by Glen Robins
“We’re in the middle of an evacuation order. All available units are trying to protect our citizens from an incoming hurricane. We will do our best to look for your fugitive, but that’s got to be our second priority behind the safety of our citizens.”
“You’ve had hours to find him on roads that can’t be that crowded, not in the wee hours of the morning.”
“Look, Agent Lancaster, with all due respect,” started the Chief. Then he thought better of instigating a shouting match. “We have patrol cars on alert. If he’s out there on our highways, we’ll find him.”
* * * *
Back Roads, South of Gainesville, Florida
June 6
“Did you do what I told you to do?” asked Lukas.
“Yeah, before I stopped for gas and food in Gainesville, I took out the teeth and contacts, took off the hat, and changed my shirt. Then, like you said, I found a mud puddle—not hard to find here in Florida, you know—and drove through it a few times. I almost got stuck, but that was a good thing. The tires spun and coated the sides of this car with mud.”
“Good. No trouble, then?”
“No trouble? Ha. I wouldn’t say that. At the convenience store where I stopped, some redneck told me how I look like a guy on the news. He was pointing at a TV in the corner. It scared the crap out of me, Lukas. My face and my car were right there on the screen.”
“What happened?”
“I almost wet myself; are you kidding? Do you know how scary it is to see your own face on TV with the words ‘Suspected Terrorist’ underneath? You’d freak, too.”
“What did the redneck do?”
“He said, ‘That guy could be your brother.’ So I lied and said, ‘I don’t have a brother.’ He was squinting and staring at me, really studying my face. It was creepy. Then he said, ‘Sure that ain’t you?’ I just said, ‘Pretty sure,’ and got out of there as fast as I could.”
“He didn’t call the cops did he?” asked Lucas.
“I don’t know, but he did follow me outside, still jawing at me. When he saw me get in my car, he got a funny look on his face. I’ve been staying off the interstate ever since, sticking to back roads.”
“I don’t know if you have time for that, Collin.”
“I know, it’s really slowing me down, but I don’t know what else to do.”
“Did you change out the license plates yet?”
“No.”
“The sooner, the better. You’ve got to get back on the interstate and make time. Dishonesty can save your life sometimes, my friend.”
“If you say so.”
Not long thereafter, Collin spotted his victim: a lonely pickup truck parked in a field next to a dilapidated shed just off the highway. He squeezed through a barbed wire fence, tools in hand, and swapped the plates as quickly as he could, using the light from his iPhone for illumination. The pickup’s plates were dirty, though not caked with mud like his plates and car, but he hoped no one would notice.
He headed east on the back roads, working his way to Florida’s Turnpike. Soon he was doing seventy-five miles per hour again. Patrol cars passed him; some gave him a second glance, but nothing more.
There was enough on his mind to keep him occupied as the miles spun past. He listened to an AM news station for updates on the weather. The storm was now a Class Two hurricane, aimed right at The Bahamas and projected to sweep across the channel, pick up speed, and hit the Florida Keys twenty-four hours from now. Before he expected, daylight struggled to break through the blackness, bathing the landscape in gray. Collin realized how thick the cloud cover was overhead, ominous and threatening. He also noticed the steady stream of cars moving northward on the opposite side of the turnpike. Very few cars were heading south. People, at least the smart ones, were moving away from the incoming storm.
By the time he reached Fort Lauderdale, it was 6:30 a.m., and he needed gas. Collin pulled off the turnpike in an outlying rural town ten minutes south of the city and found a small gas station with a general store. Since there were other people in the store, he went inside to pay and overheard a conversation that may have saved him. The clerk and a cowboy were talking at the counter as Collin searched for milk and packaged donuts. The cowboy was talking about the storm and how he had to hurry down to Key West to pick up his prized horses and get them far enough inland to be safe. The clerk asked him if he had heard about the roadblock on Highway 1 and told him to expect delays going south.
“Are they trying to keep people away from the storm?” asked the cowboy.
