Zero Hour

“Wait a minute, I—”

“Headquarters, both of you,” Ricci interrupted. “Soon as you can.”

Then he pressed the END button on his touchpad, reached into his coat for his Palm computer, and set it on the table in front of him.

* * *

It took Ricci just minutes to read the van’s license-plate number off the digital photo he’d uploaded to his Palmtop, obtain a U-Haul nationwide 800 hotline from directory assistance, and, under the pretext that he was a renter who might have left his wallet inside the van, feed a customer service operator its plate number so she could search for the location where it had been picked up.

“The information’s right here on my screen, sir,” she said. “It’s an affiliate in Trenton, New Jersey.”

“You have directions from Manhattan?”

“I’m sorry, no, but there is an address, and a direct exchange—”

“Let me have it.”

The operator did, and Ricci called an instant after he hung up on her.

Three rings later, a man’s voice: “Hullo, Turnpike U-Haul.”

“I’m bringing a van back to you,” Ricci said. And again read off the plate number. “Want to confirm you’re the same center that leased it.”

The guy paused a second at the other end.

“You Mr. Donovan?” he said, sounding confused.

Ricci thought.

“A friend of his,” he said. “Why?”

“Well, I explained to him that it only comes and goes from our center for two days max,” the U-Haul rep said. His bewilderment seemed to deepen. “Also, he just had one driver listed on his application. Means nobody but Mr. Donovan should be getting behind the van’s wheel, let alone retur—”

“He can’t make it,” Ricci broke in. “Got to be me or nobody.”

“Look, something happens to you on the road, I’m screwed insurance-wise—”

“I told you my friend isn’t around,” Ricci said. “Now you want the damn thing back or not?”

The guy paused a beat, issued a resigned sigh

“You the same fella who drove Donovan over yesterday?”

“No, how come?”

“Because I’m trying to save you some time,” he said. “He — your pal who isn’t around, that is — mentioned that they went past the Raja Petrochemical plant coming here, saw those big acid gas storage tanks out back… which tells me they must’ve got lost off the Turnpike ramp, driven out of their way trying to find my lot.”

Ricci’s hand tightened on the phone.

“You better tell me how to get to you,” he said.

* * *

Earl had driven the U-Haul down I-87 almost to where it ran into the toll plaza when he passed a sign that said one of those public rest stops was coming up on his left.

It would be a gem of a place to give Zaheer — who hadn’t spoken a word from over in the passenger seat since they split the Super 8—his hard jolt of reality.

He rolled on for a quarter mile, saw the entrance to the stop, and grooved the van toward the access lane.

Zaheer looked at him, suddenly seemed to remember he had a tongue that worked.

“Where are you going?”

“Gentleman’s room.” Earl nodded at the visitors’ building that had come into view. “We’ve got a long stretch of road ahead to our exit.”

Zaheer’s expression was incredulous.

“You’ve lost your senses,” he said. “It was you who feared that a watch had been placed on the motel. We cannot pull over now.”

Earl shrugged. That was almost a joke, Zaheer calling him screwy. Here was somebody who was heading off to die as some kind of martyr, looking for paradise on the other side of a cloud that would turn everyone for hundreds of miles around into a popped, runny blister. Somebody who had to damn well know those biohazard suits they’d been given wouldn’t offer squat for protection when the laser cannon in back zapped Raja’s HF tanks… that nothing would be able to shield them, not at ground zero.

A real fucking hoot, all right, his fellow road warrior Zaheer. He really believed the payment he’d brought from Hasul would be worth something in the world beyond.

“There was a watch, we beat it,” Earl said now. “And far as stopping, that’s Mother Nature’s call, not mine.”

Before Zaheer could issue another squeak of protest, Earl swung into the deserted parking area outside the redbrick visitors’ house and cut the van’s motor, leaving the keys in the ignition.

“You waiting out here?” he said.

Zaheer gave a curt, silent nod of displeasure.

Shrugging, Earl climbed out of the van, entered the unoccupied visitors’ station, and pushed through the men’s room door.

In a locked toilet stall, he took a minute or two to urinate — no sense making himself a liar—and then zipped up and transferred his Sig-Sauer compact nine-mil from its peekaboo holster under his pant leg to his coat pocket, where he’d keep his hand comfortably around its grip and be able to bring it out fast and easy the minute he got back to the van.

Leaving the bathroom, Earl realized the only thing he hadn’t remembered to do was flush after himself… but then you couldn’t cover everything when you were in a hurry.

* * *

As Earl exited the visitors’ station, hands in his coat pockets, Zaheer sat with the fingers of his right hand wrapped around the butt of a Zastava Model 70, the Russian police pistol tucked in the space between the U-Haul’s passenger seat and door. He did not trust the kaffir for an instant, and would be prepared should he attempt any betrayal. Should no such attempt be made, Zaheer would simply release his hold on the little pocket automatic and continue with the mission as planned.

Either way, he was satisfied he’d covered every possibility.

Now Earl approached the van, took one hand out of his coat, reached out to open the driver’s door.

“Now that was a blessed relief,” he said the moment it swung wide.

Zaheer saw the gun appear in Earl’s other hand at the same instant, faster than he would have anticipated.

He brought up his Zastava without hesitation, pulling the trigger even as Earl fired his weapon, both barrels crashing and spitting their loads.

His face contorted, Earl staggered backward, clutched his chest, and went tumbling into the brown grass in front of the building.

Zaheer dropped his gun onto his seat with a grimace, then, fiery pain spreading up the left side of his abdomen. He must hurry now to carry out what fate had designed for him.

Shoving himself into the driver’s seat, he simultaneously keyed the ignition and slammed the door shut. Then he footed the accelerator, tearing out of the visitors’ stop and back onto the Thruway as quickly as he could manage.

* * *

The motorcycles darted onto the Jersey Turnpike from the I-95 turnoff, an even half dozen of them weaving through heavy four-wheeled traffic as it eked southward from the bottlenecked George Washington Bridge. Lightweight, nimble, slender, and speedy, they were virtually the same bikes UpLink had designed for the Defense Department to equip the 75th Rangers for rapid deployment and attack, providing maneuverability where there was no real room to maneuver.

Ricci bent over the handlebars of his cycle, his eyes scouring the road from behind the visor of his molded speed helmet, looking for any sign of the U-Haul’s orange-and-blue markings. Astride the cycle to his right in a narrow channel between lanes of trucks and cars, Derek Glenn was doing the same, as were the four other Sword