I scooted over so I could see the screen. The headline read: “Speed Back in Rehab.” There was a photo of him getting out of the back of a stretch limo, looking wasted and irritated at the person snapping his photo. After all these years, you’d think he’d be used to the paparazzi. Not surprisingly, he was surrounded by personal assistants, bodyguards, and hangerson. It looked like they were all going to get a few days off, because the article said he was going to be in the Alcatraz Rehab Center for a minimum of two weeks. Rehab Rock, or the ARC, as it was called, was a relatively new facility. The old prison had been completely redone and turned into a trendy drug and alcohol recovery center. He had been admitted four days ago. The article went on to say that it was thought that his relapse was caused by the recent marriage of Blaze Munoz to Roger Tucker, and Match’s successful album and sold-out tour.
I was sure he wasn’t happy for them, but I doubted that had caused the relapse. He’d had a relapse every year since I was born. The point was, the guy in the Hummer was not my dad, because my dad was drying out three thousand miles away at a former federal penitentiary in the middle of San Francisco Bay.
But that still didn’t explain the itch.
“Maybe it will work for him this time around,” Angela said kindly, not mentioning that I was wrong about the guy in the Hummer. There were times that I really liked having her for a sister.
Boone must have ended his update to the president, because he called back to us that we had just crossed into North Carolina.
Angela switched back to the GPS and sure enough Virginia was behind us. I looked at my watch. It was 1:35 in the morning.
Northbound
Felix felt like he was driving a go-cart instead of a car. To see the road, he had to almost lie down flat in the narrow driver’s seat. Whoever owned the car was a smoker. It reeked. The ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts. He would rather sit next to Croc than an open ashtray, and wondered if stale smoke caused cancer.
Hope I don’t die of the big C before figuring out who’s in the Tahoe.
“If I can keep up with them,” he muttered as he put the window down and tossed the butts out along with the ashtray. He left the window open, preferring the cold rain in his face to the rank stench.
To stay with the Tahoe, he had to go ninety miles an hour downhill to make up for what he lost going uphill.
He looked at the fuel gauge.
Quarter full. Or three-quarters empty. Or completely broken.
He tapped the gauge for the tenth time since stealing the car from the truck stop.
If you’re going to steal a car, don’t steal a junker. Grand theft auto is grand theft auto.
Another hill loomed before him. Steep and long. The Tahoe powered up like it was dead level. Felix jammed the pedal to the floor. The car wound up to a shuddering eighty miles an hour, then the speedometer needle started to drop.
75…72…69…
The temperature needle edged up into the red.
67…
The engine’s gonna blow.
I did the guy that owns this piece of junk a favor.
Now he can go out and get a car that works.
63…59…
He topped the hill going fifty-two miles an hour. When he came over the rise, he expected to see a pair of red taillights in the distance, traveling at a steady seventy miles an hour. He saw nothing but darkness.
65…71 …79 …
He hit the first curve at eighty-two miles an hour and saw flashing hazard lights on the right-hand shoulder a half a mile ahead. He couldn’t tell if it was the Tahoe or not. He eased up on the gas, trying to recall the other vehicles he had seen prior to the long hill. There had been two of them. A semi-truck and a BMW. He remembered the bimmer in particular, because it had breezed by him going about ninety miles an hour, and he wished he was driving it instead of this gutless wonder. The hazard lights weren’t the right shape for the bimmer and it certainly wasn’t a semi-truck on the shoulder. If he blew by them, he could pull off up ahead and catch them as they passed.
If they get the engine going.
Or the tire changed.
Or whatever the problem is.
The farther north they went, the more exits there were. If he got too far in front, they could take an exit behind him. And then there was the gas problem. Eventually, he was going to have to stop. If they got off I-95 while he was filling up, he’d never find them again. The flashing lights grew brighter. It was definitely the Tahoe. He tapped the brake.
If the president’s daughter is in the backseat, would they really turn on the hazard lights?
