawl back toward the nose of the trailer, to the filing cabinet with the bagged electronic items. I start sorting through them, tossing out bags, tossing out more bags, until I slam the drawer shut and go to the next cabinet.
Nova says, “I’m going to be so pissed off at you if I get killed doing this,” and then I hear the steady staccato of gunfire.
I pause to peek over the desk. Nova’s pickup trails the BMWs, Nova leaning out his window, gun in hand, shooting at one of the cars.
The tractor-trailer swerves again, from left to right, and gravity finally has its way and sends me falling to the ground. I knock my head on one of the filing cabinets, see white for a moment, and then I crawl forward again, open up the next drawer, start sorting through it.
“Holly,” Nova yells. “I’m taking on gunfire!”
I peek over the desk again. The two men with the submachine guns have shifted positions and are now firing back at Nova.
Springing to my feet, I tell Nova to get ready.
“Ready? Ready for what?”
I crouch down at the desk, plant my feet, and start pushing. This desk moves a whole hell of a lot easier than the last, moving like it’s on ice, and then it’s at the edge and it tips over and crashes down to the ground and slams right into the grille of the one BMW.
Nova’s pickup swerves behind the BMW as it comes to a sudden halt, coming right around it, and the agent with the submachine gun in the last car swings back, starts firing at me.
I dive back into the trailer, crawl up to the filing cabinet, just start tearing things out. More files, more papers, more bagged items of discs and cell phones and flash drives and—
Holy shit, there it is.
Wrapped in a plastic bag just like all the rest.
A golden flash drive, one of a kind.
When I speak, my voice is barely a whisper. “I got it.” I have to say it again. “I got it.” And again. “I got it!”
“About time,” Nova says. He’s back there behind the BMW, swerving from lane to lane, trying to stay directly behind the car while the passenger keeps firing at him. “You ready to make your exit?”
I stuff the flash drive in my pocket, pat it once to make sure it’s secure. Then I work my way forward, grab onto the rope, pull it until it
