Numbered Account

Remo stared at Joseph. "Or a tip."

Franco kept his arm pointed at Sterling Thorne. "The cop at the booth. He took one look at our rig and scrambled his team. And look! Look up there! They got ten cruisers ready for us."

"You're wrong," said Joseph. "They're not scrambling anything." He had to keep these losers calm until they didn't have any other choice but to give up peacefully. Get the truck under the portico. Just another minute or two. "Just sit back and shut up."

At that moment, both rearview mirrors lit up with revolving red and blue lights. A brace of police cars drew up twenty yards in back of them. The tanker ahead was waved through. When it cleared the portico, a team of twelve policemen rushed forward forming a tight phalanx behind Sterling Thorne. Each policeman wore dark blue body armor and brandished a blunt submachine gun.

"We're screwed," said Remo, hysteria cracking his voice. He was rocking off the steering wheel like a hyperactive child. "I told you. No more unpaid vacations. I can't go back."

"Listen to me," Joseph pleaded. "We have to call their bluff. That's our only chance of getting out of here."

"There is no chance of getting out of here," exploded Remo. "Someone has set a trap and we're the catch."

Joseph thrust a finger into Remo's chest. "We have two tons of my boss's merchandise sitting in the back of this rig. I won't allow us to lose it because your nerves can't stand a little heat. We are not caught until they slam the cuffs on our wrists."

Remo wiped his nose, staring at the empty space in front of them and at the tall inspector waving them forward. His fear was palpable. "We're caught," he yelled. "I know it and Franco knows it. Why the fuck don't you?" He cocked his arm and threw an elbow, which caught Joseph in the temple. "You don't know it because you want us to pull into that little party they've set up for us, you fucking sand nigger. The Makdisis told me not to trust you. They were right. You've done this, haven't you?" Another elbow flew, this one smashing the bridge of Joseph's nose, crushing bone and cartilage and releasing a violent stream of blood. " 'Right lane,' you said. 'Right fucking lane.' Well, here we are and it's the wrong fucking lane."

Remo rammed his foot onto the accelerator and the eighteen-wheeler jerked forward.

Franco uttered a whooping war cry.

Sterling Thorne stood in front of the juggernaut, his arm extended and his palm upraised. Through a veil of refracted light, Joseph saw Thorne's expression turn from surprise to confusion, and finally, terror, as the rig advanced on him. Thorne froze, unable to decide which way to move. The twenty-four-cylinder engine roared. Remo blasted the horn. Thorne dove under the chassis of the diesel monster.

Joseph grabbed at the steering wheel. He kicked at the gear shift with his right leg and thrust the fingers of his left hand backward into Franco's face, seeking his adversary's eyes. Franco bellowed madly, screaming for his friend to free him of the crazed Arab. Remo yelled "Kill him" as he put the rig back into gear.

Gunfire erupted to the rear of the truck. Tires exploded as bullets passed through coiled rubber and punctured pressurized i

Joseph dug his fingers into Franco's eyes. He sheared an eyeball from its optic nerve and dashed it to the floor. Franco screamed louder and brought both hands to his ravaged face. Joseph reached over the wounded man's heaving belly and pushed open the passenger door. He lowered his shoulder and shoved him out of the cabin.

Remo was wounded. Cables of rosy phlegm dangled from his mouth. A bullet hole in his gut spurted blood. His face was dotted with a dozen pinpricks where burs of glass had torn the flesh. Still, he concentrated on the road before him with the blind fury of a wounded bull.

Joseph wedged one arm against the dashboard and the other against the seat back. He swung his legs up and lashed out at Remo's head. The heels of his work boots caught the ailing driver flush in the jaw and slammed him against the steel door frame. Remo made a last effort at defending himself, throwing his right arm weakly in his attacker's direction. Joseph dodged the blow. He recoiled and brought his legs up to batter the injured mafioso. Again he landed a solid kick to the driver's head. Remo tottered in his seat. He spit out a patch of blood before falling forward against the steering wheel, either dead or unconscious.

The truck gained speed. It veered precipitously to the right, accelerating toward the column of police cars camped on the dirt shoulder. Joseph lifted Remo's inert body off of the steering column and fought to dislodge his leaden foot from the accelerator. The constant jostling of the truck rendered every effort ineffective. Each thrust served only to pinion Remo's foot more tightly onto the accelerator.

The line of police cars drew nearer. Twenty yards separated the renegade juggernaut from the automobiles. Ten, five…

Joseph realized that no action could prevent the truck from striking the cars. He threw open the passenger door and launched himself from the cabin. He landed ru

The juggernaut plowed into the first police car. Its tires crushed the automobile's hood and thrust the truck skyward. The rig rolled on, careering over one car and then another. Windows shattered, metal tore, and sirens exploded. The downward force with which one gasoline tank was crushed provoked an incendiary spark, instantaneously igniting its contents. The blast lifted the automobile off the ground, overturning the truck's rear trailer and setting off a chain reaction of high-octane explosions as gasoline tank after gasoline tank succumbed to the fireball. The smuggler's rig toppled onto its side and was itself engulfed in flame.

Police surrounded Joseph. Sterling Thorne broke through the circle of officers and bent down beside him. "Welcome back to civilization," he said.

Joseph nodded. He didn't appreciate being at the business end of twelve automatic rifles.

"You have something for me," Thorne asked.

Joseph looked up at Thorne, remembering all over again what an asshole he was. The guy didn't even ask if he was okay. He fished in his pocket for a scrap of paper. It read "Ali Mevlevi. Hotel Olivella au Lac. Room 407. USB account 549.617 RR." Exactly as Thorne had dictated.

Thorne took the scrap of paper from Joseph, raising the walkie-talkie to his lips even as he read it. "We have conducted a search of the suspect and discovered evidence of an incriminating nature. We have probable cause to believe that a suspect involved in the importation of a large shipment of heroin is currently residing at the Hotel Olivella au Lac in room four zero seven. Proceed with caution."

A last gas tank exploded on the road behind them. A fireball rose into the morning sky.

Thorne covered his head. He extended his hand and helped Joseph to his feet. "You didn't have to make my job so much harder," he said. "A lot of very convincing evidence is going up in smoke."

Moammar al Khan stared transfixed at the black and orange plume. He fumbled for the cellular phone, his right hand blindly patting the passenger seat. Look at that smoke, he thought to himself, cringing. A ton of Al-Mevlevi's product in flames. Allah have mercy.