J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 02 - No Time to Die

by J. D. Trafford

  They tried to keep him away, but Michael wouldn’t leave. He stayed with her. His hand gripped the side of the stretcher as it rolled toward the back of the ambulance.

  They got her in, and Michael followed. One of the EMTs tried to stop him, but the other shook his head.

  “It’s not worth it. Let him ride.”

  They shut the doors, and the ambulance pulled away from the scene. One of the EMTs got an oxygen mask on Jane and the other cut away her shirt so they could get to work and figure out where she was hurt.

  “What the hell is this?” An EMT pointed at a black box and microphone taped to Jane’s side.

  Michael leaned back. He knew exactly what it was. She was wearing a wire.

  Michael looked out the back window at the crowd that the ambulance was leaving behind. In the middle of the crowd, Michael saw a man in a wheelchair. Agent Frank Vatch.

  As they rounded the corner, Michael pounded on the back door of the ambulance.

  “Let me out.” He kicked at the door. “Get me out of here!”

  “We can’t do that.”

  Michael continued to rage against the door, trying to get it open.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  The boys screamed at one another when the truck squealed to a stop.

  “You hit that chick! You hit that chick!”

  The driver looked back. The woman was on the side of the street about 20 yards away. A man held her in his arms. He was screaming too, but the driver couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  One of the boys yelled at the driver to call 911, and another yelled at him to unlock the doors so that he could get out. Then Frankie stuck his head through the small back window.

  “You gotta get out of here, man, or we’re going to jail,” Frankie hollered.

  The driver looked at Frankie, while the others continued to yell at him.

  The driver thought about what his parents would do to him if he were caught. He thought about college and everything else that was supposed to happen over the next few years that wouldn’t. He knew that Frankie was right, but he was frozen.

  Frankie pounded on the top of the truck. He was standing behind the front cab in the bed of the pickup truck.

  “Come on,” he said. “Go.”

  And then it clicked. The driver pressed the gas and sped away.

  ###

  He had to get as far away as possible. The truck was going over a hundred miles per hour. The boys in the back slouched down low. They tried to hold on. Every time the truck hit a bump in the road, they were tossed up and then back down again. Landing on the hard metal bed hurt.

  They were 20 miles down Highway 29 toward Harker when the lights started flashing behind them.

  “Cops.”

  It was a Florida State Trooper and he was gaining on them, fast.

  The other boys started yelling at the driver again. The driver tried to think. He wished they would all shut up. He was trying to figure out what to do.

  Frankie poked his head into the window. He was on his knees, trying to stay upright.

  “Keep going,” he said. “Keep going.”

  It didn’t sound like a good idea. The driver knew it was over. He needed to slow down, but he was frozen, again. Fear roiled through his body, and he felt like he was going to throw up.

  The state trooper caught up with them. His squad car was just a few feet off the truck’s bumper. The trooper honked his horn and flashed his lights.

  The driver stayed frozen. The speedometer’s needle bounced around at 105.

  “Keep going,” Frankie said. “Don’t stop.”

  Then the boy riding shotgun unbuckled his seat belt and jumped across the seat. The passenger didn’t say a word – not one word –when he yanked the steering wheel as hard as he could, screaming, “Pull over!”

  The sharp turn buckled the truck’s metal frame. Its wheels came out from underneath.

  Time seemed to stop as the truck floated through the air. They were all weightless, flying, and then there was the crash. It was a horrific crash.

  The trooper tried to avoid them, but it happened too quick.

  Two boys fell out of the back, smashing into the state trooper’s front windshield at a hundred miles an hour.

  Frankie, who had been kneeling and yelling through the back window, tried to hold on. But when the truck flipped, he was pulled underneath. Caught between the top of the cab and the pavement, the truck landed on Frankie, crushing his wiry frame as metal sparked all around him. Then the truck rolled over and over for another 20 yards.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  The ambulance pulled to the side of the road in a quiet residential neighborhood. The EMTs wanted him gone. Michael was interfering with their patient. Jane was their real concern, and Michael arguably shouldn’t have been allowed in the ambulance to begin with.

