Filter
Top Products
ERIC NYLUND
161
at an angle pointed at the undercarriage of the truck. His hand
trembled but he forced himself to be steady. He had to.
The gate guard approached the truck with a long pole and a
small mirror attached at one end. He stuck the mirror under the
truck and swept it along one side.
John matched the position of the mirror with his, moved it
steady along as the gate guard passed him so all the guard
saw was the reflected image of the undercarriage—a meter to
John's left.
They'd practiced this maneuver all last night. It had to be
perfect.
The guard moved on to Sam's position, and then Fhajad's, and
finally to Kelly's corner of the truck.
Kelly's mirror slipped and she fumbled—caught it just before
it hit the ground. John held his breath; Kelly barely got the re-
flective surface in place as the gate guard swept her section.
"Go ahead," the guard said and rapped the side of the truck.
"You're clean."
"How are the dogs?" the driver asked.
"Still sick," the guard muttered. "Not sure what the heck they
all ate last night, but they're still squirting."
"Damn," the driver said. He started the engine and rolled into
Tango Company's base camp.
Last night Fred had fed the guard dogs a paste made of a few
squirrels they'd caught, some unripe berries, and the antibacterial
ointment in their first-aid kits—a concoction guaranteed to keep
Tango's dogs out of the picture for another day.
The truck parked inside a warehouse. Two men came and un-
loaded the back and then left, locking the doors of the warehouse
behind them.
John and the others finally eased themselves down from the
truck. None of them spoke. A single word overheard now could
blow the entire operation. They silently massaged their aching
muscles. John bandaged his ear to stop the bleeding.
John pointed to Sam and then at the hood of the truck. Sam
nodded and got to work. John then pointed at Fhajad and to
the side door. Fhajad moved to the entrance and began to pick
the lock.