by Theo Cage
“At a mile and a half per minute, four minutes to find a turnaround. You do the math.”
“I miss this woman and I’m going to go over to your apartment and kick the shit out of your Xbox. ”
“Sumner. You’re going to have to go faster.”
“I’m doing 75.”
“Not enough.” Sumner pushed the gas pedal down. “Your target is doing north of 90.”
“Shit.” He hated high-speed chases, but he also realized this might be his last chance to find Addie. Sumner watched the speed notch up on the color display. 70-75-80. What the hell? She couldn’t be a passenger in a highway rig. He wasn’t even sure if they were capable of speeds over 75.
“You’re losing her.” Sumner leaned forward and pushed the gas pedal down into a zone that made sweat break out on his back. He couldn’t believe he was going 90 plus miles an hour. He was screaming past the other traffic, weaving in and out of the passing lane like an enraged drunk.
After a few terrifying moments Sumner saw what he was chasing. A bright yellow Corvette, sliding in and out of the left lane ahead of him. The guy in the Vette was flying. This was insane. Who drives this fast on a busy freeway? And why was Addie onboard?
“You must have a visual now,” yelled the tech. Yeah, Sumner had a visual alright. His bloodied body crushed in a cube of steel and glass.
Sumner had to use his brakes then, slowing down as two cars blocked the passing lane, every delay a reason to have to drive even faster once he got past. He wasn't the highway patrol or a cop with an emergency light he could easily drop on his dash. It was just him and dozens of drivers who were talking on their phones or texting or eating their lunch. No one was present anymore, it seemed. It was just Sumner and six thousand pounds of Yukon weaving through a maze of Facebooking zombies.
The Yukon felt like a swaying monster, threatening to break traction at any second and hurl him into the oncoming traffic. When Sumner turned the steering wheel to switch lanes, the giant SUV seemed to hesitate, then leap. He had read about that once. Was it over steer or under steer? What difference did it make? Either way, he felt out of control, like he was lashed down to a wild bull, determined to go where it wanted go. The yellow Corvette wasn't any closer either. Addie had been picked up by some psycho with a death wish. But he still pushed the gas pedal down even harder, his teeth rattling in his head. Losing sight of her again would be too much for him. Maybe he couldn't catch this maniac, but at least he could keep her in his sights a bit longer.
Then he saw a wall of brake lights flash ahead. The speed demon who picked Addie up had either crashed or the gridlock had caught up with Indianapolis city limits.
As the traffic began to slow in front of him, Sumner slammed the steering wheel with his fist. He had lost sight of the Corvette. But he could see it in his mind’s eye, free of the traffic jam, roaring down the freeway at some ridiculous rate of speed, Addie probably laughing, enjoying the moment.
He cursed, his foot on the brake. Then he made a decision. He jerked the steering wheel to the left and veered off the shoulder onto the grass-covered median. He accelerated; the truck bucking and bouncing past the bumper-to-bumper traffic on his right. He heard a few protests - stranded drivers honking their horns at him. 'I'm the goddamn FBI!' he felt like shouting.
He bounced over a paved connector road, and then dropped back onto the grass on the other side. He could see now why the traffic was delayed - a subcompact had plowed into the back end of an SUV, the two drivers, both women, standing beside their vehicles, arms raised. Their dispute had brought traffic to a halt. And there was the Corvette, two car lengths behind the accident, boxed in and not going anywhere.
Sumner pulled up beside the yellow sports car, grinning. The police Gods had smiled on him for once. Or so he thought.
Chapter 78
Indianapolis, Indiana
FIVE MINUTES INTO MAKING the acquaintance of the woman racing the yellow sports car, her fingers bloodless from hanging on to her shoulder belt for dear life, Addie learned something interesting about Grace. But first she was asked an interesting question.
“Why would someone on the run from hired killers leave the protection of one of the best agents in US Intelligence?”
