THE BRIDGE TO CARACAS: A DOUGLASS CRIME AND ROMANCE THRILLER SERIES (THE KING TRILOGY Book 1)

by Stephen Douglass

  Mike stepped up and scanned the limousine’s interior. “There’s no one in it,” he said. Then he turned and continued to fill his gasoline tank, keeping his eye on the door of the station. “Get back in the car and hide,” he ordered.

  “But Phillip—”

  “Now, Karen!”

  Karen returned to her seat and lowered herself until her eyes were parallel to the bottom of her side window.

  Mike finished filling the tank and returned the gasoline nozzle to the pump. He glanced again at the station, to see a large fat man emerging from the office. He carried a white canvas bag and was heading straight toward the limousine. Mike opened his car door and leaned in to face Karen. “Have you ever seen him before?” he asked.

  Karen nodded, her face devoid of color. “His name is Jerry Allison. He works for Jim… he was also Jim’s best man at our wedding.”

  Mike hurried toward the man just as he closed the door to the limo. In spite of his haste, the limousine had begun to move. He hit the driver’s side window with his fist. “Hey! I want to talk to you!” he shouted.

  Allison looked up at Mike and recognized him immediately as the man with Servito’s wife in Lanotti’s photographs. He looked straight ahead and kept the limousine rolling.

  Mike continued to run with the limo and pounded hard on the windshield. “Stop!” he demanded, his face no more than a foot from the glass.

  Allison panicked and slammed his right foot against the accelerator. The limousine jerked forward, its rear wheels screeching against the pavement. The side mirror struck Mike’s ribs and hurled him to the ground. He sprang to his feet and ran back to his car, ignoring the wincing pain in his side. He fumbled with his keys, trying to watch the limousine at the same time as he started his XKE. He accelerated across the station lot in pursuit. “Why is he running?” he shouted.

  “He knows we’re looking for Jim!” Karen replied.

  Allison glanced at his rear-view mirror and now saw Karen, who was sitting up in the back seat. He looked at his watch. He had slightly less than an hour to make it to Servito’s farm, but he did not want to arrive with Mike and Karen in tow. If he took the time to lose his pursuers, he would probably be too late for Servito’s flight. Sweat covered his fat face and his heart beat faster. He accelerated to seventy—more than twice the speed limit—tires squealing each time he changed lanes. Again he looked in his rear-view mirror. Mike’s car was moving closer. He went faster.

  “Damn!” Mike shouted. “He’s out of his mind!”

  Allison glanced to his right and saw a large green and white sign indicating the exit to Highway 401. The turn onto Highway 401 was crucial—the super highway would save at least thirty minutes. But that didn’t mean he had to turn on his blinker. Instead, he swerved into the passing lane and accelerated to ninety. With less than a hundred yards between the limousine and the exit ramp, he veered sharply to his right, cutting across three traffic lanes with the goal in sight.

  The limousine missed the exit ramp by less than five feet. When the front wheels hit the curb, the jolt hurled Allison forward, slamming his forehead against the top of the steering wheel. The blow stunned him and opened a long, bloody gash. The limousine rocketed over the curb and flew thirty feet to the face of a concrete retaining wall. The violence of the impact pushed the engine into the front seat, crushing both of Allison’s legs. Allison’s forward momentum again carried his face into the steering wheel, breaking his neck.

  Karen caught a glimpse of the crash as they raced by. “Oh, God!” she shouted, twisting her body to stare at the wreckage.

  Mike had heard the terrible sound of screeching metal. “Was that the limo?” he asked.

  “He hit the concrete!” Karen shouted.

  Mike slammed his foot on the brake and brought his car to a stop within inches of the steel guardrail dividing the north and south bound lanes. Traffic whizzed by, making it impossible to open either of the doors. “I have to go back there,” he said, and opened the convertible roof.

  “Oh God, be careful,” Karen warned.