“I heard it’s to catch a terrorist or something,” replied the clerk. “They’ve had his face on the TV and everything.”
When he heard those words, Collin set his items down and snuck out the door. He started the Blazer and moved it to a dirt parking lot behind the store. Grabbing his two bags, he stole to the rear of a long horse trailer attached to a dually pickup parked at one of the pumps. He assumed the truck and trailer belonged to the Key West-bound cowboy inside. He secreted himself between bales of hay and watched the store entrance through the slotted side of the trailer. The cowboy soon appeared and began filling the tank. Collin sat perfectly still and quiet for what seemed to be an eternity, while the pump spewed thick, pungent diesel fumes that wafted into the trailer and hung in the air. Several minutes later, the engine roared to life, and the caravan started to move.
As the truck picked up speed, the wind swirled and kicked up dust and straw that pummeled Collin’s face and body. With some effort, Collin arranged the bales to provide a measure of protection against the wind, then settled in for a long ride. He opened the map on his phone and studied the layout of Key West so he would be familiar with it. After a thorough examination of the town, he fell asleep, but when the truck began to slow, his eyes popped open. He took a furtive look outside. As he suspected, they had arrived at the roadblock.
Collin again moved the hay bales. This time stacking the bales in a crisscross fashion, making a sort of fortress around himself as the truck inched forward. When finished, he slid underneath the cross pieces and pulled his feet in as far as he could. The space was cramped. The air was hot, dusty, and reeked of dry hay. He pinched his nose to thwart any allergic reaction and covered his mouth with his shirt in a feeble attempt to filter the air. With his eyes closed, he shut out thoughts of being confined and focused on listening. Outside there were muffled voices, but he couldn’t make out the words. He huddled in his makeshift fort, sweat streaming down his face, neck, and along his ribs, tickling as it rolled. The stop was brief and soon the truck lurched forward again, dragging the trailer and Collin with it.
Once the truck was at speed again, Collin scrambled out from under his itchy hideaway and swiped at his face, hair, chest, and legs, trying to brush off the irritating straw. He checked his watch. It was 9:25. The map on his phone showed a hundred miles and two hours, fifteen minutes to go. His margin had evaporated. Looking through the slats of the trailer, hints of sunshine poked through the gathering clouds. The seas were agitated and bumpy. Northbound traffic was at a crawl.
Impatient and confined, Collin endured the tedium of watching watery scenery and time roll past, the scenery moving too slowly and the clock moving too quickly. Despite the wind blowing through the space, the air was moist and heavy. His clothes clung to his sweaty skin, along with the inescapable stench of horses. At 11:41, the truck slowed markedly and started an unhurried, arcing right turn onto a dusty road, lined with trees and bushes. Collin’s phone showed that they were on Stock Island, five miles from the marina. As they moved farther away from the highway, Collin panicked. He knew from his map that this road was taking him the wrong way. He had to bail out. It took some effort to open the gate from the inside, but he tugged at the sliding bolt until it cleared, and the gate swung open. Tall grass lined the dirt road. Now or never. As the truck ambled along, Collin lowered his bags onto the dirt one by one, then jumped out toward the grass on the passenger’s side and rolled. In one fluid mo
tion, he was back on his feet, scooping up his bags, and retreating into the tall grass.
As Collin lay low in the grass watching, the truck stopped, and the cowboy appeared around the back, exclaiming aloud, “What the hell?” He checked the gate, the latch, the contents. Collin took the opportunity, while the cowboy inspected the inside of the trailer, to sprint into the trees to better conceal himself, hoping the man would give up and move along. The cowboy reemerged and scanned the area guardedly. Time was ticking, and Collin was growing ever more apprehensive as noon approached.
