by Glen Robins
“Just get me to Knoxville. That’s all I ask.” Collin’s voice was raspy and far from full strength.
The gregarious trucker was talkative and curious. He had questions and wanted answers but was friendly about it. Unusual circumstances needed some explaining. “Look here, I don’t want nobody dying on me,” implored the tall, skinny trucker. His vein-riddled arms were decorated with a plethora of tattoos. He sported a filthy ball cap and a wad of chew stuffed in his cheek. The truck lurched forward, and the driver concentrated as he steered the truck out of the driveway.
Collin squeezed his eyes closed and drew in his breath as he adjusted to minimize the discomfort. “I just need some rest and a ride to Knoxville. I’m not going to die.”
“Whatever you say. Ain’t never got a hundred bucks from a hitchhiker before. What’s so important down in Knoxville?”
“Business meeting. People waiting for me.” Collin spoke in bursts, sucking in air sharply between each sentence.
“I guess it must be important if you gotta show up in that kind of shape,” said the trucker. “Can’t you call and reschedule?”
“Maybe, but it would ruin months of work. Timing is critical. Know what I mean?” Collin explained, his breathing still ragged. He realized there was a chance this trucker could be interviewed by police at some point, when people started talking and the police patched together stories. He did not want to give this guy any information that would put his getaway at risk. Nor endanger the amiable trucker.
“I suppose I do. I got a few customers like that. They get all bent up if I’m late. What kind of business you in?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Oh, you don’t think I’m smart enough to understand your business?”
“That’s not what I meant. It just hurts to talk.”
“I got one more question before you doze off: Why would anyone pay that kind of dough for an hour long ride? I’m just curious; you in some sort a trouble there, boy?”
Wincing with pain and trying to get comfortable, Collin answered the question slowly and deliberately. “No, but I will be if I don’t get there on time. People are depending on me. I gotta take care of things in Knoxville. That’s all.”
“All right, then, Mister. I’ll get you to Knoxville. But tell me this, what happened to you? Looks like you might’ve fought a bear or something.” His curiosity was irrepressible. A toothy grin, complete with tobacco-stained teeth, spread across a face that had not seen a razor in several days. His manner was pure southern—hospitable, warm, and caring. But, at the same time, he was suspicious about his nameless passenger.
It was difficult for Collin to continue putting him off. The man was trying to make conversation. Collin felt he had to give him something so that he would have stories to tell. Everyone back at the gas station would want to hear the details upon his next visit. They would not soon forget this break in the normal flow of life in Jellico. Collin knew people in small towns were connected if nothing else. Connected with each other, the environment around them, and any developments that might affect their community. Collin appreciated the intrinsic beauty of neighborly concern and communal protection. At this point in his life, he yearned for it.
“I got in an accident back there a ways. Must’ve fallen asleep at the wheel. My car hit the center divider and spun out. Because this business deal is so important, I couldn’t wait for the police or an ambulance. If I don’t show up on time, things will go from bad to worse for me. Things are tough enough already, know what I mean?” He looked at the trucker to assess his reaction. The man was nodding, a sort of frown developing as his lips pressed together.
“I hear you,” said the tattooed driver. “Things have been tough all over.” He nodded, and his eyes grew distant.
Collin sensed the trucker had a deep, personal understanding of tough times.
They were out of the mountains and into more populated areas. A sign ahead said Knoxville was ten miles away. The trucker kept the conversation going. “You got a family there, Mister?”
Collin tensed, all expression draining from his face. This question produced more pain than his cracked ribs. Like a DVD played in super fast motion, clips from his life flashed through his mind. There were scenes of laughter at the dinner table, little Max shooting milk out of his nose as he erupted at something funny. Also, tears in Eliza’s eyes when she learned she had to go see the doctor again. Dancing in the kitchen, cheek to cheek with Jane as her feet dangled and her giggles filled the room.
Realizing that the question had gone unanswered and that tears were welling up in his eyes, Collin cleared his throat and leaned forward, clutching his knees. “I used to,” was all he could utter.
A long pause. “Geez, man, I don’t mean to be nosy, but what happened? You divorced or something like that?”
“No, not divorced. They were taken from me.”
“Like, kidnapped?”
“Car accident.”
The trucker fell into a reverent silence for several minutes as the scenery continued to change, becoming more urban by the mile. At length, he simply said, “I’m sorry.”
They turned off the freeway and headed toward downtown. Collin climbed out as the truck stopped to make a delivery. He thanked the man for his help as he handed him a wad of crumpled bills from his pocket. The one showing on the outside was a one hundred dollar bill. Collin had no idea how much the wad contained, but he knew there were several of every denomination, including a couple more hundreds in there. The tobacco-stained teeth showed through the scruffy beard as his jaw dropped. The tattooed driver gazed at the money in his hand. When he finally spoke, he struggled to get the words out. “This is too much. You said a hundred.”
“I know,” said Collin. “You really helped me. Now I want to help you.”
“Are you kidding?” The trucker’s voice choked with emotion.
“No. Why?”
“It’s just that things have been rough ever since my wife got sick.” He fought for control of his voice. “How’d you know?”