  When the ambulance stopped, they pushed Michael out the back. Once he was out, the EMTs shut the rear doors and sped away.

  Michael watched as the lights got smaller and the sound of the siren grew quiet.

  He was alone on the side of the road, dark houses all around him. Michael looked down at his hands in the dim of the streetlights. They were red, covered in blood. Then Michael looked at his shirt. It was also covered in Jane’s blood. It stuck to his skin like a wet rag.

  He had to move. He had to get out, run away. The feds knew. Agent Vatch had always known, but now they must have proof. Michael realized that he was going to spend the rest of his life in prison.

  He commanded his feet to go, but they disobeyed. He couldn’t move. Michael John Collins stood alone – nothing in sight, nobody around and then he started to cry.

  ###

  The sun had just started to rise when Michael woke up. He was sore and thirsty. He looked down at his hands and arms. The blood had dried, causing his skin to itch and crack.

  It took a moment to orient himself, but Michael quickly remembered the ambulance and the wire – Jane’s betrayal.

  He spotted a house about 200 yards away. Michael walked to it as casually as he could. He found the garden hose, followed the length of the hose to the faucet attached to the house, and then turned the faucet on.

  The garden hose gurgled.

  Water eventually spat out of the end of the hose, then a steady stream.

  Michael took off his shirt. He sprayed the shirt with water, wrung it out, and then did it over again. Michael didn’t stop until the water dripped clear. Then he sprayed his body with the frigid water, trying to clean himself up as best as he could.

  He heard some movement inside the house.

  He quickly turned off the water, threw the hose to the ground, and walked away.

  Michael had only made it two blocks when he heard a car horn. He turned and saw the rental SUV race up next to him.

  The window was rolled down. Kermit stuck his head out.

  “Cops are coming, man. I been listening to the police scans.” Kermit’s eyes were wild. Michael stood silent in front of him. Michael was half-naked and dripping wet.

  “Been looking for you all night and listening to those scans,” Kermit said. “Then some woman called 911 and it went out over dispatch. She said a homeless man was taking a bath in her yard.” Kermit smiled. “I figured that homeless person was you, mi amigo.” Kermit unlocked the doors. “Get in. You look like hell.”

  Still in a daze, Michael got inside the SUV. He shut the door, and Kermit sped away. After a few minutes, Kermit turned to Michael and smiled.

  “I told you getting that police scanner was a good idea. You doubted, but I was right once again.”

  Michael didn’t respond. He remembered that Kermit had wanted to get a police scanner to track Maus when they had first arrived in Jesser. Since the scanners were illegal, Kermit had planned on buying it on the B.M. How Kermit was able to locate a black market in Jesser, Florida, Michael would never know. That was just Kermit.

  After a few more minutes without saying anything, Kermit laughed.<
br />
  “I take your silence as an apology. Apology accepted, mi amigo. Apology accepted.”

  ###

  They drove for an hour in relative silence. Occasionally Kermit tried to get a conversation started, but Michael didn’t have anything to say. He was lost in his thoughts, trying to figure out a future.

  “I think the cops were staking out our hotel last night.” Kermit glanced over at Michael, waiting for a response. Nothing.

  “I sensed something was up, like that tingle in the dingle that Spider Man gets.” Kermit snapped his fingers. “That’s what I got. I got the tingle. So I packed up all of our stuff, and I had sweetie drive me back to Jane’s office. I got the rental and I been driving around since then just looking for you and working the police scanner.” Kermit shook his head. “Last night was a nasty night, bro-ha, nasty night. … Glad you’re okay, though.”

  Kermit glanced back over at Michael, again, waiting for a question or comment.

  When Michael said nothing, Kermit continued to drive.

