Point of Contact

Jack followed the track on his Google Maps app along the tree-lined boulevard, where warehouses and industrial buildings stood neatly crowded behind cyclone fences. He’d slowed down to a crawl on the nearly empty street. The Nissan’s furious windshield wipers slapped vainly against the sheets of rain pouring down, giving Jack just momentary glimpses of open road between swipes, like the van itself was blinking. He couldn’t read any of the street numbers on the buildings.

The warehouse location he was searching for should be just up ahead and on the right. He rolled down his window, hoping to be able to read the numbers on the next building coming up. The cool rain splashed over his face and neck as he held one hand above his eyes to shield them from the heavy drops pelting him. He needed to stop. He glanced back into his side-view mirror just to be sure there wasn’t anyone behind him as he tapped the brakes, and that’s when he saw—

Oh, shit!

The grille of an unlit semi tractor slammed into the rear of his van. Jack heard the sickening crunch of sheet metal and glass behind him and the shotgun blast of the airbag in front of him. The seat belt cinched across his chest like a hangman’s noose as the polyester fist of the exploding airbag slammed his face, snapping his head against the headrest and crushing his body back into his seat.

And then things got interesting.

His ass lifted slightly into the air as it followed his strapped body when the entire van careened forward several feet at an oblique angle. His face punched the half-deflated airbag again when the vehicle smashed to a stop as it plowed into something immovable up front. What, he couldn’t tell, because he was blinded by the airbag.

It all happened in about a second and a half, maybe less. It seemed like forever.

Dazed from the double blow to his head, he instinctively clawed at the deflating airbag to tear it away from his face, clearing his view just enough to see that his van was smashed against one of the majestic trees looming over the street. He turned in time to see the hulking, boxy shape of a big-rig tractor racing away. Its headlights were still off but, thankfully, not the light illuminating the license plate. His mind managed to capture the letters and numbers.

Just before he blacked out.

48

He woke to the sound of rain drumming on the roof, his eyes still tightly shut.

For a moment, Jack thought he was in a tin-roofed bungalow on a beach in Aruba, where he had once spent a week with a blonde who had laughing green eyes. He couldn’t remember her name. Maybe he’d never known it.

But the splitting headache throbbing inside of his skull killed the dream and opened his eyes. The spattering raindrops sparkled in the lamplight against the spiderweb of the cracked windshield.

He woke fully now, and cursed, remembering what happened.

What the hell time is it? He glanced at his watch. He’d been out for about ten minutes, maybe more. As his mind cleared, the pain intensified. Mostly his headache, but also his face and neck, and his chest, still strapped tightly against the seat. He twisted around as best he could, expecting to see an ambulance or a police car, or at least a concerned civilian racing to his aid. He hurt like hell, on the verge of serious. He had no idea if he’d sustained internal injuries. But his momentary lapse of self-pity melted away. He couldn’t be found here. Technically, he’d stolen the van. More important, he needed to stay out of the newspapers, and certainly the police blotters.

His first task was just to get out of the van. He was trapped by the belt, strapped so tightly he couldn’t move his arms to hit the belt release. He pushed his legs against the floor panel as hard as he could, pressing his body deeper into the seat to give the locking mechanism the opportunity to release and slacken the belt. When it did, he reached over and freed himself from the seat belt, then pushed away the deflated airbag, dusty and crumpled on his lap.

Jack reached for the door latch and pushed, but nothing happened. He twisted around and unlocked the door, then tried again, launching against it with his sore shoulder. Nothing. It was jammed.

Of course.

Jack glanced through the smashed windshield. Still no cars in sight. Good. But it wouldn’t be much longer until somebody came by and called it in. He grunted as he crawled out of his seat and over to the passenger side, finally managing to open the door and work his way out onto the street. He quickly hobbled over to the sidewalk and out of the light of the streetlamp. He surveyed the damage on himself first. No blood, no broken bones. He checked the van. The big truck struck the van in the rear quarter panel on the passenger side. It was perfectly aimed to damage the van but allow the tractor to keep going. A hit-and-run accident? Or intentional?

Running with its lights off. Jack assumed it was intentional.

And that made it personal.

Bastards.