Collin didn’t have a response. He extended a hand and said, “Do something nice for her, and tell her how special she is. Will you do that for me?”
“Yes, sir,” said the trucker as they shook hands, his voice barely above a whisper. “This is an answer to prayer,” he said, his eyes moving to the fistful of bills.
Collin turned and hobbled away, feeling a tangible sense of connectedness, a warmth he remembered from his prior life when service played a vital role. His pain receded and his pace quickened as he turned the corner, consulting the map on his phone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
London, England
June 5
Alastair Montgomery was reluctant to let Nic win, but he had little choice. His career would go up in smoke, and his already miserable home life would only grow uglier if Nic made his work-time philandering public. The bloody tosser had video footage, so there would be no denying it. That cheeky Lancaster had him over the barrel, and both men knew it.
Having received a phone call from Nic demanding his immediate help, Alastair rushed back to the office, arriving at 9:30 p.m. Nic explained that Collin Cook had once again vanished, and it was time for more drastic measures. The FBI had cornered him in Chicago, but he squirted away, like he had done before. Fortunately, Nic explained, Peter’s brilliant algorithm had picked up another hit earlier in the evening. Footage had been uploaded from a convenience store security camera by local police asking for the public’s help investigating the accident, and a high percentage match triggered an alert. Nic showed Alastair the clip from the convenience store in Jellico, Tennessee. Both agreed it was Cook, no doubts, despite the short, blond hair. Collin’s trail was becoming visible, as were his intentions.
Sitting at his cluttered desk, Alastair punched his password into the computer and went to the interagency requisition page. The first step was to issue an All Points Bulletin for law enforcement agencies throughout the United State
s to aid in the search for Collin Cook, a man wanted for cyber terrorism against European and American financial institutions. The second step was to request roadblocks along all major highways leading into Florida to apprehend him. A photograph of Collin in Jellico was uploaded. Alastair called Agent Crabtree to compare notes and hasten the process of setting up the roadblocks. Both Alastair and Reggie Crabtree shared the frustration of defeat at the hands of Collin Cook. On paper, they agreed, it looked so easy. Neither man could understand how he managed to escape.
Reggie followed Nic and Alastair’s line of thinking, based on the video evidence from Jellico and the statement of the truck driver, that Collin was heading to Florida. The question was where in Florida? It was a big state with hundreds of miles of coastline. Reggie promised to help mobilize resources to shut down Florida’s northern borders and apprehend their man.
It was all or nothing at this point. If Collin Cook made it to the coast, as Nic calculated he would, they would lose. Cook would be gone forever. Their best chance of gaining access to Pho Nam Penh would vanish like a rain drop on Saharan sand.
There was no other known associate of Pho Nam Penh, only Collin Cook. The agency desperately needed a win. So did Alastair. Alastair decided to go all-in.
They had a very short time to get all the pieces in place. Suspecting that Cook had used a false identity to buy another used car with cash, they figured he was on the road, looking for the shortest, quickest path back to the Caribbean, where the bulk of his money was stashed. It only made sense. As a precaution, Crabtree alerted the US Border Patrol to monitor all exit points along the Canadian and Mexican borders. Security at bus and train terminals, airports, and harbors needed to be stepped up. The media had been informed, as well. The story, along with pictures of the suspect, was set to be broadcast on the evening news across the southern States.
By ten thirty in London, Nic and Alastair were confident they had done all they could. News outlets from Carolina to Mississippi would run the story at six and put Collin’s face all over the airwaves. There would be no place for him to hide. No chance for escape.
* * * *
Highway 75, Georgia
June 5
Racing southward in the faint twilight, following the yellowish headlight beams of the 1988 Chevy Blazer he had acquired back in Knoxville, Collin felt the pressure build with every minute that passed. He calculated mileage and arrival time in his head as an exercise to keep himself alert. According to the signs and the map on his phone, he still had over thirteen hours of driving ahead of him. Add an hour for gas and food stops and, if all went well, he could arrive in Key West by eleven o’clock in the morning, an hour ahead of his deadline. That would make the Captain happy. At the moment, however, he was making no progress toward his goal. Evening rush hour traffic outside Atlanta had slowed to a crawl, so he decided to pull off the highway, gas up, eat, and rest for a while. No sense sitting in traffic. He was still on schedule.
Back on the highway, night was settling in, and his body was growing fatigued. Even with an hour buffer, he worried about not making his rendezvous with Captain Sewell. So many things could go wrong. No time to stop for rest. He was approaching Macon, Georgia, and already, he was fighting hard each mile to stay awake and to fend off another debilitating meltdown.
Collin’s mind was also weary, unable to stave off the memories clamoring for attention. They swarmed him, despite his efforts to resist and push them back. At length, he decided it best to let them entertain him, choosing which ones to relive as a way to combat the fatigue. He absorbed the energy from each moment of his past life as it played in his mind, while his eyes scanned the road.
Those flashbacks included Max’s first hit in baseball, Jane’s first dance recital, and Eliza’s first steps. He thought about picnics and school plays and trips to the beach. He remembered Disneyland, the zoo, and teaching Max and Jane to ride a bike. Collin forced those memories to linger, basking in the pure joy of each moment.
