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I nodded, apologized a third time, and then walked away from the pig farmer, unwilling to look at the barn anymore, unable to block out the sounds of the ongoing riot inside.
Part Two
CHAPTER
15
AT 4:12 THAT AFTERNOON—actually, 3:12 local time—Mitch Cochran downshifted the Kenworth T680 tractor-trailer pulling an empty container chassis into the CSX rail yard in east St. Louis.
Sitting between Marcus Sunday and Cochran in the truck cab, Acadia Le Duc said, “Jesus, we’re cutting this close. I told you and Dr. Fersing told you we didn’t want to get anywhere near the outside limit, and we’re pushing right on it.”
&
nbsp; “Have faith, darling,” Sunday said calmly.
They were supposed to have landed in St. Louis an hour ago, but thunderstorms had delayed them, and it had taken a while to get through the paperwork at the truck-rental service.
“All I’m saying is if we have a catastrophe on our hands, I won’t take responsibility,” Acadia said.
“If it is a catastrophe, we’ll call it an act of God and be on our way,” Sunday said indifferently.
After expertly driving the tractor-trailer rig onto the scales, Cochran jumped out and went inside a steel office building with the necessary lading documents.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
“We’re not going to pull this off,” Acadia said, frustrated. “We are—”
Cochran came running out of the building, climbed up into the cab, said, “They were backlogged.”
“Jesus,” Acadia said, wiping at sweat on her brow.
“Calm down,” Sunday said as the truck began to roll forward. “We’ve got a half hour.”
“You don’t get it,” she snapped. “It may be over already.”
“If it is, it is,” Sunday said. “And we’ll have a cleanup job to do.”
Cochran drove into a long wide gravel parking lot that abutted the rail lines. He maneuvered the rig to a gantry crane next to the tracks, stopped, and set the brakes. Cables whirled, swinging giant electromagnets above the rust-red container fitted with the solar panels.
The four magnets lowered. A worker positioned them. There was a loud clanking noise as they locked to the sides of the car, and then the cables began to retract. The forty-five-foot container lifted off the railcar as if it were no heavier than a box of Kleenex. The crane operator expertly swung the container and set it on the chassis behind them.
“We have twenty-two minutes,” Acadia said.
The magnets released, and Cochran started the engine, put it in gear, and said, “Where to?”
“Get back on the interstate, go east to that truck stop we saw coming in.”
“That’ll take too long!” Acadia said.
Sunday said nothing. Cochran maneuvered through the city streets by GPS and had them back on the I-70 heading east in nine minutes. When they had twelve minutes left, he got off at State Highway 203 and turned north into the Gateway Truck Plaza. Cochran pulled over out back by a field of weeds.
“Move!” Acadia said, holding a large duffel bag she’d retrieved from the sleeping compartment behind them.
Sunday jumped down, stepped around the diesel tank, and got up on the fifth-wheel frame between the cab and the container. He put a key in the lock of the custom hatch on the front end of the freight car. It wouldn’t turn.
Had that kid in the rail yard back in Philly bent the hasp? He tried again, then jiggled the lock and twisted a third time. He thought the key was going to break off in the lock. Then something gave, and the hasp released.
He pulled it out, raised the bar holding the hatch shut. It swung open.
