64
AFTER LOADING SEVERAL BOXES, the Chinese truck pulled back out onto the highway and we followed at a distance, three cars back. Piet was good; he knew how to tail.
“How are we going to get this truck grabbed before they stop again?”
“We force them off the highway.”
“What, in broad daylight?”
“Yes. In broad daylight. Right now, they’re split up—two in the cab, one back with the goods—and they are more on guard when they’re stopped. They won’t expect an attack now.”
“That’s because attacking them on the highway is stupidity,” Piet said. “What do you suggest we do?”
“Get behind them, then go past them,” I said. “I want a better look at the cargo door.”
He inched up past the two sedans between us and the Ling truck and swerved back over. I studied the back of the truck. A sliding door, secured at the bottom by two separate padlocks. Hard to pick, roaring along at seventy miles an hour.
“Now go past them.”
He floored the van and hurtled past the truck. The cab door appeared to be normal, no modifications. I didn’t give it more than a glance; I didn’t want to attract the driver’s attention. But I saw him, and he was laughing.
“Stay ahead of them.”
I studied the map, unfolded on my lap. There was another highway intersection, cutting across northern France, perhaps fifteen kilometers distant.
“Floor it. Get us there now. I have an idea.”
“This is insane,” Piet said, but he smiled. The Ling truck would be here within minutes, and the van was parked on a bridge over the expressway.
“You understand what to do?”
He nodded. “If this fails, you’ll have wrecked everything.”
“If this fails, I’ll be dead. So don’t bitch. Just do what you’re supposed to do.”
“Good luck.” He offered me his hand. I dared not show my revulsion for him. So I shook hands.
“They’re coming,” he said, looking south. I could see the truck approaching in the heavy gray mist.
I put my legs over the side of the overspan and I heard Piet’s van roar off, but my mind was on counting.
The truck should pass under me at fifteen.
Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…
I was wrong. The Ling truck hurtled beneath me at fourteen and if I hesitated I would miss it, landing onto unforgiving asphalt, tumbling into fast-moving traffic. I threw myself off and caught the last third of the truck, trying to land on all fours and roll with controlled parkour grace. A roll would be far quieter than hammering feet against the roof.
But my legs slipped and the truck veered slightly. I started to go off the roof’s edge, on the passenger side. My legs danced in the air.
I swung myself hard, every muscle in my arms screaming, thinking, If they see me in the wing mirror I’m dead. I yanked myself up with a jerk that felt like I’d torn flesh from my arms and settled into the slight depression in the truck’s roof.
Then I lay very, very still.
Had they seen me? I had to assume radio communication between the cab and the guy in the hold of the truck. Either could have reported an unexpected sound, or the passenger in the cab could have seen my blue-jeaned legs swinging out into the empty air when I struggled for a grip. Maybe they’d take the next exit, search for a place of privacy, then dispatch me.
No. I saw the next exit sign pass. A light rain began to fall from the granite-gray sky. The truck pressed onward.
I started to crawl along the length of the truck. Slowly, steadily, keeping my head down. I didn’t want a motorist to see me. I risked a glance behind me. Piet had rejoined the highway and his van was there, staying close but not too close.
The rain increased, slicking the metal. I needed a firm grip for the next step, and nature had just made my job harder.
I reached the forward edge of the truck. The cab’s roof was about two feet below my hands. I could ease onto the roof, but I’d be more visible to anyone in approaching traffic. Cell phones were everywhere; I didn’t want the French police getting reports of a crazy man truck-surfing the expressway.
The other choice was to ease down between the cab and the truck, into the narrow space, so that’s where I went, feet first, my back to the cab. The truck jolted over a rough patch of road and my right foot slipped. Gravity seized me and I caught my hand in the jumble of cables at the cab’s rear. My foot landed on the metal strut connecting the cab. Below me I could see the road passing between the crushing wheels.
I steadied myself. Now or never.
I inched my arm, holding Piet’s gun, around the cab’s corner. I planned to grab the passenger door, wrench it open and yank myself inside. All without the cab’s guard shoving me back out into empty air at seventy miles an hour. The wind whipped hard around me, the rain seeping into my eyes.
I put my head around the corner and stared into a man’s face, leaning out of the window.