The cowboy secured the sliding bolt on the rear gate and moseyed back to the truck, still shaking his head, then drove off slowly. Collin sprinted for the main road and headed into town. His clothes were filthy, stained with dirt and grass; pieces of straw clung to them and stuck out of his hair. With only ten minutes to go, Collin couldn’t stop. The warm air exacerbated things, causing sweat to pour down his face and body, soaking his shirt anew. But he kept running along a path that paralleled the highway. He crossed a small inlet with seven minutes left and could see that he was approaching the tiny airport on the edge of town. That meant taxis, so he veered across the highway and found one about to enter the roadway, headed toward town. Self-conscious about his appearance and odor, Collin apologized as he jumped in the front seat. “I need to get to the marina as quickly as possible,” he said.
“Which marina, sir?” asked the short, Hispanic driver.
“The main one, I guess.”
“OK, I take you to Bright Marina.”
The taxi sped away and at two minutes before noon, he was dropped off in front of a sign that read, “The Schooner Western Union, Key West Flagship.” Collin tipped the driver generously and jumped out, already searching for the First Mate.
Rojas was nowhere to be seen among hordes of moving people. Collin poked his head into the adjacent store. No Rojas.
The waterfront area was brimming with activity. Swarms of people moved with a foreboding urgency. Many were dragging suitcases or coolers. Some yelled into cell phones, tugged on children’s arms, or shuttled armloads of supplies.
He scanned the docks, the sidewalks, the parking lot, straining for any sign of Rojas—to the left, to the right, straight in front. Looking over the half-vacated marina, all he could see were the towering masts and hulking yachts that had yet to depart and more people moving to and fro.
From the water, a cacophony of lively sounds filled the air. Crews worked feverishly, preparing to get underway, barking out orders and questions to one another. Engines roared to life. Lines and clips clanged against metallic masts as the wind blew harder. He began to jog toward the docks, scanning in all directions. That’s when he saw them. Two men who looked out of place, talking to a small cluster of people, displaying a printed photograph. One was a tall, older, black guy. The other looked like a moving tree trunk, thick with muscle, blond curls atop his head. Both men wore dress pants and button up shirts. They weren’t tourists, and they weren’t boat owners.
Collin’s insides went cold. A shiver ran up his spine, causing his head to do a quick shake. They had to be cops, searching for him. How’d they know?
He spun around, keeping his face turned toward the water, searching more frenetically for Rojas’s familiar mop of hair—long, dark, and tangled. Checking over his shoulder to keep an eye on the detectives, he moved forcefully through the crowds, trying to get his bearings and figure out where Rojas would be. His phone began to buzz in his pocket. “Where are you, man?” Captain Sewell’s voice was calm, the words slipping lazily through the air.
“I’m at the marina, looking for Rojas. Where is he?”
“He’s there, looking for you.”
“No, he’s not. He’s nowhere to be found. Did he leave already?”
“No, he’s sitting on a bench next to the gas pump.”
“Gas pump? Where?”
“It’s by the main office.”
“I only see a store. Is there an office in there?”
The Captain paused, sucking in a breath. “Which marina are you at?”
“The one that has the sign for the Western Union Schooner.”
“Wrong marina. He’s down at the next one—Conch Harbor.”
“I’ll go there now. Tell him to wait.”
When Collin turned to find the guys with the photo, they were gone. Not knowing where they were scared him more than knowing they were close. He couldn’t wait. He had to move. He opened up the map on his phone, located Conch Harbor Marina, and punched the icon to request walking directions. Half a mile.
His grimy clothes, along with the straw stuck to him, were drawing unwanted attention. Young people stared and pointed at him. Older folks looked on with either pity or disdain. Keeping his head down, he followed the directions on the phone map. His pace was brisk, matching those around him. As he moved through the crowd, Collin heard someone call his name. Instinctively, he turned his head toward the sound. Wrong thing to do, he realized. The two men were now only yards away and closing. Collin broke into a full sprint, crying out, “Move” and “Coming through,” as he ran, knocking into people and pushing others out of his way. His bags slowed him down, but he was still able to outpace his pursuers.