Felix put his brights on and pulled in ten feet behind the SUV. He sat there for a moment. The occupants were still in the vehicle. Steam, or maybe smoke, was billowing out from under the hood. He figured it was steam, because who would stay in a car that was on fire. He pulled a pair of binoculars out of his kit and looked through the back window. They wouldn’t be able to see him past the headlights. There were four people in the car. The two in the back were women. They had turned their heads and were looking at him. They were not the Leopard, or the president’s daughter. He couldn’t see the two people in the front clearly.
If he drove off now, they would probably call in the weird encounter to their handler. If he didn’t get out in the next few seconds and ask them if they needed help, they would become more suspicious than they already were.
He tossed the binoculars on the passenger seat, checked his gun, then unfolded himself from the little car. He knew that the most dangerous part would be the approach. He would be backlit by the headlights and completely exposed. At six foot seven and nearly three hundred pounds, he was a big target. The trick was to walk up on them in a friendly matter as if he wasn’t expecting to be shot, or intending to shoot them, which he was happy to do if that’s how they wanted to play it.
When he got to the window, he squatted down so his belt buckle wouldn’t be in the driver’s face and to protect himself behind the door. He wrapped his hand around his gun as the window slowly slid down.
Felix tried to put a sympathetic smile on his face. “Car trouble?”
The man returned the smile. He was in his mid-thirties, clean shaven, dark hair, light eyes, good teeth.
“I’ll say,” he said, nodding toward the steaming hood. “I think it’s the radiator.”
American accent. He didn’t look or sound like a terrorist, which Felix supposed was the whole point. He looked at the man sitting next to him. He looked as clean-cut and normal as the driver.
“Did you call a tow truck?” Felix asked.
“It just happened,” the man said. “We’re still debating what to do.”
Felix glanced at the women in the backseat. They both smiled at him as if they didn’t have a care in the world. This bothered him. Being stranded on a rainy interstate in the middle of the night is upsetting. They looked like they were at a major intersection in a big city, waiting for a red light to turn green. All four of them had flashing Bluetooths in their ears, making them look like a group of terrorist cyborgs. He was also bothered by the fact that he couldn’t see any of their hands. The driver was twisted around and leaning forward in such a way that Felix couldn’t see his or the passenger’s lap.
“I could take a look,” Felix said.
“Are you a mechanic?”
“I know my way around engines. Pop the hood.”
The driver had some trouble figuring out where the hood release was.
Not his wheels.
Throwaway car.
Felix moved to the front of the Tahoe and opened the hood. No one got out to give him a hand, or to see what he was doing. It was raining and the wind was blowing, but you would think one of them would brave the elements to join the Good Samaritan trying to help them out.
When the SUV broke down, why didn’t they take a look at the engine and try to help themselves?
The answer brought a grim smile to his face. They were told not to. A bre
akdown was not on their agenda, nor was a stranger showing up to help them.
They’re waiting for further instructions, or for someone else to help them, which explains the flashing hazard lights.
Four against one is okay.
Four-plus against one could be a problem.
He took the flashlight out of his left coat pocket, keeping his right hand on the pistol in his other one. A radiator hose had come loose. A simple fix with a pair of pliers. He had his multi-tool clipped to his belt, but he didn’t reach for it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to fix their car. He looked at the battery. There were three wires hooked to it that didn’t belong there. A red wire, a blue wire, and a green wire.
Uh-oh.
The wires explained why they had been told to stay in the car. There was a good chance they didn’t know what the wires were or what they led to. But Felix knew, and he was beginning to think that stopping wasn’t one of his better ideas.
X-Ray had given him a Bluetooth earpiece, but he had tossed it on the passenger seat. It hurt his ear and he thought flashing earpieces looked stupid.
Who’s stupid now?
He needed to call Boone and tell him the good news and the bad news. The good news was that the targets weren’t in this Tahoe. The bad news was the Tahoe was carrying more than passengers.
