Page 87 of Surge
“Doyouget that she has a dog capable of ripping out throats?” Caldwell scoffed. When Garrett growled, the spook held up his hands. “Bear. You let her go, told her to stay with the chems. We know where that train is headed, and it’s nonstop.” He scanned the intel.
Garrett wanted to kill the guy. But he was right.
Hold up. “It’s nonstop to where?” Garrett asked, checking the tracker app for the thousandth time. Still no active signal from Surge.
“Surabaya.”
Surabaya . . . Why was that familiar? “What’s in the area?”
“Surabaya is a big, thriving city. It’s known as the City of Heroes after a great battle during Indonesia’s independence revolution.” Caldwell ducked closer to his device. “Top companies include Next1—a mobile services company. A blood donation center called Reblood, and PT PG Rajawali—a sugar factory that produces maple, sweet maja?—”
“Shoe factory . . . sugar factory . . .” Garrett chewed through those names. “Zim, any of those work for mixing the chemical? I’m thinking about the sugar factory.”
“Uh . . . wait—negative. The sulfamic acid in Sachaai’s formula is an ingestible poison—a nightmare for a sugar factory owner.”
“Okay, so not the sugar factory,” Garrett muttered. He glanced back at Caldwell. “What else is there?”
“You realize,” Zim said, “any of these companies could simply be a front.”
Garrett grunted even as he realized the spook was still listing companies.
“ . . . eTraining Indonesia, Cantika Coffee Farm, Belajar?—”
“Wait!” Garrett whipped around in his seat. “Cantika . . . Choca Cantika—Delaney loves that coffee.”
Negotiating traffic, which had let up, Zim eyed him. “You think . . .”
“Favorite coffee has nothing to do with the chems,” Caldwell countered.
Man, Garrett wanted to punch the guy. But he was right. Again. “I know . . .” But what were the chances that Delaney had talked about this coffee right before they ended up headed straight toward it?
“However,” Zim said as they pulled up to the Indonesia Navy base, “coffee would combine well with hydrogen cyanide, thanks to Tariq’s non-dissipating oil spray . . .”
Garrett hesitated, eyeing the guards around the gate, who were well-armed and giving other entrants a hard time.
“Evening, sir,” the guard said in a thick accent. “ID?” Once he had Zim’s ID, the guard checked a clipboard, then nodded. “Very good, sir. Straight down. Two rights. You’ll find the airstrip.”
“Thanks,” Zim said, easing the vehicle forward.
“That was easy,” Garrett said. Too easy.
“That,” Caldwell said, “is the power of Tyson Chapel.”
As they headed to the chopper, Garrett refocused. “So, Cantika . . . think that’s where they’re headed?”
Zim bumped his arm. “With all those chems in all those shoes, Sachaai could contaminate a whole crop of coffee beans at the roastery.”
“It’s genius, really,” Caldwell said. “Lace coffee beans with the chemical, ship it overseas with nobody the wiser, then let Americans drink themselves to their death.”
“Sick . . . we have to stop them.”
Ping!
Garrett snapped his gaze to this SAT phone. “Yes! Finally, got a signal on the tracker.”
“Which tells us what? That they’re still going three fifty klicks an hour?”
“One day,” Garrett said as they climbed out and grabbed their gear, “you’re going to smart off and have my fist in your teeth.”