25: Evacuation
Farley had adjusted everything to fit his taller frame, so George wasted thirty seconds changing it all so he could reach the pedals and wheel properly. He turned the key in the ignition, feeling the cab rumble and the wheel vibrate in his hands. He hadn't driven an American left-hand drive vehicle for a while so it took him a second to get his hands in the right place, then he engaged reverse and looked over his shoulder automatically. When he realised he was looking at the back of the cab, not out of a window, he snapped his head back around and looked in a wing mirror instead.
Reversing an articulated lorry is a special skill, and although George was basically familiar with the cab controls, he hadn't ever tried reversing before. At first, he couldn't get the trailer to go the way he wanted, and, frustrated, he flicked the headlights on to try and make things clearer. By dabbing the accelerator pedal and hauling the wheel round to try different things, he worked out that he needed to push the trailer in the right direction and then concentrate on the angle of the cab. It was hard work and George was working up a sweat which made his shirt stick to his back as he kept a close eye on his mirror. Even nudging into a wall could spell catastrophe, but he kept his mind off it and chopped everything up into small tasks: reverse the trailer, free the cab, drive out of the compound, call for help.
Finally he got the trailer into the position he wanted, then pulled on the wheel again and finally saw the nose of the cab going where he wanted: the opposite direction than they'd come in. He reckoned he had a fair idea of how to get back to the flattened section of fence, but this time a puncture would work against him. Keeping his speed low, he weaved around the installations, but he thought he could see lights moving around in his mirrors and wondered if he'd made enough noise to rouse the plant's security team. If he had, he hoped they wouldn't be stupid enough to take pot shots at the trailer. With a final heave on the wheel, he found a stretch of asphalt he needed to follow and the semi began to pick up speed. The headlights picked up the gap in the fence and he aimed the nose of the cab right at it, touching the brake a few times to keep his speed manageable. There were definitely headlights in his mirrors now and they were rapidly getting closer. All he needed to do was to get well clear of any civilisation.
The truck's engine screamed as the wheels spun over the fence: George realised in his anxiety he'd hit it far too quickly. Luckily, the chain link was a large panel and didn't get rucked up into the axels, but there were a few sticky moments when he thought he might be coming to a sudden halt. The truck juddered onwards, clearing the fence and then, suddenly, George was in the darkness and relying on his headlights again. The farm track went off to the left, he was sure, but he'd lost sight of it, and he was just driving across a scrubby field, small bushes crashing into the front bumper and the truck lurching up and down as it hit uneven terrain. He kept going as slowly as he dared, then, with one hand clamped onto the wheel, he fished around for a mobile phone to call for help. He wasn't sure if the first one he found was Luke's or Farley's, but it had thirty percent battery so he started typing in Jules's number. As he hit another large bump, and the cab bounced up and down on its suspension, he realised the phone wasn't asking for a number, it was asking for a passcode to unlock it. He had no idea what passcodes the twins used, and he was about to hurl the phone away in frustration when he remembered that you can call the emergency services even from a locked phone. Glancing up at the dark field in front of him, he typed in 9-1-1 and then pressed the call button.
"Nine one one, what's your emergency?"
George swallowed. "Um, I need the police urgently."
"Where are you?"
Looking wildly around in the darkness, George had no idea how to answer. "I'm in a field behind the SCC plant in Routledge, Oklahoma. I'm driving a truck full of explosives which I need the police to recover."
"Okay…" the dispatcher said, a little overwhelmed. "I'll talk to the police."
Suddenly, George's mirrors lit up with a riot of flashing red and blue lights.
"Looks like they've found me," George yelled down the phone, swerving as tightly as he dared to avoid a concrete trough which had suddenly appeared from the darkness. "If you can speak to them, tell them not to shoot under any circumstances or they'll set off the explosives."
He hit another bump and the phone flew out of his hand, landing on the floor, and when he looked in his mirror, he could see a set of flashing lights closing in on the trailer. The last thing he wanted was a collision, so he touched the brakes and let the cab bring the trailer to a steady halt. He switched off the ignition and threw open the door of the cab just as a police 4x4 pulled up beside him.
"Don't shoot!" he screamed as loud as he could, putting both of his hands out of the open door to show he didn't have a weapon.
"Get down on the ground," a voice shouted at him, and, being careful to keep his hands in sight, George slowly got out and lowered himself to the ground. As soon as he had taken a step away from the cab, dazzled by the flashing lights, two police officers came out of the glare and threw him to the ground, one kneeling on his back while the other wrenched his arms around and cuffed them.
"What's going on?" one of them asked, looking up at another officer who had his gun pointed at George's head.
"Don't shoot, please, don't shoot," George pleaded, his face pressed hard into the dusty ground. "The trailer is full of fertiliser and a fuse, you could blow it up,"
"Explosives?" the officer asked sharply. "Are you sure?"
"Totally sure," George replied. "Just don't shoot."
