“Out of the truck. Now!” shouted the man who’d emerged from the guard shack. He’d pulled his weapon and was walking briskly toward the driver’s side.
“Dammit! Get down!” Peter shouted to Jimmy.
He mashed the gas pedal down to the floorboard, causing the heavy Humvee to lurch forward. His tires spun slightly on the wet pavement, which startled the soldiers. It was that split second of confusion that allowed Peter to roar through the lowered gate arm, tearing it from its post.
The guardsmen opened fire, stitching the back of the enclosed Humvee while one shot obliterated the rear window. Peter never slowed down as he roared past the NASCAR credential’s trailer and whipped the steering wheel to the left to avoid crashing into a chain-link fence. He fishtailed as his two right tires found the soggy turf and then grabbed the pavement again.
“Which way?” Jimmy shouted his question as he leaned up in the back seat to rest his arms on the passenger’s seat.
Peter’s mind raced as he tried to recall anything he could about the speedway. He hadn’t tried to look through the small air vent of the animal control truck when they had been brought in the day before. However, he did know they were at the back side of the track.
“Right,” he responded as he whipped the steering wheel to the right, causing the back of the truck to swerve again. He floored the gas and took off down Palm Drive, which was bordered by the speedway on the right and parking lots on the left.
Peter blew through a stop sign, driving on the wrong side of the road to avoid a triangular medium. He finally exhaled after holding his breath for half a mile. Then he glanced in his rearview mirror. Two sets of headlights pulled out of the speedway exit behind him.
“We’re gonna have company.”
“Yeah, from the right, too,” added Jimmy.
Peter glanced over his right shoulder to see another set of headlights with grille-mounted red and blue lights flashing on and off. He shook his head in disbelief.
This was how it ends.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Thursday, November 7
Homestead, Florida
Peter’s eyes spent as much time looking forward as they did in the rearview mirror. The headlights of the trio of military police vehicles chasing them seemed to grow larger with each quarter mile they traveled south down the Overseas Highway.
Jimmy climbed across the console between the bucket-style seats to join Peter in the front. He immediately began to remove the gauze bandages that were wrapped around his face. He’d been scratching at his face since he’d woken up from the last beating he’d sustained during an over-the-top interrogation session conducted by a mad-at-the-world CIA agent.
He’d refused to tell the agent anything. He’d been threatened with waterboarding. At first, he’d been slapped across the face. Then he’d made the mistake of grinning at the demented agent. That had been when slaps turned to punches. The result was open cuts across his cheeks and jawline. A swollen lower lip and a bloodied nose were the least painful of the injuries.
As he gingerly removed the bandages, he asked, “Do you have a plan?”
“We gotta get to the Keys somehow. What’s your face like? Could you swim up Jewfish Creek to Largo Point?”
Jimmy laughed. “And then what? Stroll through the swamps at Crocodile Lake? I’d rather take my chances with those guys.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder toward the pursuing guardsmen.
“How about the other direction? There’s a boat ramp near Snake Point. I doubt they stretched wire that far.”
“Probably right, but here’s the thing,” began Jimmy in response. “We’ll never make it to where the bridge was blown. Even in this crap weather, you can see there are people still walking back and forth on the side of the road. There’ll be more of them the closer we get.”
Peter glanced in the mirror for what seemed like the thousandth time. “I was thinking we could blend in with them to hide from those guys.”
Jimmy turned sideways in his seat and noticed they’d gained ground since he’d moved to the front. He had a thought.
“The Southern Glades Trail is up ahead. You could kill your lights and take the off-ramp. Instead of going under the bridge along the creek, hang a right and double back. We can hide until they give up.”
Peter grimaced and shook his head. “I thought about that, but with this rain coming down, that sandy road will become a real problem. We could get stuck. If we’re gonna bail off the highway, there’s another option we could try.”
“What?”
“The Manatee Bay Club.”
The Manatee Bay Club was a private community that offered dock and boat slip rentals. Along with the SeaHunter Marina, the small key at Manatee Bay had nearly two hundred boats docked there. In addition to the marina, there were nine slivers of fingerlike land protruding into the bay that had as many as twenty boat slips. There were also half a dozen private residences with their own docks.
“Steal a boat?”
“Yeah, or even just find a place to hide. Think about it. Their orders are to bug out of Homestead. I’m sure these guys will look for a while, but they’re not gonna go slip to slip or boat to boat.”
Jimmy laughed and then winced. Certain facial movements hurt worse than others. “Yeah, if we can hide from my old man on Driftwood Key, we can hide from a bunch of soldiers who are just gonna give it a half effort.”
“Okay,” said Peter, satisfied they had a plan, at least for now. “This is gonna be tricky, but it might throw them off and buy us some time.”
“What’re ya thinkin’?”
“Help me navigate. I’m about to kill the lights.”
Jimmy reached for the grab handle on the door and leaned forward to brace himself against the dashboard. Just as Peter arrived at the exit ramp to the Southern Glades Trail, he turned off the headlights.
They were suddenly surrounded by darkness, and as if to exacerbate their task, Mother Nature threw a feeder band across the highway as they eased over the creek. Instinctively, Peter slowed down to be more careful. He also focused a little too much on the rearview mirror to determine if his ploy worked.
“Peter! Look out!”
Peter jammed on the brakes as they reached the entrance to the sailboat and kayak rental business at South Dade Marina. A group of people had gathered at the gated entry, waiting for others who were trying to break in. They were seeking any kind of refuge from the storm. Several were milling about in the road and didn’t see Peter’s approach, nor did he see them.
The Humvee skidded to a stop on the wet pavement, and Peter inadvertently slammed on the horn to warn those in the road to move. The refugees immediately began to curse him and started toward the truck. His stealth maneuver had failed, so he turned his headlights back on and started south again, this time on the wrong side of the road.
“They’re almost up our ass,” complained Peter as he slapped the steering wheel. “Can’t this tank go any faster?” He moved up and back, rocking in his seat as if to urge the Humvee along. His foot had pressed the gas pedal to the floorboard, but the heavy vehicle needed time to get back up to speed.
“Less than a mile, Peter. Listen, I know this place. As soon as you pull in, take a hard right and crash into the gate. Then stop right away. Let’s lead them in the wrong direction to buy some time.”
“Are you sure?”
Jimmy set his jaw, and a look of intensity washed over his battered face. “Yeah, I’ve got this. Trust me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE