He needed to put distance between himself and the agents, but before he could do that, he had to lose the Silverado. With the ruptured tire it was useless in a chase, and every cop in metro Atlanta soon would have the vehicle description and tag on their hit list.
He didn’t know what he would drive after he ditched the truck. He was counting on an opportunity presenting itself, a gift from fate or God or something. He had to believe this somehow was going to work out for him and his family-if he didn’t believe it, he would have surrendered peacefully back at the office.
Running through a Stop sign, he veered onto another road, squinting to read the street sign. Rain-drenched oaks overhung the roadway, and large homes stood proudly on big, manicured lawns, windows darkened.
He ground to a noisy stop between a Colonial house and a brick ranch and cut off the engine. He jotted down the approximate address on a slip of paper, to reference later when he needed to relocate the truck.
As he was tucking the note into his pocket, his BlackBerry chirped. A call this time, not a text message. He expected to see Todd’s number, but Caller ID read: FBI-Atlanta.
To reach him, the Feds had called either his home landline, which he had forwarded to the BlackBerry, or the cell directly, which was a private number. Either way, it made him uneasy. Wireless calls could be tracked, locations pinpointed.
He paused for a moment, and then answered. “Yeah?”
“Agent Falco here,” she said, her husky contralto so distinctive she needn’t have given her name. “Mr. Webb, look-”
“Why’re you calling me at this number?” he shouted. “Do you have a warrant to tap this line or something?”
“No, sir, we got the cell number from your mother-in-law.”
They’d visited his mother-in-law. Great. Talk about real pressure.
“Look, you need to stop running from us,” Falco said. “We’re on your side.”
“Then why the hell were your guys shooting at me?”
“They only wanted to detain you, they got a little overzealous when you resisted. I apologize.”
“They should have stayed out of my way.”
“I know what’s going on,” she said.
“You don’t know jack shit. You think I’m helping Leon.”
“That’s not what we think.”
“He’s got my family-did you know that?”
“Yes, we know, Mr. Webb. The fifty thousand you left behind in the briefcase was a ransom payment.”
He fell silent, his surprise overtaking his anger. He didn’t know how the agents had figured it out. Regardless, it didn’t matter. They couldn’t help him.
“We’ve been trying to locate your wife and daughter all day,” Falco said. “When we couldn’t find them, and factored in the money and your behavior, it finally dawned on me what Sharpe was doing to you.”
“It took you long enough.”
“Let us help you, Mr. Webb. Kidnapping is a federal offense, we’re experts at this.”
He shook his head. “I’ve gotta do this myself.”
“No offense, but you aren’t trained to handle these situations. We’ve got a great hostage negotiator, a crack team. We’ll get your wife and daughter home safely. I promise you.”
Her voice was smooth and persuasive. He didn’t doubt that they had a top-notch crew. But he had created this hell for his family with his own deceptions and poor decisions. It was up to him to get them out of it.
“Listen, stay out of my way, all right?” he said. “I’ll handle this.”
“I can’t allow that, Mr. Webb.”
“I’m not asking for your permission,” he said, and ended the call.
A few seconds later, Falco’s number popped up again.
He shut off the phone, and for good measure, removed the battery, too. Falco had admitted that they weren’t tapping the cell phone, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t soon get a warrant to do so-and from his security work, he knew that cops could trace a wireless phone’s location even if the cell was powered off, so long as the battery was plugged in. He couldn’t risk their involvement.
Climbing out of the pickup, he flipped up the hood of his windbreaker against the rain. A large aluminum tool box lay in the truck bed, lid pebbled with water. He opened it with a key attached to the ignition key ring, rummaged inside, and found a lug wrench. He stashed the wrench against his ribs, between the waistband of his pants and his jacket.
Hands in his pockets, he marched down the sidewalk. He scanned back and forth across the street, looking for a car to borrow-he couldn’t think of it as stealing. His days of stealing were behind him.
Most people in the neighborhood, however, appeared to garage their cars. He scoped a handful of vehicles parked in driveways or curbside, but they were newer models, most likely equipped with alarms and electronically operated ignitions, and he didn’t see any keys in plain view or unlocked doors.
Reaching the end of the block without finding any prospects, he was deliberating which way to go next when he happened to glance behind him.
Half a block away, a city police cruiser had pulled up to the Silverado, and the officer was shining a light inside. The light panned in Corey’s direction.
59
Corey turned away before the cop’s high-beam flashlight found his face. A wave of brightness washed over the sidewalk, and then receded.
Casually, as if he were a local resident headed home perhaps after pulling a double shift, Corey strode forward. His teeth were clenched, and in his pockets, his hands were balled into clammy fists. The lug wrench felt like ice against his ribs.
He heard the police cruiser crawling behind him. Corey quickened his pace.
Keep moving, man. I’m nobody. Ignore me.
The bright light found Corey again.
Shit.
A megaphone-enhanced stentorian voice boomed from the car: “Excuse me, sir.”
Corey didn’t pause, and didn’t look.
“Sir! I’m talking to you! Halt and turn around!”
Corey ran.
He sprinted into the front yard on his right. He dashed around the garage and plunged into the backyard, thick wet grass pulling at his shoes and legs.
Behind him, a car door opened, slammed. One door opening and closing meant one cop giving chase, and if he had any luck, it would be one cop who’d spent too many hours hugging the counter at the local donut shop.
A gigantic wooden playset dominated the back lawn. Corey remembered that he’d purchased and assembled a similar one for Jada a few years ago, a project that had taken two tedious weekends. In the rain-distorted darkness, it resembled the skeletal remains of some prehistoric creature.
He circled around it and ran beyond the edge of the property, into a damp cavern of trees and undergrowth.
The cop shouted at him to halt. He sounded out of breath, but he might have backup on the way.
The land ahead of Corey sloped into a narrow creek. The ground was muddy and slick, festooned with vines that tugged at his pumping arms and legs. He nearly slipped, but caught hold of a branch and saved himself from tumbling into the creek. He reached the lower bank, jumped over the creek, landed on the other side, and scrabbled up the slope.
Lights shone ahead, filtering into the woods. He wasn’t exactly sure of his location. But he kept running.
Somewhere behind, the cop cried out in pain. Probably had fallen in the mud.
Panting, Corey exploded out of the trees and into the glare of a street lamp. He was on another residential street. A row of duplexes ahead on the left. An apartment complex a quarter block ahead on the right.
He ran to the apartments. The wrought-iron gates hung open.
He looked over his shoulder, but didn’t see the cop following. Maybe the poor sap had twisted his ankle when he’d fallen.
The apartment complex was a series of several four-story buildings, the units featuring patios and balconies, a network of paved lanes serving the buildings. The parking lot was empty of people, but full of cars, SUVs, and pickup trucks, myriad possibilities.