  Michael didn’t know where Kermit was taking him. He didn’t really care. He knew that Kermit understood the situation, even if Kermit didn’t know the details or the exact truth about his past. He knew that Kermit was doing what he needed: Kermit was going to get him home.

  ###

  He exited the highway. It was too early for any rush-hour traffic, so they had made good time from Jesser to Miami. Kermit got onto Twenty-Sixth, and then he took the Rickenbaker Causeway east. They drove through Hobie Island Beach Park and turned off at the Stadium Marina.

  “I got us a nice boat.” Kermit pointed at a 55-foot Californian motor yacht. “It’s that one with the blue stripe.” Kermit pulled into the parking lot outside the marina’s main office,.

  “I knew a guy who knew a guy who knew another guy.”

  Kermit unlocked the door, but paused before he got out. He looked at Michael.

  “I figured, if they’re really after you, the airports will be locked down tight. Your passport isn’t going to be very good. … So, anyway, a boat was the best way I could think of to get you outta here.” Kermit paused, examining Michael, and then Kermit put his hand on Michael’s shoulder.

  “You cool?”

  Michael turned to Kermit. He nodded, wordless.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  There was something about the water. Calm settled around them as they moved further from shore. The waves were small, and the yacht cut through them with an easy chop.

  The early morning sun rose higher in the sky, but it wasn’t hot. Michael had found an old pair of forgotten sunglasses near the life-jackets, so it wasn’t too bright either.

  He sat in a padded “fighting chair” at the back of the yacht. It was a chair designed for serious fishing; a cross between a chair found in a dentist’s office and a birthing table with the addition of a few cup holders. When a big fish was snagged, whoever was fishing wouldn’t have to stand. They just needed to put their feet in the stirrups and lean back.

  Michael wasn’t fishing, but he did have his feet up in the stirrups.

  They cruised further from shore, and Michael watched the Miami skyline get smaller. Moving at a fast clip, surrounded by water and fresh air, Michael should have felt free, but he didn’t. He was on the run. Again.

  He thought about those stupid kids in the truck. He thought about Jane. He wondered if she was still alive. Michael closed his eyes, remembering the wire underneath her shirt; the reaction of the EMTs; his panic to get out of the ambulance.

  The recording device explained why the feds suddenly “did the right thing” and why Jane had been acting so distant. Justin Kent and the U.S. Attorney’s Office had been ignoring them for a year, and then, as the case fell apart, they leveraged it. They had gotten Jane to turn on him.

  Michael shook his head. If he was in Jane’s position, would he have done anything different? She had to have known that he was going to get caught. It was only a matter of time. Why not get something for it?

  He’d have probably done the same. But still, it hurt.

  Going forward, he was only going to be more paranoid, more suspicious.

  The boat kept going further away from shore, and Michael thought about the Sunset. He probably shouldn’t have been going back, but he had no place else to go. Then Michael thought about Elana and Pace. They were depending on him, and he was about to disappear. Michael shut his eyes as he imagined Elana sitting alone at the plaintiff’s table in a full courtroom, abandoned by her attorneys in midtrial. He felt horrible, but didn’t know what else he could do.

  Michael heard the engine’s motor cut and the anchor drop below him. Then he heard Kermit come up and through the door behind him.

  “Figured you needed some sustenance, mi amigo.” Kermit carried a Bloody Mary in one hand and a big bottle of ice water in the other. “They got some fancy cheese and crackers down there too, if you want it.”

  Michael took the water and Bloody Mary from Kermit. He put the Bloody Mary down, and then unscrewed the cap on the bottle of water. Kermit watched him and smiled.

  “I did good, didn’t I?”

  “You did good.” Michael smiled for Kermit’s sake, although he was torn up inside. He smiled because, Kermit deserved the thanks. Michael took another drink of water.

  “What’s the plan?” he asked.

  Kermit sat down in the chair next to Michael.