  Mike stepped from the car onto the top of the guardrail, walked several paces along it, and jumped to the road surface behind his XKE. He waited for a break in the traffic, and then darted across the three north bound traffic lanes to the far curb. He raced toward the limousine. Smoke and steam slowly emerged from the compressed remains of the front of the limousine. Allison remained motionless and slumped against the twisted steering wheel. His bloodied face was pointed at the driver’s side window, so Mike could see that his mouth was partially open, his hazel eyes unblinking.

  Mike tried in vain to open the driver’s side door, but it was welded in place by the violence of the impact. Using a grapefruit-sized chunk of concrete that had been split from the retaining wall, he carefully broke away the jagged edges of shattered glass. He leaned inside far enough to see that the fat man was still breathing. “Where’s Servito?” he shouted.

  Allison stared silently at Mike, his eyes glazed, his pupils dilated.

  “Come on, speak to me,” Mike pleaded. “Where’s Jim Servito?”

  Seconds later, Allison blinked. “Help me,” he whispered faintly.

  “What did you say?” Mike asked. He leaned further into the car and placed his right ear an inch from Allison’s mouth.

  “Help me,” Allison whispered.

  “I’ll help you if you tell me where Servito is.”

  “His farm.”

  Mike pulled his head backward and saw that the fat man’s eyes had closed. “Don’t die now!” he pleaded, convinced that the fat man would never speak again. He reached inside Allison’s jacket pockets and found a passport, then glanced at the two large canvas bags on the floor of the passenger’s side. Mike put the passport in his pocket, picked up his chunk of concrete, and raced to the far side of the limousine. He used the concrete to break the window and clear the glass before reaching in to extract the bags. When he emerged from the window, he noticed a large number of people had left their cars to stare at the limousine.

  “Call 911,” he shouted.

  He raced to his car, jumped onto the guardrail, threw the canvas bags into the space behind his seat, and then climbed in. He started the car and rocketed from the scene.

  “Did he tell you anything?” Karen asked.

  Mike nodded. “We were right. They went to the farm.”

  “Did he say anything about Phillip?”

  “No. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation.”

  Once they’d cleared the scene, Mike handed Allison’s passport to Karen. “I’m going to put the roof up. Take a look at this,” he said.

  Karen turned to look at the canvas bags behind Mike. “Why did you take those?” she asked.

  “Curiosity. Tell me about the passport, first.”

  Karen opened the passport. “It’s a fake. It says his name is name is John Smith,” she said, staring at the photograph of Allison. A small, folded piece of paper fell from the passport onto her lap. She picked it up and stared at it in horror. Written by the hand of her own husband was an address: No. 830 Av. Pral. de Mariperez, Caracas, Venezuela. Tel: 261-50-80. “This is Jim’s writing,” she said with a pensive frown.

  “What does it say?”

  “It’s an address in Caracas, Venezuela.” Her lips tightened as she gave Mike a worried stare. “What do you think it means?”

  Mike frowned. “Why don’t you open the bags?”

  Karen reached behind Mike and pulled one of the bags to her lap. After loosening the tie-cord, she stared at the contents in stunned silence.

  “What’s in it?” Mike asked.

  “I can’t believe it! It’s full of money!” Karen gasped. She pulled the second bag to her lap and looked inside. “This one’s full of cash too! Where do you think he got it?”

  “It’s obvious. Allison was a bag man for your husband.”

  “What’s a bag man?”

  “He picks up the cash from your husband’s bootleg gaso
line sales.” Mike started the car and started to drive. “We’re going to the farm as fast as I can get us there. Meanwhile, you should count the cash. I can’t wait to know how much is in those bags.”

  Karen reached into one the bags and removed a wad of bills. She stopped and looked at Mike after fifteen minutes of counting. “This is incredible! I’ve counted a hundred thousand dollars and I’m still not finished with the first bag.”

  “I rest my case,” Mike said with a satisfied smirk.

  “Do you think we could use this money as evidence?”

  Mike nodded. “Sure, if we can connect it to your husband.”

  “How the hell do we do that?” Karen asked with a worried expression.

  “Good question… tell me about your husband’s airstrip. How do I get to it?”

