“Yeah,” Pixie said, “the one from your brain to your mouth.”
“I love you, too, Pixie,” Solomon said. “In fact, I love all of you guys, even if you did steal the money.”
Everyone got up to leave. Nothing more could be said. In a way, Solomon had said it all.
CHAPTER 15
The tanker truck barreled down Route 120 three miles inside the Winston town line. A 350-horsepower engine hummed in perfect working order, and the Bridgestone tires spun fast enough to go five miles above the speed limit. It drove like brand-new because the truck mechanics at BVC Environmental, who maintained the vast fleet, took great pride in their work.
For years, BVC was the go-to company for transporting nitroglycerin, explosives, flammable products, and compressed gases. On the heels of the Hazardous Material Transportation Act of 1975, BVC Environmental was responsible for many safety innovations accepted as standard practice today. But a truck was still a truck; and even if the cargo was properly secured, operator failure or negligence was the most cited reason for traffic accidents and chemical spills.
In his seven years working for BVC, Pedro Sanchez, a married father of two, consistently scored high on his driver-performance evaluation, which meant he had received the largest possible pay raise when it came time for his annual review. He knew how to use the two-way radio, had received only two traffic violations (an impressive feat, considering the miles he had logged), kept his vehicles impeccably clean, was always punctual and cooperative, and demonstrated superior safe-driving habits. He had never been in an accident. Only a handful of drivers could make such a claim.
On this day, the clouds were puffy white cotton balls painted on a pale blue sky, and the buds on the tree branches seemed bursting to get out. The winter had been typical for New England-brutal-and the road was marred with numerous frost heaves. Sanchez had to be careful. He was hauling a small ocean of chemicals in his tanker, and sudden movement was not advisable.
At one particularly scenic spot, with views of a wide field and a large white farmhouse with an adjacent red barn, Sanchez shifted his truck into a lower gear to help climb a hilly rise. He had never driven these roads before, so he was careful to take the turns at a slow speed. Flipping a tanker truck was not all that hard. It was even easier when the tank was filled with four thousand gallons of aluminum sulfide. The yellow crystalline solid dissolved in a water solution and gave off a strong, rotten-egg, ammonia-like odor; but as long as it was secured inside the tank, Sanchez could smell nothing.
Sanchez whistled to the fast beat of an Enrique Iglesias tune while navigating a series of sharp turns. The aluminum sulfide shifted and sloshed inside the massive tank, forming waves with each tap on the brakes or turn of the wheels. Sixteen tons of chemical waves could make for treacherous driving, but Sanchez was a pro. He knew how to drive with the waves, and intentionally kept them small so the truck stayed in control. Baffles subdivided the interior of the tank into several mini-compartments. While they reduced the overall wave effect by eliminating the space needed to build momentum, by no means did they provide total stability.
At the point where the road forked, Sanchez should have gone straight; that was where the plant was located. Instead, he checked his map and went to the right. There weren’t many textile plants in the state anymore, but the recent trend to move manufacturing back to America had given a jolt of life to a sector of the economy once thought headed for extinction. This trend benefited BVC as well as drivers like Sanchez, who had seen an uptick in shipments of hazardous materials like aluminum sulfide, used in textile manufacturing.
Dispatch had no idea he’d taken a different route to the plant, but they would find out soon enough. Trying alternate routes wasn’t enough of an infraction to get him fired, but Sanchez didn’t care either way. He was done with the job, and would make more money from this one trip than he could earn in a lifetime.
The truck lumbered past a small blue sign for Pepperell Academy. Three-tenths of a mile later, Sanchez spied the black pickup truck pulled over to the side of the road. The truck was where he expected it to be, but Sanchez checked his notes anyway and confirmed the license plate was a match. He steered the truck onto the shoulder and applied the brakes with care. They made a loud screeching sound, followed by a hiss of air before the tanker came to a juddering stop.
Sanchez climbed down from the truck’s cab at the same time that three men got out of the pickup.
“Primo, Javier me ha contado mucho de ti. Qué gusto cono-certe por fin en persona,” the man with the long ponytail said. (“Cousin, Javier has told me much about you. It’s good to finally meet you in person.”) He opened his arms and the two men embraced. Also in Spanish, Fausto said, “These are my associates Efren and Armando.”
Sanchez was related to Javier, not Fausto, but membership in Sangre Tierra blurred the bloodlines. Fausto shivered. “I am not used to this weather.”
Fausto wore aviator sunglasses and a fine-looking brown leather jacket. Sanchez did not know these items belonged to his cousin Javier Martinez. Efren and Armando were also dressed for the chilly March weather in Javier’s expensive clothes.
Sanchez shivered as well, but his was the chill of fear. He had felt in control while inside his truck, but now he had second thoughts. A spike of anxiety put a tight band around Sanchez’s chest. He looked past Fausto to a point down the road.
“What about other cars?” Sanchez asked as he bounced on his feet to help calm his nerves.
“You worry too much, my friend,” Fausto replied. “Have you seen any other vehicles on the road? No, you have not. Why? Because we have set up a detour, that’s why. One of our associates has connections to a road crew, and he brought us some very authentic-looking detour signs and little orange vests. We are on our own for now.”
“How many others are involved?” Sanchez asked.
“Now you ask questions that don’t concern you.”
“I’m sorry, Fausto, but I’m nervous. I want to make sure I brought enough of what you asked for.”
“Worry not. I came here with a handful of men, but Soto’s contacts are many and he got me the rest of what I needed. Including me, there are twelve of us to take out six kids. I like our chances.” Fausto’s smile showcased his precious-metal mouth.
Sanchez had never met the famed assassin in person, but he had heard plenty of stories, and the man’s golden smile filled him with dread. After Soto had called, Sanchez thought only of the money. Seeing Fausto in person made it all seem real, and he was burdened with second thoughts. Fausto’s smile said there was no going back.
“Let’s get this over with,” Sanchez said as he exhaled a weighty breath. “The chemical suits are in the cab.”
Fausto whistled and pointed to the truck. As if a starter pistol had gone off, Efren and Armando rushed over to the tanker, climbed up, and removed a messy pile of chemical suits from within. Sanchez had no problem stealing from his company. Nobody ever guarded the locker room where those suits were kept.
Fausto checked his watch. “We need to report this accident soon if we’re to keep to schedule,” he said. “So please hurry.”
Sanchez got the feeling Fausto wasn’t being entirely truthful, and he suspected there was much more to this plan than what he had been told. Efren snatched the tanker’s ignition key from Sanchez’s outstretched hand. Sanchez was impressed by Efren’s strong build and repulsed by Armando’s many facial scars.
“I know how to drive,” Efren said, as though reading Sanchez’s thoughts.
Armando and Fausto helped Sanchez load the chemical suits into the back of the pickup truck, while Efren climbed into the tanker’s cab. Efren turned the ignition key and Sanchez stopped his work to listen to the tanker’s engine rumble back to life.