Addie was speechless. She just looked at the driver, trying to connect the dots. For the first time she noticed the woman's arms under her peach-colored blouse, the muscles apparent when she turned the wheel. This was no frail, skeletal fashion model. She looked more like an Olympic runner or a world-class tennis player.
“How well do you know Rice?” Addie asked.
“You haven’t answered my question yet,” said Grace.
“Well, I think I deserve to know. What are your intentions?”
Grace laughed. “Don't tell me you have a crush on Burroughs. Mr. Black Ops himself.”
“He sent you to pick me up? I told him I was done with his games.”
“And what about your games?”
Addie thought for a moment. Grace sounded just like her mother just then which dredged up a painful memory. “They just shot her in the face while my dad watched. You think that's a game?”
Grace turned to her, impatience in her eyes. “Who?”
“My mother. That was their message. You mess with us - this is what we think of your family.”
Grace down shifted hard. The engine screamed. Addie could tell Grace was angry.
“I can't do anything about the past, Addie. But we can give you back your freedom. That's why I'm here.”
She was braking hard now, the traffic ahead blocked by an accident on the highway. Addie could hear voices, yelling, somebody leaning on a horn. She wanted to believe someone could make the Ruffino vendetta go away; maybe even restore a sense of justice. But how likely was that?
And she was still angry with Rice. He had lied to her, maybe fed her false hope. And now this accomplice of his with the fashionable Coach sunglasses and designer jeans - what did she get out of this?
Addie reached for the door handle, thinking it was time to walk away again. Screw the distance. She would hike it from now on. Every car ride was just another angle anyway, another needy human, another sad story. She had heard them all; every proposition, every excuse, wallets opened with sweaty fingers, anxious expressions. She'd learned a valuable lesson - if they lie enough, they soon forget it's a lie.
Maybe this Grace woman really believed she was doing the right thing - that she could save Addie with her fast car and good looks.
Just as she began to squeeze the handle, her eyes on the road ahead, a serious looking black SUV jammed on its brakes beside them and stopped only inches from Grace's door. Grace slid her right hand under the front seat and pulled out a handgun as if she had done that a thousand times before. But they were trapped now. Addie couldn't see what their options were. Until she felt Grace's powerful right arm circle her neck and pull her close, the gun now in her left hand, the barrel pressed up against Addie’s temple.
. . . . .
SUMNER WAS OUT OF THE YUKON, almost around the massive chrome front bumper, his hand reaching for his FBI ID, when he realized he was dealing with more than just a speed-crazed driver. The woman behind the wheel had Addie in a headlock and a compact semi-automatic pistol pressed into her forehead. The driver's window was down. Sumner stopped about ten feet away from the Corvette and raised both hands, his tie flopping about in the stiff breeze blowing in from the suburbs of Indianapolis.
They both stared at each other. The driver of the Corvette had green eyes that drilled right through Sumner's lightweight soul like a bullet through cellophane. But all he could focus on was the gun. Something about the way she held herself told him she was as familiar with the Sig 232 as she was walking in high heels. But he had to do something. People were starting to stare.
“I'm prepared to triple your fee if you release the girl into my custody,” said Sumner, flipping open his billfold, revealing an under-exposed headshot of him taken during his rookie y
ear.
The driver squinted at Sumner's I.D.
“Smart decision - losing that mustache,” said Grace.
Sumner blinked, and then quickly closed his billfold.
“How much money are we talking about here? What's your spending limit?” asked Grace.
Sumner didn’t expect to be negotiating fees so soon. Who was this woman? “Just release her and then we can negotiate.”
“You think that will work?” she asked. “Everything I read on the Internet says never give up a hostage until you receive payment in full.”
“What is Ruffino paying you?” asked Sumner, his arms down by his side, his fingers twitching. The woman in the sports car had a faint smirk on her face, like none of this was really troubling her. Then Grace nodded her head.
“You think I'm a hit man for the mob! That's how you see me?”