  “It’s in a field on the west side of the road. We can drive right to it.”

  “I don’t know what we’re going to find when we get there, but it could be dangerous. I—”

  “I don’t care about danger anymore,” Karen interrupted. “That animal has taken my son.”

  “We have to be careful. For Phillip’s sake, as well as yours. That animal might do something irrational if we get in his way.”

  “There it is.” Karen pointed ahead. “That’s the driveway. The landing strip’s just over the top of that hill.”

  Mike pulled his car over to the side of the road to look at the hill, which had a steep grade covered with sumac shrubs, pine trees, and patches of snow.

  “What’s the problem?” Karen asked.

  “I’m trying to decide how we should approach the plane. Do we climb the hill on foot, or go right at him in the car?”

  “Let’s drive,” Karen said without hesitation. “We can’t do a damn thing on foot.”

  “I’m not sure we can do anything in the car, either, except let him know that we’re coming…” Still, Mike drove the car forward two hundred yards, turned left at the driveway, and continued up the narrow dirt road to the top of the hill.

  Servito’s sleek, white and blue twin-engine Cessna was parked at the end of the runway, no more than fifty yards away. Servito and Phillip were walking from Servito’s red Corvette toward the plane.

  “There they are!” Karen shrieked.

  Mike stepped hard on the gas pedal. Dirt, stones, and dust flew from behind his rear wheels as the car shot forward. Karen slumped in her seat, gritting her teeth.

  Servito glanced up at them and then grabbed Phillip’s arm, pulling him against his leg. He reached into his brown leather jacket and withdrew a 38-caliber revolver.

  The XKE skidded to a stop between Servito’s Corvette and the airplane.

  Phillip was still dressed in his private school uniform. He was wide-eyed, bewildered by the sudden turn of events.

  “We’re going to put Phillip back in school, Servito,” Mike said as he emerged from his car. “That’s where he belongs.”

  “I’ll decide where my son belongs,” Servito challenged. He pointed his pistol at Mike’s head. “If you want to stay alive, you’ll get back in your car and leave.”

  Mike’s blue eyes glared at Servito. “You’d put that gun away if you had any balls,” he taunted. “Come on, Servito. Let’s find out how much of a man you really are.”

  “I don’t need to fight with you, King,” Servito scoffed. “The feds are going to do that for me. You and my dear wife are going to do a lot of time for all those nasty little things you did.”

  “Let Phillip go, Jim!” Karen demanded as she stepped from the car.

  “I’m scared, Mom!” Phillip shouted. He attempted to run to Karen, but Servito pulled him back against his body.

  “Don’t be scared, son,” Servito said calmly. “We’re going to a really nice place. You’ll be a lot happier, there.” He turned to Karen and displayed an evil smirk. “Besides, your mother’s been doing a lot of very bad things lately. You don’t want to stay here alone with your mother in jail, do you?”

  Phillip silently pondered this turn of events.

  “Where are you taking him?” Karen asked.

  Servito chuckled. “I’ll send you a post card when we get there.” He turned to Mike and smiled. “Now that you’re here, Mike, maybe you can tell me how you like that new performance improving additive we put in your gasoline.”

  “If it takes me the rest of my life, I’m going to bring you down. You’re going to rot in hell for this, Servito,” Mike promised.

  Servito’s expression turned stone cold, his steel gray eyes burning with resolve. “I’m going to give you three seconds to get back in your car and get the hell out of here. If you’re not behind the wheel when the counting’s finished, I’m going to start shooting and I’m going to start with your kneecaps. One… two…”

  Mike and Karen reluctantly returned to the car. Mike started the engine and drove back down the driveway to the gravel road. He stopped after driving no more than fifty yards. “I can’t do this,” he said. Both leaped from the car and quickly climbed the hill. They watched in horror as Servito’s plane raced down the runway directly toward them, and then lifted off and roared over their heads.

  Servito stared at the distant horizon as he reveled in thoughts of his successes. With over three hundred million dollars waiting for him to begin the rest of his life, he looked forward to retirement. And his son would be there by his side, while his enemies endured nothing but torment.