George found himself being picked bodily up off the ground and carried by four officers to the 4x4, where they threw him unceremoniously into the back. George landed on the seats, but bounced off, and without his arms to protect himself, he rolled into the foot well as a police officer leapt into the driver's seat and floored it.
"All units, trailer contains explosives, evacuate the area. Suspect in custody," he shouted into his radio. "Repeat, explosives, evacuate area."
As George lay in the foot well, unable to see anything except a grubby patch of carpet, he hoped they'd picked up Farley and Luke.
The police locked George in a cell in the police station with a permanent guard sitting opposite the door, looking at him at all times. After taking a slightly-embarrassing piss, George explored, and was pleased to find that the cell wasn't as filthy as he'd expected. After using his t-shirt to wipe something grey off the plastic mattress, he lay down and managed to get a few hours of fitful sleep. Eventually he was roused by an overweight female officer, who made a racket opening the door of the cell and handed him a pre-packaged meal.
"What time is it?" George asked when she turned to leave.
"Lunchtime," she said simply, scowling at him as she locked the cell again.
George was expecting to see Jules any minute, but he ripped into his lunch. A sweaty sandwich, a fruit cup and a cookie weren't much, but he hadn't eaten for a long time, so he scoffed them down in as few bites as possible, then got as comfortable as he could on the bed and awaited rescue.
Unfortunately, the police managed to get to him before Jules did. The overweight woman and a taller, slimmer police woman who looked senior appeared at the cell door a few hours later, just when George was starting to wonder what his evening meal might be.
"Come with us," the overweight one demanded, and George swung himself into a sitting position. He waited at the door to have handcuffs clipped on again, then followed the two women to a cramped interview room with a recorder.
"Do you have an attorney?" the slim woman intoned to him. George shook his head.
"I need to make a phone call," he insisted.
"We want to interview you, and you have a right to have an attorney present."
"Listen," George said wearily. "Let me make my phone call, and then I can cooperate as much as you need. But, phone call first."
"We make the rules here, boy," the shorter woman shouted at him. "Now shaddap and listen."
George gave them both a contemptuous look. "Give. Me. My. Phone. Call," he demanded.
"Suspect won't cooperate. Let's see how you get on with another twelve hours in your cell, smartass," the tall one said, dismissing him. This worked in George's favour, so he quietly followed the overweight one back down to his cell, where she locked him in again.
"Cuffs," George said, clinking them against the door.
"Not this time. Only suspects who cooperate get their handcuffs removed," the police woman taunted him.
"Cow!" George shouted, but she just laughed and walked off, leaving her colleague to guard the door.
George had lost track of time, but he hadn't been fed since lunchtime and his stomach was growling by the time anyone approached the cell again. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that it was Ashton, wearing a fleece jacket with the yellow letters 'FBI' stamped on it.
"Come on," he said to George, making the guard unlock the cell. George waited by the door obediently, but then as soon as it was open, Ashton started striding away, making George jog to keep up.
"I need my cuffs-" George said, but Ashton gave him a look.
"Mouth shut until we're in the car. I'll spring your cuffs there," he said quickly, leading George through a maze of corridors, seeing nobody, until they went out through a fire door into a parking lot full of police cruisers. Ashton led him to a dark saloon car with all the windows tinted, and George breathed air conditioning and slumped into a leather seat when he got in.
"Wrists," Ashton said, using a key on his keyring to unlock George's cuffs, and George rubbed his wrists with relief when they were off. Then Ashton drove away, with George scrambling for his seatbelt.
"We picked up Luke and Farley," Ashton told him, jumping in before George had a chance to ask. "They're being held in Tulsa as a security measure. Jules and I managed to get you stalled here, so fewer people would see your face, but the local cops weren't playing ball and I eventually had to get FBI headquarters to deal with 'em."
"I've been in worse cells, to be fair," George said. "Even managed to get some sleep this morning."
Ashton laughed. "You didn't say anything to the cops?"
"Nah, they tried to interview me but I just demanded a phone call," George told him.
"Perfect. I'm already trying to get as many loose ends chopped off as I can, to point suspicion away from you. Given the situation, I think George Ferguson is going to have to go on the run."
"Didn't all those police just see you pick me up?" George asked.
"We'll make it clear to them that anyone asking questions will find their law enforcement career over very quickly," Ashton said, grinning. "I'll plant a load of conflicting rumours around Routledge until nobody knows the truth, and that'll probably be good enough to muddy the waters."
George relaxed into his seat. "Where are we going?" he asked, noticing that Ashton was heading for the highway.
"I've got a safe house across the border in Kansas that you're gonna use. Too risky hanging around Routledge, now."
"Good riddance," George said, sourly. "Routledge is a hole."
"Jules and Letticia are waiting for you there and they'll answer all your questions," Ashton said. "I need to get back on duty as quickly as possible."
"Am I allowed one question?" George asked.
"Just one."
"Did the trailer blow up?"
Ashton laughed. "If it had, you'd have known all about it. That thing going off would've felt like the end of the world! Thankfully, the bomb squad got here pretty fast and they've dismantled it all."