  “Should take about two hours, maybe more, to get out of U.S. waters. I’m thinking of a stop in Cuba, because they don’t really give a damn about your passport, but maybe we should just keep going until we get home, just anchor this baby right outside the Sunset.”

  “What time is it?” Michael took another big drink of water, and then he looked up at the sun as if he could determine the time from its position.

  “I found you a little after five. The clock in the bow says it’s now a little after seven in the morning.”

  Michael nodded, staring back at the coast. The skyline was tiny, a raised dash above the shoreline. The windows on the Miami office towers reflected back the light, so the dash was just a long streak of orange and yellow.

  They sat in silence for a few more minutes, and then Kermit turned to Michael, laughing. He had been reading Michael’s mind.

  “The K-Man knows you, Michael-o. When were you going to tell me you were thinking about making it back in time for court?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  The conference room was crowded, and Agent Frank Vatch was being grilled.

  He was at one end of the long conference table. Justin Kent sat next to him, and the rest of the seats were filled with local FBI agents, supervisors from the Department of Justice, and then there was the United States Attorney for New York, Brenda Gadd, leading the inquisition.

  Gadd had flown into Miami from New York in the middle of the night.

  “This is a major screw-up,” she said. “Who the hell authorized this?”

  Vatch looked at Gadd with contempt. He didn’t say anything.

  “Exactly.” Gadd nodded. “Nobody authorized this. Everybody in New York thought you were on vacation.”

  “I was on vacation,” Vatch said. “I was pursuing this investigation on my own time.”

  “Wrong,” Gadd said. “You weren’t on your own time, because you sucked in all of these people.” Gadd pointed at the various people sitting around the table. “And I guarantee you that none of these people were on vacation when they were helping you. They thought this was an authorized ongoing investigation.”

  “It is an ongoing investigation,” Vatch said. He wasn’t going to back down, even though it was clear that he had violated multiple internal rules and procedures.

  “These officials were presented with the facts of this case, and they independently chose to assist me in this matter.”

  Gadd shook her head.

  “We’ve got multiple dead kids, a dead sheriff’s deputy, and a lawyer in the hospital as well as the cop who was driving
the damn squad car that chased the kids. The body count is rising.”

  Vatch shook his head.

  “We had nothing to do with those kids, and if we hadn’t been on this case, the deputy’s murderer would still be at large.”

  Gadd took a deep breath. While she was still processing the information, Vatch continued.

  “I’d like you to convene a grand jury to indict Michael Collins. We need to place him under arrest before he returns to Mexico.”

  “Arrest?” Gadd laughed. “For what?”

  “For stealing nearly a half-billion dollars in client funds.” Vatch looked around the table for support, but nobody said anything. He was going to have to do this on his own. “You heard the recording.”

  “I did.” Gadd nodded. “There’s nothing on it. He didn’t confess to anything. We don’t have a case.”

  “Ms. Nance accused him, and he was silent. That silence was an admission,” Vatch said.

  “Wrong. I’m not taking that to trial. It’s not enough. You still have nothing. When the banks give us records, then we might have something. But this recording is not enough to indict him.” Gadd looked at the clock. “I’ve got to catch a flight back to New York in an hour. As of this moment, Agent Vatch, you are on leave. Do not come into the office until our internal investigation is completed. Good day, gentlemen.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  The elevator door slid open.

  Michael stepped out into the marble hallway in a suit and tie. He was always amazed at the costumes people wore and how it altered the perceptions of others. Just four hours ago, a woman called 911 and told dispatch that he was a homeless person. Now he was a lawyer. All he did was change his costume.

  The return trip to Miami gave Michael time to clean himself up. Michael had showered, shaved, and gotten dressed on the yacht. His suit was a little wrinkled, but not too bad.

  He looked up at the ornate gold clock on the wall. The little hand ticked to 9:25. He was late, but that was the least of his worries.