Cold Snap by J. Clayton Rogers Page A

any other
portion of the deposit. In the meantime, however, Ari picked up a
few Korean words, not all of them suitable for diplomatic
missions.
    The man standing at the building's entrance
finished his cigarette and tossed it in the gutter before going
back inside. Ari opened his window a little further.
    "You played stupid" something-something "you
do the work!" the older man shouted. "They could kill you"
something-something "for this! I might still kill you!"
    The older man faced away and his words shaded
off into something-something-something. The young man never raised
his head, never answered back. Could he be the man's son? If so,
his lack of response was understandable. Children raised in the
proper manner were well-advised to suffer rebukes in
silence—especially when the elder threatened to kill the wayward
child.
    After receiving a final slap, the young man,
shivering in shirt sleeves, closed the cargo doors and stood
contritely before the older man.
    "Chesonghamnida, Keun-ah-buh-jee! Joung-mal
mee-yan-heh!"
    The older man was the young man's uncle. He
was wearing a jacket. He reached inside his pocket and took out a
knot of keys. With a great show of avuncular malevolence, he sifted
through the keys, found the one he was looking for (as if he had
not already known its exact location) and pulled it off. He held
the key in front of his nephew and seemed to lecture him on its
proper use, as if it was a holy icon worthy of extravagant care and
solicitude. In many places, a car key was exactly that.
    Like a man whose hand was strapped to a mule,
the uncle stretched his arm forward and planted the key in the
young man's hand. He added another slap for good measure, then
pointed at the end of the alley.
    "Gguh juh!"
    The young man raced to the front of the
van.
    Ari had originally intended to brazen his way
into the warehouse with the usual barrage of lies and half-truths.
But he was still far too ignorant of what he was getting into. The
contents of the van, and their destination, might give him a better
idea of what he was dealing with.
    He followed the van as it negotiated the maze
of side streets before coming to Broad and turning west.
    Ten minutes later, Ari was northbound on
I-95. Whatever doubts he had about the Scion's esthetic appeal and
roadworthiness were allayed by its anonymity. A single medium-sized
car was all he needed to avoid the rear-view glances of the van's
driver. An added bonus was the traffic, heavy enough to blend into
but moving steadily.
    But when the van turned off at the
Hanover-Ashland exit, Ari was exposed on a country byway. It was
now headed east on a narrow road short on buildings and long on
empty stretches. Ari was forced to fall further behind.
    He did not know if the U.S. Marshal Service
tracked him in real time, but sooner or later Karen Sylvester would
know he had strayed at least thirty miles outside of Richmond, a
distance that promised to increase with each minute. He was busily
concocting lies to explain away his behavior ("I am enamored with
the scenic Virginia countryside," "I heard the best coffee is
available at bucolic mom-and-pops," "I read the Spanish searched
this area for the Fountain of Youth...") when he suddenly
discovered the van was no longer ahead of him.
    He used a dirt driveway to turn around and
slowly backtrack. Marking another dirt road was a sign: Beacon
Corner Junk & Salvage. The road was wide and heavily used. The
trees bordering it were powdered from years of dust thrown up on
dry summer days. He swung the xB onto the packed rocks and drove a
short distance. The woods opened up on a scene that was reminiscent
of Fallujah after the Marines had finished with it.
    The white van was parked at the main office,
an oversized shed that looked as if it should have been condemned
along with everything else around here. The young driver was
standing at the back of the van, cringing with fear before a worker
armored in overalls and a sour-face. The young man opened