Terrill stopped near the gate, waiting as a dozen trucks ahead of them worked their way through the exit. Mixell checked his watch; it’d been ten minutes since he received the text, and it was taking what seemed to be an interminable amount of time for each truck to depart the port. As the line inched forward, Mixell eyed the road beyond the gatehouse while checking his watch periodically. His concern that they wouldn’t pass through the gate in time steadily increased, and he fingered his pistol, hidden in a shoulder harness beneath his jacket.
As they moved slowly toward the gate, Mixell had to admit Futtaim had selected an excellent port to ship to. The Seagirt Terminal sat right off Interstate 95 and only a few minutes from six other interstates fanning out from the coast in every direction. That foresight had proven handy today, in case Harrison or anyone else tried to track Mixell’s truck down before it disappeared into the Alexandria warehouse.
They finally reached the gate, where a customs agent inspected the truck, verifying the container number matched Terrill’s shipping document and that the door seal hadn’t been broken. Meanwhile, the gate guard inspected Terrill’s pass, which had been signed by the sector foreman, verifying Terrill had proceeded to the authorized sector.
Terrill pulled through the gate, headed toward I-95. As they approached the entrance ramp to the southbound lanes, Mixell spotted a police cruiser speeding in the other direction, toward the Seagirt Terminal entrance. They had made it out just in time.
58
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
Jake Harrison’s car approached the entrance to the Seagirt Terminal, swerving to a stop beside a Baltimore Police Department cruiser with the trademark blue streak down the sides. The vehicle had been parked by the gatehouse, blocking the terminal exit, creating a long line of trucks waiting to leave the port. The two police officers were leaning against the sedan, while the driver of the lead truck stuck inside the port was leaning out his window, yelling obscenities at the officers; he had a schedule to meet.
Harrison and Kendall approached the two officers; one was in his early twenties, while the other, with a moderate potbelly, was their age. It was obvious Kendall had worked with the older man before, since they knew each other’s names.
“Good to see you again, Officer Kendall,” the man said, adding a grin.
“Stuff it, Max,” she replied. Her eyes looked him over. “Puttin’ on some weight there, aren’t ya? I bet the Mrs. ain’t too happy. Then again, she probably wouldn’t be happy if she knew half the crap you pulled when you were younger.”
The man’s smile disappeared from his face, then he cleared his throat.
“What’s the deal here? We were directed to block the port exits and that someone from your agency would explain things when you got here.”
Kendall provided the details, then asked Max to accompany them into the gatehouse.
There were three employees inside, only one of whom was busy: a guy manning the entrance window. The other two employees — a woman at the exit window and another man — sat idly in chairs. The man rose to greet the three officers, identifying himself as the on-duty customs agent.
After Kendall flashed her identification and explained the issue to the man, she handed him the sheet provided by the DDA, which listed Mixell’s shipment number.
“It’s a CONEX box,” she said.
The customs agent entered the number into the computer, but got no result.
“It hasn’t been shipped here, nor is it on any manifest scheduled for offload. I can check all East Coast ports if you’d like.”
Kendall nodded and the man changed the search parameters, then ran the shipment number again. “Nothing. Either this shipment number is bad or it’s off the books.”
“What if it’s off the books?”
“Then you’re outta luck.”
Kendall stepped closer to him. “If it’s off the books, who do we talk to?”
“You? Fat chance of that happening. Even if you figured out who the right guy was and had the cash, his lips would be tighter than a clam’s ass at high tide.”
“There must be a way.”
“Look, lady. If there was a way for folks like us to run this type of stuff to ground, we’d be doing it. These guys are pretty crafty, with key people in critical positions, and they ain’t gonna talk. I’m afraid that if this shipment is off the books, you’re not going to find it by poking around here. Of course, you could inspect every container at the port, which would take you about… ninety-five years.”
With her hands on her hips, Kendall studied the man, then turned to Harrison. “Any ideas?”
“Assume Mixell’s got the CONEX box by now. He’s not going to pull up to a hotel with it, which means he’ll be renting someplace where he can hide it or it’ll blend in.”
“Mixell could be headed anywhere in the country with it.”
“True, but we’ve got to start somewhere. He flew into Dulles, and D.C. has the highest concentration of likely targets in the country, so I’d focus on the District and its suburbs.”
Kendall considered his proposal, then nodded. “Let’s get back to the NCTC and get the team looking at real estate properties.”
As they returned to Harrison’s car, she said, “Aren’t you supposed to have dinner with your wife tonight?”
“Yeah. And…?”
“Why don’t I get a ride back to McLean? You can spend some time with your wife and take her to dinner, then check out the Baltimore stripper lead when the club opens tonight. Besides, I’m sure you’ll enjoy running down that lead a lot more than I would.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Try to stay out of trouble.” She offered a grin, then turned to Max.
“Can you give me a ride to McLean? I’ll call Jason and let him know he can release the units blocking the port, so it looks like you’re available.”
“Not a problem,” Max replied.
59
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
The return trip from the Port of Baltimore to Alexandria was uneventful, and the nonstop conversation, led by Allen Terrill, helped the time pass quickly. Upon arriving at Mixell’s warehouse, Terrill pulled the truck into the building through the rear garage door.
Mixell lacked the equipment to lift the container from the flatbed, so he had arranged to rent the semi-truck for a week. After dropping down from the cab, Terrill stood there expectantly, waiting for payment. Mixell had agreed to pay him cash, keeping the transaction under the table so no taxes would be due. However, Terrill knew far too much. He was connected to the container that Harrison and others were searching for, and he knew where Mixell’s warehouse was.
Mixell pressed the garage door controller, and the door slid slowly closed.
“About the money,” Mixell said. “There’s been a change in the payment plan.”
He reached for the pistol beneath his windbreaker.
After placing Terrill’s body in the truck cab, Mixell made a call, informing the man awaiting his return from Baltimore that he was now available. While he waited, he cut the seal on the CONEX box and opened the doors, then examined its contents.
Futtaim was a true professional, delivering exactly what he had ordered.