Numbered Account

Two trucks separated them from the probing eyes of the customs inspectors. All incoming vehicles were forced to pass under a broad portico designed primarily to measure the height of freight carriers entering Switzerland. A small office built from sturdy blue steel sat to the right of each lane. A customs inspector, walkie-talkie in hand, stood next to each office, waving the next trucks forward.

Joseph scanned the booths and beyond. He felt his shoulders tighten. Ten police cars were parked on the shoulder of the highway about two hundred yards up the road. Why so much firepower for a simple bust? he wondered. Three men and a lousy truck. What were they expecting? An army?

The gasoline tanker in front of them roared forward, belching exhaust.

Remo considered the empty space in front of his rig.

Joseph nudged him in the ribs. "Go on. Don't make us look conspicuous."

Remo eased his foot onto the accelerator, and the truck groaned forward, foot by foot.

The customs inspector jumped onto the running board of the gasoline tanker directly in front of them. He thrust his head inside its cabin and emerged a moment later, cargo manifest in hand. He used the antenna of his walkie-talkie to skim the manifest. He was a tall, thin man wearing a green jacket. He had unruly brown hair and pitted cheeks. He shot a casual glance at their rig, and Joseph spotted the dark rings under his eyes. Sterling Thorne looked as crappy as ever.

Thorne returned the manifest to the driver of the truck currently in bay and directed his attention toward the blue Magirus eighteen-wheeler bearing British license plates and a white TIR tag, next in line. He raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth and issued what appeared to be heated instructions.

Franco shot forward in his seat, pointing a finger at Thorne. "He eyeballed us. He's got us picked out already."

"Keep calm," said Joseph. He could feel the tension ratcheting up inside their cabin.

"I saw it, too," said Remo. "The fucker at the booth. He's got us pegged. Christ, it's a setup. They know exactly what they're looking for and it's us."

"Keep your mouths closed," shouted Joseph. "We've got nowhere to go but forward. There's no other way out. We are holding a legitimate manifest. We are transporting a legitimate cargo. It would take a genius to find our merchandise."

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.