“Good thing. I like my job here.”
“Never get too attached,” said Mr. Lewis as he looked through the rifle scope and aimed it at fuel truck across the tarmac and dry fired.
Mr. Lewis was already suspicious that Mitchell had been using the waterways to get around. When Mitchell vanished after the dive off the bridge, he informed Baylor of that. Baylor was about to tell the FBI that was where they should be directing their search efforts when he realized he had an opportunity.
When it was clear that Mitchell’s body wasn’t going to be found, Baylor had called Mr. Lewis with the new plan. If Mitchell was shot out of sight, it would point to an accomplice who wanted to keep him silent.
Baylor didn’t care if Mitchell talked. He didn’t have anything to say. The real advantage to his death was that it would appear that he knew something worth getting killed for. If one of Baylor’s associates could get access to Mitchell’s body before any of the other agencies, he could misdirect them as need be.
48
Mitchell passed the inlet that led toward the part of downtown where he’d made his escape. Police and news helicopters flew around looking for a naked Mitchell hiding out somewhere around town.
The underwater propulsion device had made his escape a practical impossibility to anyone watching. A strong scuba diver would be able to swim one mile an hour at most in no current. He’d covered the distance in 20 minutes, giving him an hour head start from the most optimistic position of where he could be. That was, of course, assuming people were thinking logically. Mitchell had little reason to think that was the case.
Mitchell kept the boat going south on the Intracoastal and focused on what he need to do next. He set the scanner on the dashboard and turned the volume all the way up so he could hear it over the engine noise.
As a precaution, he laid out his dive gear in the rear seats so he could get to it quickly if he needed to and checked the charge on the underwater propulsion device. It still had a half charge left. That was more than enough to take him to shore or pretty far down a side canal.
Knowing he had some kind of backup escape cleared his head and made it easier to think. The problem he had earlier was that nobody took him seriously. He hoped the unfortunate incident at the bridge was enough of a wakeup call.
To find out what the reaction was, Mitchell turned on the boat’s stereo and tuned it to a news channel. He still kept one ear on the scanner, periodically tuning in to make sure he wasn’t about to be surrounded.
Mitchell hadn’t realized the unintended consequence stripping down to his underwear had on people’s perceptions. The bite marks and scratches hurt like hell when he thought about them, but he’d been too focused on moving forward to stop and get a look at himself.
When the public saw them, they became more sympathetic. It gave them an image of Mitchell as a wounded man trying to avoid getting hurt. When the FBI negotiator attacked him, even people defending how law enforcement agencies were handling the case found it hard to defend what took place.
A popular discussion on several of the news stations was what should Mitchell do next. According to the reports, his @MadMitchFM Twitter handle was flooded with people decrying what happened and offering advice. One suggestion repeated by a reporter made a lot of sense: “@MadMitchFM Get a fucking lawyer on these assholes.”
He needed a third party to negotiate for his surrender, someone who could verify that the authorities were living up to their word. He needed the advice of someone who could help him, not just find out what was wrong with him but make sure he didn’t spend the rest of his life in prison.
Mitchell realized that if he had surrendered that morning and hadn’t been attacked and the magical armored truck didn’t put him in a riot in the middle of downtown, he probably would have walked right into their hands without any legal protection. While he bargained for his life, they would have conned him into agreeing to spend the rest of it in prison.
For sure, he’d done some very criminal things but nothing he should go to jail for, at least in his mind. As far as he was concerned, guilty feelings or not, he was only trying to survive. Mitchell began to get angry at the thought that he might actually have to go to prison for what happened. His hand pushed the throttle forward as he fumed.
When he realized he was making a wake big enough to get stopped by the Marine Patrol, he slowed down. The last thing he needed was to start a boat chase over a no-wake-zone ticket.
When he got the chance to make a phone call, he’d try to contact a lawyer. The bigger the loudmouth the better. He wanted some kind of OJ Simpson-level dream team.
If he got surrounded or stopped before then, that would be his one request. He wanted someone else to deal with the unctuous negotiators. He began to form a legal strategy in his mind. Of course he was sure the lawyers would have better ideas. It just made him feel better to have a plan.
If Mitchell were killed before he got to a lawyer, there was going to be no brilliant defense, no pardon and no cure.
49
A half-hour later, Mitchell was lost in thought thinking of his legal defense when the police scanner inexplicably flew off the console. At first he thought it was from the wave he just drove through. When he leaned over to pick it up he saw the bullet hole. An instant later he felt something graze his right shoulder.
“Fuck!” he screamed as he ducked down behind the console. He put his hand on his shoulder and felt where the bullet had almost gone through his arm. It burned like hell but there was no blood.
The second bullet sounded like it was coming from one of the islands to his left up ahead. He’d reached a part of the Intracoastal where it was mostly mangroves on either side. A perfect place for an ambush.
He desperately wanted to pop his head up and look, but he knew that’s what the sniper was waiting for.
Mitch reached a hand up and slowed down the boat so he wouldn’t overtake the sniper’s position and leave himself vulnerable in the open cockpit. He had to go past that point sooner or later. Otherwise the shooter could just work his way through the brush to a better position.
Why was he being shot at? Didn’t the FBI warn you before they did that kind of stuff? It didn’t make any sense to him.
Mitch looked around the boat for anything he could use to protect himself. He could hide in the cabin, but that would mean leaving the boat adrift. Sooner or later he would hit the shoreline and the shooter could hop aboard and finish him.
Somewhere in the distance he heard the sound of a helicopter. He had the urge to wave them down but knew that outcome probably wasn’t going to be a good one, either. He looked at the console above his head. He could try to navigate the boat without looking. If he looked at the tree line in back of him, he could gauge where the middle of the waterway was. That would still leave him open when he passed by the sniper’s position.
Mitch decided to hell with it. He’d aim the boat down the middle as best as he could, throw the throttle forward and go duck down into the cabin. It was a cowardly way to confront the crisis. But he didn’t have any other options.
Mitchell opened up the cabin door and got an inspiration when he saw the mirror over the small sink. He climbed inside and ripped it off the wall. He climbed onto the bed that was directly under the bow hatch and carefully lifted it open using the edge of the mirror. He looked at the trees where he thought the shot came from. He saw something move and then the mirror shattered, followed by the sound of a loud bang. The hatch slammed shut as broken pieces of mirrored plastic fell on him.