Taking a cell out in front of them and making a call would be just as threatening as pulling his gun and firing a round through the windshield. He’d have to make the call without them seeing, and he’d have to make it quick. He put the flashlight down and reached for his phone, then he heard a car door open.
Too late.
He picked the flashlight back up.
Time to play big dumb slow guy.
It was a role he’d played many times before, to great effect. The only part of the equation that was true was the big part. Three more doors opened.
Looks like their handler called and told them to get rid of the Good Samaritan.
He wondered if the handler had mentioned the three wires. He hooked his finger under the green wire and looked to his left. There was a steep slope on the other side of the guardrail.
Two running steps and a dive.
The driver came around the front with a big smile and a gun laid flat against his leg.
Big dumb Felix glanced at him, acting like he hadn’t seen the gun.
“It’s just a radiator hose,” Felix said.
“If you got a pair of pliers I can hook it back up,” Felix added. “I’ll have you on your way in a jiffy.”
“We don’t have any tools.”
This came from the guy who had been sitting in the passenger seat. He had walked up on Felix’s left. One of the women was standing behind him. They weren’t smiling now.
Felix looked back at the driver. The second woman had joined him. She wasn’t smiling either. He wondered if their handler was listening through their Bluetooths. He hoped so, because he was about to get an earful.
“I have pliers in my rig,” big dumb Felix said. “I’ll grab them. Y’all should just get back in your car. No use in all of us getting drenched. You’ll have to top off your radiator with water at the next gas station. That should get you where you want to go. I don’t see any other problems. I’ll grab my toolbox.”
“You’re not grabbing anything,” the driver said, and raised his pistol.
Big dumb Felix feigned shock and fear. “Hey! Is that a gun?”
He put his left hand up in the air, making certain the flashlight was shining in the eyes of the two behind him, temporarily blinding them. He stepped back one step.
“Wrong place, wrong time,” the driver said.
Felix snapped the green wire, took two running steps, and dove over the guardrail. The blast pushed him thirty feet down the embankment. He tucked and tried to roll, but the roll turned into a thud. He landed flat on his back at the bottom of the slope, with every ounce of air driven from his lungs.
He lay with his mouth open and his eyes bulging, watching fiery debris falling all around him. He couldn’t seem to move and wondered if his back was broken. He couldn’t breathe and wondered if the impact had burst his lungs. A smoking bucket seat landed five feet from where he was lying. It didn’t make a sound as it struck and bounced away into the darkness. He added deafness to his list of major problems.
He lay there for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably no more than a minute, waiting for that first breath. It finally came in the form of a gigantic gasp. He was going to wait a few moments before checking to see if his back was broken, but he hurried the schedule along when he realized that his coat was on fire. He was on his feet in an instant, tearing the coat off and stamping the fire out. It seemed that his back was not broken. The only things that didn’t seem to be working were his ears. He couldn’t hear a thing. He felt a crunch under his foot and swore, although he didn’t hear the actual word.
He reached into the pocket of his smoking coat and pulled out what was left of his cell phone. He tossed the smashed plastic on the ground. He pulled his gun out of the other pocket. It was a bit charred and scuffed, but it looked serviceable. He stuck it in his belt. He had no idea where his flashlight had gone, but he didn’t need it. Several trees had caught fire and were lighting the ruined landscape like torches. He started back up the slope. Nothing was broken, but every square inch of his body hurt.
It took him a lot longer to get to the top than it had to get to the bottom. He knew the explosion had been big, but that didn’t prepare him for the damage to the interstate. The Tahoe and the sports car were gone, along with the four terrorists, the shoulder where they were parked, and a good portion of the inside lane of I-95 North. Blast debris was scattered across all four lanes, some of it still burning, but the heavy rain was dousing the fires. He looked up and down the road. No one had come along yet, but he knew when they did and reported it, this section of I-95 would be swarming with police. He didn’t have time to talk to the police. And what could he tell them? Not the truth. That was for sure. He needed to get to a phone and tell Boone and the others the Tahoes weren’t just there to confuse them. They were there to kill and cause chaos.
