Shadows Reel (Joe Pickett #22)(67)

Viktór could tell that László thought otherwise. But maybe, for once, he was listening.

Deputy Schuster looked back and forth between the two brothers as they spoke. “Where are we going, fellas? Or are you going to let me go?” he asked.

“Shut up,” Viktór explained.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


    Seattle


Even through a torrential downpour that lashed the black walls of trees in waves bordering the highway and sluiced down the borrow ditches with the look and force of miniature whitewater rivers, Nate and Geronimo could see the emerging nighttime glow of Seattle ahead to the west. It was an hour away from midnight.

Nate was still behind the wheel. Geronimo was working through Tristan’s phone, finding items that caused him to hum and moan and exclaim, “Holy shit.” His face was illuminated by the screen of the phone in the dark.

“What?” Nate asked.

“I’m using Signal with Tristan’s log-in,” Geronimo said. “Our pal Axel is still ahead of us and he’s announced his arrival to the antifa assholes and BLM folks in Seattle.”

“How far ahead?”

“His last post was nineteen minutes ago. He’s leaving another cache for them and he’s posted the coordinates of it. Have you ever heard of the Gum Wall?”

Nate shook his head.

“It’s in an alleyway real close to the public market center downtown. Just like Denver—he chose a place to stash weapons within easy reach of where the street action is planned, but out of view of the cops. If there are cops, anyway.”

“Why wouldn’t there be?” Nate asked.

Geronimo shrugged. “Sometimes the mayors of these cities are spooked, so they tell the cops to stand down. Sometimes they send them in only when it’s too late. You never know.”

“How far away from the Gum Wall are we?”

Geronimo swept away the Signal screen and pulled up the mapping application.

“Twenty-five minutes if we push it,” he said.

“He should still be there,” Nate said, feeling a surge of anticipation course through his limbs.

Twenty-five minutes.

Although he risked hydroplaning over the standing water on the highway, Nate goosed the accelerator and grasped the wheel tight.



* * *



—

They’d driven from Pendleton to Seattle via I-84 to I-82, and they’d soon merge onto I-90 to enter the city from the east. Their only stops had been to buy gasoline, fast food, and a charger so Tristan’s phone wouldn’t go dead en route.

They’d crossed the Columbia River hours before, and as they neared Seattle, the pine trees got thicker and closed in on them, and the interstate seemed more like a tunnel than a highway. Traffic was sparse that time of night.

The rain was mist at first and it obscured the mountains, but it picked up in volume and intensity as they drove. Nate was astonished by the amount of water falling from the sky and he guessed it was comparable to a summer’s worth in Wyoming. The wipers could barely keep up, and the thrumming sound of rainwater produced by the tires on the van created a kind of white noise that forced them to shout inside.

“Who called for the street action tonight?” Nate asked.

“I don’t know, but Axel is obviously aware of it.”

“What will this rain do to the protest?” Nate asked.

“Who knows?” Geronimo said. “If it was Denver, everyone would stay inside. I’d stay inside. But this is Seattle, so maybe they’re used to it.”



* * *



—

They merged onto I-90 and the traffic increased. Plumes of rainwater shot out from beneath the tires of oncoming cars in the eastbound lane.

Despite the downpour, Nate thought Seattle was stunning and beautiful. The lights looked like diamonds flung across undulating black felt. The glistening city stopped abruptly at the dark bay itself. City lights reflected double and triple from the wet streets in a maelstrom of technicolor electricity. Out in the dark harbor, oceangoing vessels with blinking red lights punctuated the blackness. And the Space Needle knifed its way straight upward into the low-hanging clouds.

“Why do they want to tear down a city like this?” Nate asked.

“This is what they do,” Geronimo replied.

“Axel deliberately went to Wingville to gather up a bunch of firearms,” Nate said. “Maybe he’ll pass them around tonight.”

Geronimo whistled at the implications of that. Then he dug his triple-barrel shotgun out from beneath his seat and once again checked the loads. As he filled his parka pockets with stubby twelve-gauge shells from an ammunition box he’d brought along, he said, “Stay on I-5 North up here. It’ll take us where we want to go.”



* * *



—

Nate noted wet highway signs for the Central Business District, First Hill, and Pike Place Market. Geronimo kept him on track: “Take Madison Street/Convention Place,” he said. “Merge onto Seventh Ave. Left on Madison Street. Right on Western Ave.”

The Central Business District was dark and not well lit. Thus far, there were no people on the streets.

They passed by an abandoned brick building that looked like an old warehouse. All of the windows on the ground floor had been smashed out. Spray-painted graffiti covered the exterior.