Hot Wire (28 page)

"Jesus." Arn shook his head. "Better hope we can find a car or something. Maybe there's a parking lot down by those lights."

"What about the bomb?" I asked, but nobody answered. Sirens howled to the east. Reinforcements. Fire engines. Meat wagons for the dumb and dead.

"
What about the goddamn bomb
?" I thought I was losing my mind. This was never going to end. We were never going to get out of there.

"I don't know." Brown looked around nervously. "Oliver's controllers must've heard by now. Something must've gone wrong or they would've set it off already. Unless they're waiting for some reason. Trying to make up their minds." He shook his head. "If they sent the signal and it didn't work, they're going to be all over the place. Running damage control. We can't let them get these files."

"Screw the files!" I yelled at him. "Who cares about your goddamn files?"

"Shut up!" Arn walked along the tracks, looking off to the north. "You hear that?"

A train moaned in the bottoms.

#

We scrambled down the embankment, slipping on the wet ballast, then hid behind some bushes next to a ditch. I looked back the way we'd come – towards the row of boxcars and the space between the buildings – but I couldn't see anybody lurking in the shadows or creeping up on us through the storm. The skyline flickered with Mars lights and I could see the glow of the burning warehouse through a smear of black smoke drifting over the rooftops. Baldy was either busted, dead or pinned down in the alley.

"Get ready," Arn said. "Let the engine go by."

A train was coming – I could hear it rumbling through the industrial district a couple blocks away. A minute passed, then the engine turned a corner and a dazzling headlight glared on the other side of the green semaphore a hundred yards to the north, the powerful beam sweeping across the tracks and buildings, reflecting on grain elevators and factory windows. A crossing bell started to clang, then the engine blew its horn again, two short blasts, and I could hear its diesels pounding on the grade.

"It's going the wrong way." Pain flashed off my ribs. I must've cracked them when we crashed. "Back towards the warehouse."

"You want to hoof it?" Arn crouched beside me, watching the train approach. "We got no chance on the streets."

He glanced at the suitcase at my feet. I was holding it in a death grip, my fingers welded to the handle.

"The cops might stop the train," Brown said, looking back towards the south. "If they do, we're screwed."

"We got to risk it."

"What's that?" Brown yelped. "Did you see that?"

"See what?" My heart squirmed up my throat.

"Somebody's back there." He pointed back the way we'd come, his face tense, the rain shining on his burns. I clenched up, scanning the docks and boxcars, expecting to see Baldy or a pack of grunting cops charging down the line.

"I don't see anything."

"Somebody's back there. I'm sure of it."

"Get ready," Arn said. "Here it comes."

The train got closer, its light steaming in the rain, the beat of its diesels getting louder and louder. Then a couple of switch engines rolled by, hauling a string of boxcars and flatbeds loaded with containers. Tons of dead weight rattled the ties and ballast, the iron wheels ticking over joins in the rails, the cars swaying from side to side with a clatter of couplers and squealing metal. The train was only going about five miles per hour, struggling up the long grade from the harbor.

"Let's go!" Arn yelled. "Look for an open car!"

We scrambled up the embankment and ran along beside the train, falling back a little as a string of gondolas and hoppers went by, noisy as a rolling junk yard. I tripped on the ballast and Brown grabbed my arm, yanking me up again. The mist off the train was freezing.

"Back here!" Arn shouted.

I saw him running beside a boxcar with an open door and I yelled at Brown to hurry up, but I couldn't tell if he heard me. Arn jumped inside as I reached the door and I handed him the suitcase, stumbling on a tie and catching the door stop at the last minute. Squirming for a handhold with my shoes dragging on the ballast, I managed to pull myself in part of the way, yelling at Arn to help me. He hesitated for a second, then grabbed my arm and yanked me into the car, falling over backwards in the process. I fell down beside him, rolling across the metal floor and banging my head on a crate. Both of the doors were open, rain gusting through the rocking boxcar.

"Come on! Come on!"

Arn knelt in the doorway, yelling at Brown. The reporter was running beside the car with his briefcase, reaching for the door stop and gaping at us through a cloud of spray kicked up by the wheels. He was shouting something, but I couldn't make out what he was saying.

"Grab the edge!" Arn yelled.

Brown hesitated, glancing over his shoulder, then he tossed Arn the briefcase, grabbed the sliding channel and hauled himself inside with a grunt.

"Mitchell!" he shouted. "He's right behind me!"

Baldy. He was talking about Baldy.

The boxcar lurched while I was standing up and I almost fell down again, but I grabbed a wall strut and picked up the suitcase Arn had left on the floor. Brown stumbled into the shadows, yelling at Arn to hide the briefcase, ditch it, toss it out the other side of the car. Confused and dizzy, I was trying to figure out what to do when I saw a hand scrabble at the door stop, then another hand gripped the sliding channel and Baldy pulled himself into the boxcar, staggering in the doorway before he caught his balance.

It was Baldy, all right. His trench coat was scorched and tattered, one sleeve ripped off at the shoulder, his slacks covered with grime. Blood mixed with dirt and ashes glistened on his scraped-up face and he looked completely demented. Grabbing a strut for support, he pulled out a revolver with his free hand, looked around, then flashed some teeth when he saw Arn standing there with the briefcase.

"Pain in the ass," he sneered at me, then turned the gun on Arn. "I'll take that, Willis. The rest of you – get back from the doors! Do it now!"

The train moaned through a crossing.

Brown freaked out. Snapped. I don't know.

He lunged out of the shadows with his head down and knocked Baldy to one side, grabbing him in a clumsy bear hug and trying to push him off his feet. That was easier said than done, though. Baldy outweighed him by a ton of gristled muscle.

