badge and they turned back to the fire. The alarm wailing, he released the lock and pulled open the door then used a trick employed by so many people he’d arrested in the past. He hot-wired the vehicle. The alarm died and the engine fired. He finished twisting the two wires under the panel into place as Kruger and Maddy watched.
He waved them over and they ran towards him, both climbing into the Mercedes to join him.
A hundred yards from the neo-Nazi campsite, Marquez had pulled up to a halt beside Hendricks teams’ vehicles, parking behind a series of thick trees. She’d grabbed a Mossberg and a box of shells from the trunk, shutting the lid quietly and had moved up through the trees to join Hendricks and his team who were crouched down behind a boulder, peering around at the campsite below.
Hendricks turned and saw her arrive. He didn’t know her name but recognised her as one of Shep’s people, which meant she was good.
‘Evening,’ he whispered.
She didn’t respond, looking down at the campsite. She saw a ragged circle of gang members surrounding a large bonfire. Many of them had weapons ready to hand. To the right, she saw the white van mentioned in the call, the bleach-haired man called Wicks standing beside it and talking with several other members.
‘What’s the situation?’
‘They’ve been going all night so far. Drinking, partying. Few of them went off screwing. But that van just turned up. We think the virus could be inside.’
Hendricks paused, realising the woman was alone.
‘Where’s the rest of your team?’
Marquez didn’t respond.
She knelt down beside him and loaded her Mossberg, sliding red shells into the magazine chamber quietly. He watched her. Something was wrong, but this wasn’t the time to ask questions. The woman slid a last shell into the weapon, then looked down at the camp.
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘We wait on confirmation from ATF that the virus is inside the van. If it is, we move in.’
He paused.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Marquez.’
FORTY SIX
Down below, Wicks had stepped out of the van and was spreading the word to everyone around the campsite to pack up. It was met with a lot of disapproval and resentment. Most of them had been drinking and were having a good time and none felt like starting the drive back to Texas tonight. Wicks hadn’t been down here since they arrived on Friday but saw they’d set up meth labs beside the camp, not bothering with any safety precautions. He shook his head at the stupidity just as one of the doors of the caravans opened. A big bearded man the size of a doorframe stepped out. He saw the commotion and pulled his mask down off his face.
'What's going on?' he shouted.
'Pack your shit,’ Wicks called back. ‘We're leaving.'
‘What about the deal?’
‘It’s off.’
'We’re not done yet.’
‘Then stay. I don’t give a shit’
The bearded man looked around. ‘Where're Bob and Finn?'
'They're following.’
‘What happened to Harper, Travis and Stacks? We need their help.’
‘They’re staying. They got arrested.’
‘What for?’
‘Jesus Christ, who gives a shit? Just pack up or stay.’
Muttering expletives, the man swung round and stepped back into the caravan.
Wicks turned and saw several of the crew had gathered by the white van. They were all looking over at him.
'What's in the back?' one of them asked. He was a guy called Peterson, an ex-grunt. Bobby had taken to him and had been in the process of setting up a gun trade with one of Peterson’s old contacts at Fort Hood.
'None of your business,' he said, walking over.
'You drag us up here for three days and we don't even get to find out what’s going on?'
‘Exactly.’
Peterson went to argue, but Wicks’ hand moved inside his jacket, resting on his pistol, his temper flaring. It had been a long night and his patience was almost gone.
‘Touch the handle. Please. I’m begging you.’
Peterson saw his hand and the look in his eyes; he took the hint.
'Shit,' Faison hissed, listening and watching the exchange in the shadows. 'We don't know what's inside.'
'Do we move?' Hendricks asked over the radio.
Faison grabbed his own radio. 'All teams, stand by. I repeat, stand by.'
Wicks glared at Peterson for a moment longer then turned and walked off. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, drew one out with his lips and replacing the pack, pulled a lighter.
Watching him sparking the smoke, Peterson took his chance. He suddenly grabbed the handle and pulled open the doors.
Behind him, Wicks heard and swung round.
‘Hey!’
‘Stand by,’ Faison's