  Phillip stared at his father, his big brown eyes wide open and filled with tears. “How come Mom has to go to jail?” he asked. He used his fingers to wipe tears from his cheeks.

  Servito swallowed, realizing that he had been overly optimistic to assume Phillip would soon forget the separation from his mother. He placed his right hand on Phillip’s shoulder. “She made a big mistake, son… Your mother was in business with a criminal who stole gasoline and a lot of money. He even put poison in the gasoline that he sold to the people.”

  “Is he the man who drove Mom to the farm?”

  Servito nodded. “He’s going to spend a very long time in jail.”

  “Did people die from the poison he put in the gasoline?”

  “Yup. Unfortunately lots of people died.”

  “Can’t you get Mom out of jail?”

  Servito feigned a doleful frown and shook his head. “You have no idea how hard I tried, but the court won’t allow it. They said they’ve convicted her, she’s going to jail, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “How come you have a gun?”

  “To protect us from bad people, like the man you saw with your mother.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to a country where it’s warm all the time, and we have a beautiful new home to live in and all new clothes when we get there.”

  “Are you going to let Mom come and live with us if she gets out of jail?”

  “No. She isn’t getting out of jail. Not for the rest of her life.”

  CHAPTER 54

  The drive back to Toronto was far from pleasant. Mike and Karen were silently lost in thought as they considered the compounding effect of the day’s events. The singular consolation in all of their misery was that they were now totally free to be together without fear of Servito’s reprisals. Unfortunately, the happiness both had long envisioned was soured by the bitterness of their desperate situation.

  The evening newspaper lay on the plush red carpet in front of the ornate front door of Karen’s penthouse. On the bottom of the front page was a large photograph of heavily clad firemen removing Allison from the smoldering wreckage of Servito’s limousine. The story below the photograph indicated that the driver, Jerrold Allison, who lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment on Spadina Avenue, Toronto, was rushed to North York Hospital, where he was currently in a coma from which he was not expected to wake. It added that the destroyed limousine was registered in the name of Reserve Oil Inc., a company owned by Mrs. James Servito of Toronto.

  “That’s just wo
nderful,” Mike hissed as he handed the paper to Karen. “The remains of the fat man and the limousine are on the front page. I’m surprised he survived long enough to get to the hospital. And your beloved husband registered the limousine in Reserve Oil. I’m sure the feds are going to love that one.”

  Karen opened the paper and stared at the photograph. “Do you have any idea where we go from here?” she asked, her soft voice breaking.

  “In the unlikely event that Bushing appears, he’s the first person I want to talk to. There’s no question that he can link your husband to the crimes we know about, and probably some we don’t… but if he doesn’t show up, we’ve got a problem.”

  “You mean the whole thing’s dead-ended, don’t you?”

  Mike tightened his lips and nodded. “I wish we could just call the police and ask them to help us, but that would be a waste of time. They wouldn’t believe us.”

  “Do you still think that going to Buffalo is worth the risk?”

  “What risk?”

  “Crossing the border. They said we have to stay in Ontario until our trial. If Customs stops us and finds out we’ve broken bail, they’ll put us back in jail and we’ll forfeit the bonds.”

  “I don’t care about the risk,” Mike said. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to bring this nightmare to an end.”

  “Don’t move. I’ll be right back,” Karen said. She turned and hurried to her bedroom, returning just seconds later with a chrome-plated nine millimeter Colt Defender revolver in her right hand.

  “Where did you get that?” Mike demanded.

  “I had it hidden in the bedroom. Jim gave it to me years ago. To protect Phillip and me.” She handed it to Mike.

  “What the hell am I going to do with this?” he asked, staring at the weapon, which dangled from the grip of his thumb and index finger.

  “Persuade Bushing to talk.”

  Mike shook his head. “That’s not me, babe. I could never pull the trigger. All it could ever be is a bluff.” He glanced at his watch. “Anyway, I should call him. Maybe he’s off the missing list.”

  “Use the phone in the kitchen. It’s just beside the bar.”