Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Fifteen

"Holland Tunnel. Ventilation system makes that whoosh."

There was befuddlement over the line, Quaid and the mayor talking over each other.

Durwood hung up.

He climbed back into the Vanagon. Stowed gun and ammo. Checked the video feed, which showed no sign of the Mice now. Could be they'd penetrated the house. Could be they'd gone.

He hated the idea of leaving Moll. She had managed fine all night, though. It was true Durwood had doubted her at the start of the job, but she had proved capable. The blog. The roundtable. Keeping her cool at the tattoo parlor with that giant. Mice were probably going to spray-paint the guy's car or steal documents. She could handle it.

If the mayor of New York City met a poor end, the unrest would accelerate. Thugs and evil-doers would be emboldened. For all Durwood knew, the Mice's leadership was behind the kidnapping anyhow, driving Quaid's and Sergio's semi.

He cranked the Vanagon motor. Sue-Ann scratched. The drive to Manhattan took 28 minutes, fast as Durwood dared. When traffic did not require his full attention, he thought. Pain grew in his forehead.

He wondered how drunk his partner was, whether impairment had led to the capture. Certain amount of fraternization was required, Quaid's role. Not as much as he practiced.

On top of playing front man in missions, Quaid Rafferty was the duo's promoter. Durwood never could have landed the clients they worked for, possessing neither natural charisma nor the gift of gab. A lone contractor before Quaid came along, he had taken missions with clear goals. Mideast security. Simple surveillance. Private tech retrieval, some prototype gone missing, about as tricky as the jobs got.

Honest, unexciting work. If there was such a thing in the extra-legal world of small-force private-arms contracting.

With Quaid had come involvement in coups, industries like oil/gas and aerospace, the foiling of villainous plots ... as if cooked up by the force of the ex-politician's imagination. Durwood enjoyed the challenge. Enjoyed the money too. Nice being able to buy a $17,000 laser-guided rifle, you felt like it.

But Quaid infuriated him. The intemperance. The women. Amazing sometimes to think the two came from the same species. Durwood could not fathom going to such lengths to scramble his own five senses and roll around with some interchangeable female. Come sunrise, your pleasures all gone.

True fulfillment came from labor, and faith.

Quaid had nearly ruined the Guadeloupe job romancing a bartender. The man had a self-destructive streak. Got bored easy. Distractible. Never satisfied with taking a simple task and doing it right.

Holland Tunnel was jammed. Durwood swung the Vanagon wide of the far toll lane, past a hog-line of idling cars. Parked in a clutter of Port Authority vehicles. Donned a hardhat. Laid a clipboard on the hood. Walked to a narrow ladder leading to the maintenance crawlspace.

Nobody stopped him.

Tracking Quaid by GPS, Durwood covered the quarter-mile to the closest ceiling hatch. Traffic had let up, he judged by the rev of engines. He needed to hustle: if he overshot, no way he'd catch the semi on foot. Ignoring a headache, he heaved loose a panel. Lowered himself into the tunnel.

Fumes and noise and whipped-hot air struck his face. Durwood quickly saw an eighteen-wheeler moving toward him in lane three. Driver dark-complected. Like half the faces here. Didn't make him Brazilian. If the driver even matched the hostile females' ethnicity, no cinch.

He checked the GPS beacon. Poor resolution at this distance, but it seemed near enough.

Durwood descended the access ladder. His boots fought for purchase on rungs slick with condensation. Bricks in front of his nose smelled sour. He lowered himself to a three-foot shoulder.

Traffic slowed. A blessing. Durwood walked, swift but unhurried, to the rear of the semi. Some taxi driver shouted. Durwood ignored him. Climbed the bumper and laid his ear to the door.

Quaid had called only once. Could be his phone got taken. Could be he and the mayor had guards on them now.

Durwood couldn't make out much. Tunnel noise too great.

He laid flat across the bumper. Nine-inch wide like a gymnast's beam. Reached up and tapped the cross-latch loose. Pressured the door, just enough to start it rolling up.

Durwood tensed his body. One hand gripped the truck's underside. The other, his gun.

The door accelerated, slamming to its ceiling tracks. Durwood felt footsteps pounding closer through the floor.

A man appeared. Squat, muscular. Perhaps Hispanic. Weapon tucked in his belt. He leaned out, glancing left and right into traffic.

"Freeze."

Durwood, gun aimed at the man's chest, pulled himself into the tuck. The guard backed off. Eyes wide, spooked at Durwood coming out of nowhere.

Quaid and Sergio sat side-by-side on a wheel well, bound.

"See?" Quaid said to his drinking pal. "I told ya, an hour tops."

Twine was sitting out. Durwood secured the guard, then freed Quaid and the mayor with irked thrusts of his switchblade.

Sergio said, "I'm in your debt. Please accept my apologizes."

Durwood waved him off. "Happened to your security detail? How come they didn't follow?"

The mayor explained that he'd ordered them to wait at street level. "We were taken underground, three blocks. The semi was waiting. They planned shrewdly."

Durwood thinned his lips. "Tattoos?"

Quaid looked at the mayor, and they both shrugged. "Nothing out of the ordinary. The redhead had that, what was it, an owl across her shoulder blades?"

Sergio said, "Phoenix."

As they discussed what type bird, Durwood led the guard behind some boxes. Out of the man's view, he planted a transponder in the spare-tire hold. Then scanned the cargo for radioactive/WMD-sig materials, repacked his tools, and gripped the rear latch.

"Let's go."

The mayor broke off explaining the shape of a proper phoenix's crest. "We are letting them drive off? Aren't you going to subdue them?"

Like Durwood was Captain America, capable of corralling hostiles of unknown number and armament with a finger-snap.

"Got someplace else to be. Give this to your police chief." Durwood copied the transponder's serial onto the back of a receipt. "Lead right to 'em."

With that, the three men dismounted the semi and weaved their way back to the access ladder. Taxi driver shouted again. Durwood kept moving, sighting a gap in the traffic three vehicles up.

Quaid had yet to ask after Molly. Now he yelled at the cabbie, "Show some gratitude to your mayor—he's the only thing stopping Uber from putting you on the dole!"

Cars kept zipping by. An Escalade just did screech to a halt in time.

Again Durwood's head tightened round a core of pain. Kind of pain causes men to make mistakes. Like what he'd done in Tikrit.

They made the ladder, Quaid still yapping at the cabbie.

"You talked enough," Durwood said.

Quaid allowed the mayor to go first, then hitched his loafer onto the first rung. "Lighten up. Fine—I should've been more vigilant, tonight wasn't my best performance. But everything came out alright."

Durwood eyed the crawlspace above. Quarter-mile back. Even if he ditched these two, looking at twenty minutes to the Vanagon. Another half-hour to the Blackstone residence.

Told Quaid, "You come out alright."