"Help me!" Brown yelled. "Help!"

We just gaped at them, too stunned to react. Brown had guts for a writer geek, but he was a heavy smoker and a scrawny drunk and he never had a chance. They struggled for a minute in the light from the doors, then Baldy broke his hold, got him in a headlock, kneed him in the face and shoved him into a stack of crates that toppled with a crash, spilling bolts, pipes and faucets across the metal floor. Plumbing crap. It made a racket.

Brown folded, grabbing his face.

"Over against the wall!" Baldy yelled. "Now! Get away from the doors!"

He stepped back, swinging his gun from me to Arn to Brown, but he couldn't cover us all at once. I was on his left, Brown at his feet, Arn by the other door.

"The briefcase!" Baldy edged to one side, trying to keep us all in view. "Put it on the floor!"

Arn set it down and started to back away, his hands raised at his sides. Rain flurried through the boxcar.

"Freeze!" Baldy shouted. "Don't move!"

He could've shot us, but he didn't. Then it hit me: we were about to pass the warehouse. He didn't want to draw attention.

"Martin!" The gun centered on me. "The suitcase!"

I set it down and Arn dodged to his left. When Baldy turned to cover him, I slid along the wall.

"Don't move, dumbass!" Baldy turned back to me, checked Arn again, grabbed a crate for support. That's when Brown staggered to his feet and whacked him across the head with a pipe, swinging it with both hands as hard as he could, losing his balance and falling down.

Baldy stumbled, dropping the gun.

Arn jumped him from the left, wrapping an arm around his throat and punching him in the face with his other hand. I leaped on Baldy's back, screaming and scratching at his eyes, then Brown got up and tackled him from the front, head down, grabbing him around the waist while the four of us shuffled back and forth on the edge of the door.

Baldy was laughing.

He lurched across the boxcar, twisting around and dragging us with him. It was like trying to fight a mechanical bull after a dozen shots of whiskey. Hammers banged on my neck and head, then I caught a knee in the gut and hit the floor on my back, gasping to catch my breath. Baldy ran backwards and smacked Brown against the wall, shaking him loose like an old coat, then he turned on Arn, working on his ribs and face – right, left, right – snapping his head back and knocking him into a corner.

Two blasts shattered my ears, white-hot blobs lighting up the boxcar.

Baldy staggered, clutching at his chest.

Brown shot him again with his own revolver, blowing him out the door.

#

The engine whistled up ahead.

"Jesus Christ!" Arn got to his feet and limped over to the door, doubled over and gripping his stomach, his face a livid bruise. "Goddammit! Motherfucker!"

"Get back from the door!" Brown yelled, dragging the briefcase and suitcase behind a crate, then ducking into the shadows. "Don't let them see you!"

"What?" Arn looked outside, then jumped back and flattened against the wall. "Shit!"

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"They're all over the place!"

The engine moaned again and crossing bells started to chime up ahead. Arn crouched down next to the door and peeked outside, the wind splattering rain in his face.

"We're going by the warehouse," Brown called.

"What's the deal? Are we stopping?"

"Take a look." He waved me over. "Just keep back from the door."

I crawled out of the light, then stood up and reeled over to the door, grabbing struts to keep my balance. Brown followed and we squatted beside Arn, peering around the edge of the door.

"Look at that," Arn whispered.

The tracks ran past the warehouse a couple blocks from the main gate leading to the dock. The whole building was on fire, a mass of flames twisting over the rooftops in the rain, completely out of control. Streams of water fell through a cloud of boiling smoke and the spotlights of a fire truck glared in the alley where we had wrecked the Lexus. Then a crossing signal went by – lights flashing, bells clanging – and we got a clear view of the street in front of the warehouse.

There were cops everywhere. They'd set up barricades and the road was jammed with squad cars, paddy wagons and ambulances, a lake of Mars lights that pulsed and glittered in the rain. More lights flashed around the loading dock and flickered in the yards, and I could hear this confused buzz of radio static and shouting in the distance. The cops were guarding a line of prisoners by the gate –
locos
and suits standing in a row with their hands clasped on their heads. A couple of fire trucks pulled up, their sirens screaming.

"Down there," I said. "Look at that guy."

A fed or a police detective wearing a trench coat stood in the middle of the road about a block away, watching the train go by and yelling into a walkie-talkie. Then a factory with shattered windows blocked our view and the train clattered through a switch, following a long curve into downtown Oakland.

We got to our feet, shivering in the draft.

"They heard the shots," I said.

"No kidding." Arn spit on the floor.

"What about the bomb? Can the fire set it off?"

Brown shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Can they still blow it up with that radio deal?"

"If they could, they would've done it already." Brown was a wreck, his face bruised and bloody from Baldy's knee. He gave me this weird look, then glanced over at Arn like he was trying to make up his mind about something. "The police will stop the train. They're calling Dispatch right now."

"So what do we do?" Arn asked.

"Jump," I said, turning to Brown. "Where's the money?"

"I'm keeping the money." He backed away and pulled out the revolver. The suitcase and briefcase were lying on the floor behind him.

"What're you doing?" I yelled.

"Don't move!" Brown looked around frantically, twitching up a storm. "I don't want to hurt you!"

"Son of a bitch." Arn edged over to Brown's left, then froze when he waved the gun at him. "You got to be kidding."

"
Don't move
!" Brown came off scared, uncertain, his eyes jumping from me to Arn, then back to me again. "The fire must've damaged the trigger or they would've set it off already. They've got to cover themselves now – don't you get it? Their operation
failed
. They don't care about a couple of low-life car thieves, but they know I'm a reporter. I need the money to get out of the country. The files are my insurance."