Had he taken those moments for granted at the time? Maybe. Probably. Most people do.
So many beautiful memories. Collin forgot about everything else. He lost track of time and distance. Before he realized what was happening, the few cars and big rigs that shared the highway at ten thirty at night were slowing to a stop. Blue lights twirled in the darkness ahead, the sight of them causing his stomach to tighten and his pulse to race. He scanned the roadway in all directions. There was no place to turn off. He was stuck in the left lane with nowhere to go, cars behind him, beside him, and ahead of him, crawling toward a police blockade. He felt like he was being squeezed and pressed.
As he approached the line of patrol cars, Collin’s phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. He pulled it out and read the text: “Trouble brewing. Stay away from FL. Contact Cpt, set up new meet.” Lukas’s guidance arrived a bit too late.
Collin came to a stop behind a big rig as Lukas’s call came in. “Did you get my text?”
“Yeah, just now—”
“Listen. There’s an Interpol agent on you,” he said. “He’s got pictures of you in Chicago and Jellico, Tennessee, and has posted them to the Most Wanted list. Now they’ve set up road blocks heading into Florida.”
The twenty-second burst of information left Collin’s mind numb, too full of information he couldn’t process. “Not much I can do now,” he said. “I’m stopped at a roadblock. I’m about three cars back in line.”
“OK, just remain calm and act like you know what you’re doing. Have you changed your looks since Chicago?”
“Yeah, just my hair, though.”
“Well, put in the teeth and contacts, and hope it works.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
* * * *
San Diego, CA
June 5
Emily didn’t talk much on the flight, even though Genevieve seemed to be a lovely person. Emily was not comfortable with the idea of having a body guard. It felt restrictive, almost disciplinary. When she landed, her first thought was to call Collin and make sure he was all right.
With Genevieve sticking so close, she couldn’t pull out her secret phone. Genevieve escorted her swiftly into a waiting car and climbed in the back seat with her. The door shut, and the black Tahoe whisked them away.
“Where are we going?” asked Emily as the car headed for the freeway.
“We can’t take you home. At least, not yet. We’ll have a team sweep the interior for bugs and cameras first thing in the morning. It would be too conspicuous to go in this late.”
“You’re doing what?”
“We have been hired to keep you safe and to make sure you are not being targeted.”
The driver interrupted and barked, “Hang on, everybody. We’ve got a tail. I’m going to lose him.” As the Tahoe entered the freeway on-ramp and accelerated, the deep thrum of the engine filled the space inside. Emily grabbed the seat in front of her and cursed under her breath. The Tahoe wove through traffic, tires squealing, darting into unthinkably small spaces and speeding past vehicles. Emily glanced through the back window and saw a dark sedan mirroring their every move. This continued for several miles until the driver banked hard to the right from the far left lane, almost perpendicular to the flow of traffic, barely avoiding collisions as he crossed four lanes and exited onto eastbound Soledad Freeway. The chase car didn’t make the exit.
“Lost ‘em,” announced the driver.
“Well done,” said Genevieve. “Now let’s get her to the safe house.”
“You got it.”
As the Tahoe slowed to match the flow of traffic, Emily began to breathe normally again. Her hands let go of the front seat and raked through her hair. Her head sagged. She collected her thoughts and resumed her line of questioning. “You said you were hired? Why? And by whom? What is going on here?”
“Your friend, Collin, hired us to protect you. He said your Facebook account had been hacked. He believed you were being monitored and were potentially in danger. We’re here to make
sure nothing happens. Our team will sanitize your condo unit and shadow you for three days, more if needed.”
“Sanitize my condo?”
“Yes, to remove any electronic surveillance devices that may have been planted there.” Genevieve’s voice was matter-of-fact, emotionless.
Emily’s mouth dropped open, and she fell silent. “Do you know where Collin is?” she asked. She noticed that the driver had taken several turns and was using the back roads to work his way south and east.
“No. He didn’t share any of that information with us. Frankly, our only concern is you. His directive was for us to protect you.” Genevieve paused to make eye contact with Emily. “It’s best if no one knows where he is or where he’s going.”
Emily fell silent again, staring out the window. The darkness was broken up by the orange, glowing street lights and the brightly lit parking lots of strip malls.
The Tahoe turned into a neighborhood and worked its way through the tree lined streets, gaining altitude as they went. She knew they were in the general area of La Mesa. Up a steep driveway they went, into an empty garage. Inside, Genevieve showed her a spacious and well-appointed home. She would have her own private quarters on the second floor. The master bedroom with her own bathroom.
Genevieve promised that her stay with them would be comfortable and secure. As soon as it was safe, they would take her back to her home.
Emily locked the door as she closed it, still unsure. She crossed to the bathroom and dialed the only number stored in the secret phone, hoping Collin would answer. She had so many questions and needed a chance to talk about what was happening to her and to him. The phone rang and rang. No answer.
She was too antsy to wait, so she dialed Sarah’s number and left a message. Sarah returned her call moments later. The conversation with Sarah and Henry brought her a measure of peace and comfort. Afterward she tried Collin again. This time, Collin answered. But she knew immediately that something wasn’t right.