“You've got a gun to her head. I'm guessing you're not her therapist or her real estate agent.” Sumner noticed Addie start to pull away from the driver, until Grace pressed the gun even deeper into Addie's forehead and she stopped struggling.
Sumner saw the driver's eyes shift to his left, so he turned as well. A middle aged man with a bulging stomach and shotgun was walking up to them.
“Drop the gun, lady, or somebody gets hurt,” he said.
“That would be you,” said the driver, narrowing her eyes.
The fat guy turned to Sumner, looking surprised. He evidently didn’t expect to get sassed. Guys with big guns are like that, thought Sumner.
“Who are you anyway?” asked the FBI agent.
“I'm just a law abiding citizen.”
“We don't need any help. I'm an agent with the FBI, and she,” Sumner pointed, “is a hit man for the mob. You'll be lucky to get out of this alive.”
Chapter 79
Casey’s Mill Lodge, Indiana
BRITT PULLED UP INTO THE CIRCULAR DRIVE that swung past the long front porch of Casey’s Mill Lodge. She braked to a stop and took a shaky breath. She hadn't known what to expect when Rice gave her directions. Just not this. Not a sprawling set of old stone and brick buildings, fully restored, and subtly landscaped. Not too cute or touristy, with modern doors and large expanses of glass. More like a B&B for the rich and famous.
She stepped out of her Honda and grabbed a weekender from the trunk. She couldn't believe what she was doing. First of all, the car was not hers. She had done what Rice had asked. Go to a small auto repair shop. Ask to rent a car. They would say they don’t rent cars. Then tell them a brief story about an abusive husband on her trail.
Local car shops always had loaners or cars customers couldn't pay for or just orphans sitting in the back storage lot. Flash enough cash for a deposit and chances are good you'd soon be driving down the highway with dealer plates or the owner’s registration. Story was number one, cash was number two. And Rice had been right. The owner’s wife gave her a wink and set her up. At $200 a day. So Britt knew it wasn't just charity. But she did tell the woman it was her asshole husband’s money she was using anyway. And that made them both smile.
So here she was. A strange car, a hurriedly packed suitcase, standing in front of a bed and breakfast costing at least five hundred dollars a night. She walked up onto the wide porch and stepped inside the foyer. It was cool and she could smell chi tea and wood oil. At the front desk she checked in as Mrs. Ray Martin. The woman behind the shiny wooden counter handed her a security pass and a brochure. They talked about the spa for a few minutes, the services offered and pricing. Britt felt dazed. She was here to reconnect with a mystery man, an alien star craft pilot, and this young woman was talking about a milk bath and healing stones.
Britt made her way down a long hall to a set of stairs. She was booked on the second floor, a beautiful view of the Corydon plain, a key feature of the suite, the site of the only Civil War battle in the state. She came to a massive wooden door crafted from antique barn wood but beautifully finished. She swiped herself in. The room was huge, a large sitting area looking down through a wall of glass onto a rolling field peppered with wild flowers. On a table in the center was an arrangement of daisies, laurel and cinnamon ferns. She stood there for a minute, unable to take everything in. She still couldn't understand why she was there, although it felt like she was looking for closure. Her few days with the mystery man seemed distant and brief, like a dream partially remembered. She still hardly knew him. And she had so many questions to ask although she truly believed he would cautiously avoid most of them.
She saw a yellow card in the arrangement. She opened the cover and read the message.
Britt,
I will be there soon. Enjoy yourself, order room service or try the spa. If you ask at the front desk, I have left an envelope for you in their safe - the $1000 you used to get here.
Can't wait to see you,
Ray
The note was hand-written. She studied the cursive writing like an archaeologist searching for a secret clue. Then she smiled at the way he scrawled the name Ray. She knew that wasn't his real name. The Feds had pretty much confirmed his name was Rice. An unusual moniker for a man-on-the-run, a refugee from another life somewhere. She sat on the bed, holding the card. A king size, high and comforting. She was so tired, she could easily sleep right now, the tension escaping from her slowly, her eyes growing heavy.