There was an exit two miles ahead. He started jogging north, ignoring the pain, wishing he could hear his footsteps.
Eastbound
“We are getting farther away from the Leopard,” Ziv said. “I can feel it.”
He was in the passenger seat. Eben Lavi was leaning over the steering wheel, trying to see past the furious wiper blades sluicing rain off the Range Rover’s windshield. Boone had just called in and told them he was following the fourth Tahoe south on I-95. They were a hundred yards behind the second Tahoe, traveling exactly seventy-four miles per hour.
“What do you mean you can feel it?” Eben asked.
“I have been protecting Anmar for so long, I simply know when I am far from her,” Ziv answered.
Eben didn’t disagree with the old man. He thought they were following the wrong car as well. It was obvious that the purpose of the Tahoes was to divide them, and they were playing their part perfectly.
“How convinced are you?” he asked.
“Ninety percent.”
“Are you thinking about a confrontation to speed things along?”
“That is exactly what I am thinking.”
“It could be dangerous. If we are wrong and Malak and the daughter are in the backseat, the mission is blown.”
“If Malak is in the backseat, we will not be alive to care. She will shoot both of us for ruining the Medusa operation, as Tyrone Boone is now calling it.”
“And if she isn’t there, and they make a call to tell their handler about the confrontation?”
Ziv reached into the bag at his feet and pulled out a magnetic police light and portable siren. “They will tell the handler that they have been pulled over on a routine traffic stop.” He pointed at the speedometer. “They are exceeding the legal speed limit by four miles an hour.”
“T
hat hardly warrants a traffic stop. And we have no uniforms.”
Ziv tossed a wallet into his lap. Inside was a police badge.
“You will have to be a plainclothes state trooper if they ask, which I doubt they will,” he said. “You will be on the right-hand side. They will not be able to see past your flashlight. Look at the westbound traffic. We will ask them why they are in such a hurry to get to a hurricane. Very suspicious behavior.”
The westbound traffic was a lot heavier than the eastbound traffic. In fact, aside from the Tahoe, they hadn’t seen another vehicle heading in their direction in the past ten minutes.
“I don’t think they will believe that.”
“Their left taillight is out.”
“No it isn’t.”
“It will be.”
“What about Tyrone Boone?” Eben asked.
“He instructed us to get a visual on them. We are carrying out his orders. We are getting low on fuel. I suspect that they filled up before they arrived at the rest area. We will have to stop for gas before they do. If that happens, there is a good chance that we will lose them.”
Eben nodded. “What else do you have in that bag of yours?”
“I have everything we need.” Ziv started to unbutton his shirt. “Including a police uniform. Never leave home without one.”
Westbound
Vanessa turned around in the passenger seat and looked back at X-Ray. His thick black glasses were askew, his white hair was sticking straight up from running his hands through it, his face looked like death in the light of the computer monitor. She knew better than to ask him how it was going, and it was obvious how it was going by the stricken look on his face. She had seen the look before, but not often.
“Epic failure,” she whispered.
Uly looked over at her. “Huh?”
“Never mind,” she said, wishing they could pull over so she could drive. Uly’s neck had to be bothering him. He was so tall he had to put his chin on his neck to see through the windshield. She glanced at the speedometer. They were seventy-two miles west of I-95 and probably well over a hundred miles from Boone by now, and even farther from Ziv, Eben, and Felix. The Tahoe’s taillights were a couple of hundred yards in front of them. It had stayed within the speed limit and in the right lane except to pass trucks and slower cars. If Bethany and Malak were not in the backseat, Vanessa wondered what instructions the occupants had received. Drive west until you run out of gas, or until you are pulled over and arrested, whichever comes first? Did they know each other? What were they talking about? How were they receiving their instructions? Cell phones? What was the endgame?