As he approached Conch Harbor Marina, he called at full volume: “Rojas, get to the boat.”
Upon hearing his name, Rojas popped up and looked toward the sound. Collin was barreling full speed in his direction, dodging around groups of people as he ran. Behind him two guys were in full chase. Rojas dashed toward the boat. Collin could see his ropey tangles bobbing up and down amidst the crush of people. They disappeared as Rojas headed down the ramp toward the docks. Twenty yards down the dock, Rojas jumped into a rubber dinghy and started up the engine as Collin bounded down the ramp. Collin was on the composite deck and making his turn when the two pursuers hit the ramp. Collin slipped as he tried to negotiate the hard left but caught himself before he slid into the water. “Go, go,” he yelled, pointing toward the end of the dock, straight in front of him as he got back to his feet, legs churning like a running back.
Rojas jammed the dinghy’s motor in reverse. Once he cleared the end of the slip, he threw the throttle forward and swung the boat in the direction of Collin’s flight, quickly drawing alongside him, matching his speed. At the end of the dock, Rojas eased off the throttle so the dinghy was gliding just off to Collin’s right and slightly ahead of him, eight feet from the end of the dock. Without pause or hesitation, Collin leaped at an angle and landed on the hard floor of the rubber boat. His momentum carried him forward toward the opposite side, almost pitching him into the water. Rojas acted quickly and grabbed the shoulder strap of Collin’s computer bag and leaned hard toward the center of the boat, just managing to keep Collin inside and the boat from capsizing. Collin fell in a heap, and Rojas gunned the little engine, steering into the crowded waterway, weaving through traffic, heading toward open water.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Gulf of Mexico, West of Key West, FL
June 6
“Man, you look and smell like—” Rojas yelled over the high pitched whaling of the outboard motor racing full-throttle through rough water.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Collin interrupted. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all when we get to the boat.” Collin scanned the water behind them. There were dozens of boats of all sizes plowing lines in the water, the harbor resembling a freeway at rush hour.
Rojas again yelled over the din. “Looks like everyone wants to get out of here.”
“What do you know about the storm?”
“Supposed to hit the Bahamas pretty soon, I think. Then South Florida a couple of hours later. They think it will die out when it hits land.”
“Where is everyone going?”
“Probably as far north and west as they can.”
“What’s Sewell’s plan?”
“Same thing. Get far away, to the west.”
“Think we can outrun these guys?�
�
“Don’t worry, man. No sailboat faster than the Admiral.”
“It’s not the sailboats I’m worried about.”
* * * *
Conch Harbor Marina, Key West, Florida
June 6
Crabtree and McCoy watched Collin hit the deck as he turned, so they slowed at the bottom of the grated metal ramp to take the ninety degree turn more cautiously. Nonetheless, they didn’t stand a chance of catching the speedy Collin. They watched from forty feet away as Collin leapt and landed in the moving dinghy. As they reached the end of the dock, Crabtree stopped, hunched over, and grabbed his knees. Between breaths he exclaimed, “Never . . . seen . . . anything . . . like . . . that.”
McCoy, the former football player, remained standing, hands on his hips, kicking at the dock in exasperation. “Not only fast but highly motivated. Wish I had it on video. It’d go viral.” He wasn’t as winded as his partner, but he was equally as frustrated.
Crabtree remained bent over for a beat or two then reared up and said, “Grab that boat. We can still get him.” He was pointing at another dinghy, larger than the one Collin jumped onto, tied up in an empty slip twenty feet away.
McCoy dashed toward the waiting rubber boat. This one had a built-in console with a seat and a steering wheel. A much fancier model than the target vessel. As he untied the ropes, his more experienced partner arrived, as did the owner, yelling obscenities and demanding them off his dinghy. The man was large, tanned, and muscular. He meant business. Crabtree flashed his badge and said, “FBI. We need your boat. We’ll return it when we’re done.” The man threw his hands in the air and spewed more profanities as the agents tore off in hot pursuit.
* * * *