Writer's block hell...I've been busy!
"Yes....the truck will be there at that time. Yes, he'll be there too. I can personally guarantee it. He wanted me to tell you that he will personally deliver Agent French as well. Yes. I had hoped that he would lead me to the truck. You're sure then? Yes. Thank you."
I listened intently as Ling spoke into the telephone, in English. She was speaking to a contact that had access to whomever had replaced her in the Luminous Path. Apparently the contact was a local, an American, as she was speaking in English. When the conversation was finished, Ling hung up the phone and looked over at me.
"I did what you asked, Michael," she said. "They gave me instructions on where to bring the truck. Another remote meeting point deep in the wilderness, I'm afraid. One week from tonight."
"Sounds like fun," Corwin injected, exhaling smoke from a cigarette. He sat at the other end of the table, across from me. He was leaning back in his chair, booted feet propped up on the table, hat low over his eyes. We were in the bunker in my safehouse, late on Saturday night. A week had passed since the shootout at the lakeside resort.
"They're going to kill you, Michael," Ling said, sounding at least mildly concerned.
"They're going to TRY to kill me," I retorted. "Besides, they're not going to be happy with you when you found out you doublecrossed them." Ling looked down at the desk.
See, folks, I needed her to get to the Triad. The best, most believeable scenario I could come up with is for them to think that Ling, wanting to win favor with the Luminous Path once again, used me to locate the truck, and then doublecrossed me.
Sounds pretty plausible, hey? I was pretty worried that she'd actually pull something like that, actually. So I beat her two it. I had her call them and tell them exactly what she'd be telling them if she had doublecrossed me. The only difference is that I know about it. As I expected, the Triad offered to forgive Ling's previous failure by delivering the truck, me, and Agent French to them.
Oh, and the truck was devoid of any chemical weapons. It did, however, have enough room in it for me to plant a little suprise. I decided to keep a couple crates of the spoons, too (you never know).
My plan was childishly simple. I was to drive the truck (after a crash course in driving a stick-shift) to the designated meeting point. The meeting point was a decommissioned prison worksite in the middle of the forest. The roads to and around it were plowed and well-maintained, due to logging trucks going in and out of there, and the compound itself was plowed. I was to drive the truck until it was under the big streetlight in the middle of the compound (which was really little more than a cluster of buildings and a guard tower).
The Luminous Path expected me to show up with Agent French in tow. Then, they'd have the truck, they'd have French, and they'd have me. Of course, that wasn't how I planned to have things go.
I made a few phone calls, to some people I could trust. People in positions to do stuff, if you follow me. I planned to actually show up with the truck, and with French.
I know what you're thinking. "If you wanted revenge against French, why didn't you kill him when you had the chance? Why go through the trouble?" I had no intention of killing him, folks. He was, however, important for my plan, and I did need him.
"But Nightcrawler, the Luminous Path will surely kill him if they get him!" Yes I know, but don't fret, gentle reader. It was all part of the plan. However, I was suddenly kind of pinched for time. The arranged meeting was 2:00AM on Saturday morning. I had only a few days in which to get everything together.
The first order of business, of course, was getting French. I was positive I could arrange some kind of meeting, but getting through it without getting shot to pieces would be tricky. I was certain he wasn't entirely happy with me.
I didn't know if French was still at the garage where I had last seen him. I wasn't sure where he was, as a matter of fact. So I did the logical thing. I called him.
I had French's cell phone number. It pays to keep tabs on guys like him, after all. I dialed the number on my cell phone, and it rang. It rang and rang, until finally there was a familliar voice on the other end.
"French here."
I didn't say anything at first. I was too busy grinning.
"Hello, Mr. French." There was silence for a moment.
"Where is it?" He asked me this in a suprisingly calm tone. I was impressed. Either he was on something that made him mellow, or he'd been working on his anger management.
"Safe, Mr. French. I know what's in the truck, too. Shame on you, taking things like that."
"I didn't take them. I was recoving them for the Federal Government. You interfered in a lawful Federal recovery of stollen government property. If you turn over the truck right now I can promise you you won't get the death penalty. If..."
Can you BELIEVE this guy, folks? How dumb did he think I was?
"Spare me, Mr. French," I interrupted. "I know damned well you didn't hit that truck on any official business. Feds don't shoot up convoys of Chinese guys and leave 'em bleeding on the side of the road. Feds don't store nerve gas in an old garage." There was silence on the other end of the line.
"In fact, Mr. French, I'll bet you were trying to plant that stuff on me, right? Let me guess....DEA getting close to busting you? Budget cuts? At the same time you're pressuring me to turn myself in, you hit this convoy and get the Luminous Path on my case. You're thinking I won't be able to hack it, and I'll come running to you for protection. Then, once I've squealed about my resources, you magically find the stolen chemical weapons in my place, and you're a big hero who saved America from a dangerous terrorist. Something like that, maybe?"
"You're smarter than I gave you credit for, Mr. Nightcrawler."
"You're damned right I am. I've got you by the short and curlies now, you [EXPLETIVE DELETED]. All I've got to do is blab to the Feds where I got this truck and you're toast." I wanted him to think I had gotten cocky, that I thought I was holding all the cards.
"And so are you, Mr. Nightcrawler. Apparently you're not that smart after all." It worked. I feigned speechlessness.
"Perhaps then we can make a mutually beneficial deal," he suggested at last.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps I can just sell this stuff, make a fortune, and tell you to kiss my grits."
"Come on, Mr. Nightcrawler, I've studied you better than that. You're not going to sell that stuff. It'd be way too high profile, and what's more it end up in hands of people that even you won't do business with. No, I think I'm the only one you can turn to right now." Damn, he'd done his homework after all. He was right, I wouldn't have sold the stuff even if I'd still had it.
"Alright, Mr. French," I replied, "what would you suggest?"
"An even trade. You give me the truck back, and I leave you alone."
"And the Luminous Path?"
"Nothing you can't handle, I'm sure."
"And what's in it for me?"
"I'll leave you alone. I'll drop my investigation of you."
"Somehow, I don't trust you, Mr. French." Did he actually think I'd go for something like that?
"What did you have in mind?"
"Money, Mr. French. A lot of money. You work for the Treasury Department, yes? Get me money."
"How much?" I could tell he was frustrated.
"One million dollars, Mr. French. In marked, consecutive bills."
"What?"
"You heard me. One million dollars that can be traced right back to you. A million dollars that I couldn't have possibly gotten my hands on if not through you. In fact, better yet, make it an official Chashier's Check, signed by you, made out to me."
"That's a lot of money, Mr. Nightcrawler. It'll take time. And what are you going to do with a million-dollar Cashier's Check? You can't cash it anywhere."
"You've got until Friday. And I have no intention of cashing it. I'm going to hold onto it. You doublecross me, I get arrested, I'm handing it over to the Feds and I'm telling them everything."
"I think I can manage it. You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Nightcrawler. Where do you want to meet?"
I gave him the location I wanted to meet at. I told him it was an abandoned warehouse, with nothing in it but an empty shipping container. I gave him directions there, and told him that I'd be waiting for him there, with the truck.
You've probably guessed it. I told him to come right to my safehouse. A bit of a gamble, but I'd have the upper hand, there, and he'd never suspect the existance of the bunker. I told him to meet me there at one in the morning on Friday. He was to come with one person to drive the truck, and with the money. He agreed, suprisingly enough. I hung up the phone, and looked across the table at Corwin and Ling.
"Welcome to my parlor, said the spider to the fly," I said aloud, proably misquoting something. I smiled.
TO BE CONTINUED...
SHould of been workin'.......but got hooked reading the NC Novella 