Rice was coming for her, she thought. They had so much to talk about. She leaned back and the minute her head touched the pillow she fell into a troubled sleep.
Chapter 80
Indianapolis, Indiana
SUMNER HAD MADE A LOT OF RASH and reckless moves in his five years as an agent. He was impatient by nature, and he knew this, but still struggled to control his impulses. Standing on the shoulder of the grid-locked freeway, staring into Addie's eyes, he made a decision. From this point forward, he was a better man. He was a trained FBI agent. He had spent the required sixteen weeks at Quantico learning how to be a real agent. And he hadn't done badly. He was a better than average marksman, for example. And he'd aced the written test - courses on terrorism, counter-insurgency, and extraction. He hadn't done well under torture, but hey, everyone had a weakness. His was being water boarded when he broke. Let James Bond try it, he thought. It was worse than anything he could imagine.
Standing about six feet to his left was an older man in a hunting jacket and an oily baseball cap, wielding a shotgun. He could tell by the nicks and scratches the gun had bounced around in the back of someone's trunk for years; this guy just waiting for an opportunity to play avenger. He would be slow and clumsy. Sumner needed to remove him from the equation. The man wasn't dangerous because he had a gun; he was just another idiot in the mix who needed to be neutralized before Addie got hurt.
Sumner said “Hey!” loudly, and the hunter jumped and turned towards him. Sumner grabbed the barrel with his right hand and pushed the nose toward the ground, expecting the man to pull the trigger accidentally. But Sumner was surprised when the guy lost hold of the handle and the gun just fell to the ground. The man had a look of dull surprise on his doughy face, then he raised both hands. Sumner picked up the shotgun by the stock and smashed it angrily on the pavement, where it split into pieces, one chunk skittering under the Vette.
Sumner looked over to the sports car where the female driver was watching him. He turned back to the hunter. “Get out of here before I arrest you for being stupid.” The hunter backed up slowly and then ran back to his car.
Sumner turned back to the woman with the gun. Her look had turned to curiosity. She still had Addie in a headlock. He decided she wasn't a hit man. He wasn't exactly sure why he felt that way, but he believed cops survived as much from instinct as they did from training. Maybe it was just the dilated pupils, or a frown, or a muscle spasm communicating to him at the level of his subconscious. Or maybe he just grew a brain. He wasn't sure which. But he was finished with being a rookie the rest of his life.
“Let her go,” said Sumner.
Grace
must have noticed the change. She winked and then released Addie, who pushed away and climbed out of the car. Before she could disappear into the chaos on the interstate, Sumner yelled. “I knew your father.”
Addie turned back to the agent, her mouth open. “What?” she asked.
“I was part of the team that transferred your family to Orange County. He loved to golf and I was just learning. So he gave me some pointers. He seemed like a good guy.”
Addie turned and put her hands on the roof of the Corvette. Sumner noticed her fingers tapping. He had seen her do this in the restaurant when the robber came in. He guessed it was some part of her thought process. She was working things out. He realized he knew what her next question would be. “No.” he said.
“What?”
“You were going to ask me if I was there when Enzo's people came.”
“How did you know?”
“It's what I would ask.”
“Well?” she said.
“If I was there, none of that would have happened.” Sumner could see it in her face. She wanted to challenge him, question his arrogance. But at the same time she wanted to believe saving her family might have been possible. What he said got through to her. No tears, but Sumner could see her body lose some of its tenseness. And her eyes had gone liquid. She looked more child-like.
“You need to come with me,” he said. “I know how to end this.” She stared at him, expressionless. He could almost see her muscles stiffen again. She was preparing to make a run for it. That was what she did best. But this time she stayed, her fingers still playing their tattoo on the glossy yellow paint job.
Then Sumner turned to Grace. “And who the hell are you?”
Grace raised her hands, her gun probably back under the seat or tucked into the waistband of her jeans. “I was just keeping an eye on Addie. For a friend. But it looks like you've got that well in hand.”
