As he was throwing his leg over the seat of his bike, he detected movement on the stairs. A tall, muscular man headed toward him in a hurry, reaching into his pocket. Some part of Drake recognized a threat, and he pumped the pedals with all his might, leaving the man standing by the stairwell fifteen yards behind him.
The distinctive whistle of a ricochet greeted him as a silenced slug gouged a chunk of concrete out of the retaining wall that ran along the driveway. Drake immediately swerved and increased his pace, his calves burning from the sudden demand. Adrenaline flooded his system and he hunched over the handlebars, presenting a smaller target as he raced a weaving course for the street. Another ricochet pocked the wall, but this one farther away. Accuracy was falling off as he neared the sidewalk, but he kept pumping for dear life — a lucky shot could still drop him.
Drake was doing at least thirty when he hit the street. A car stood on its horn and locked up its brakes with an earsplitting shriek as it narrowly avoided sideswiping him. Drake ignored it and swerved around an oncoming truck, the behemoth missing him by so little he could feel the heat from its front fender as he brushed by it.
More horn honking sounded from behind him, and he dared a brief look over his shoulder, where a green sedan was trying to pull out of the driveway. He shifted gears to buy more speed and blinked sweat out of his eyes as he passed a strip mall on his right. A car engine revved behind him, signaling bad news. He dodged right and shot down a service alley that ran along the side of the complex. The car followed him, its oil pan slamming against a speed bump, and he turned the corner behind the stores as another gunshot tore a divot from the asphalt just in front of him.
Drake had no idea how he was going to escape, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for his pursuer. He heard the car take the turn, and then slammed on his brakes, nearly going over the handlebars as he twisted his front wheel. To his right was a three-foot-wide pedestrian entrance in the high concrete wall he could make — and that more importantly, a car couldn’t.
He barreled through and rolled across a small field, industrial buildings on the far edge. He heard a door slam from the lot, but he was easily seventy-five yards away from the shooter. From what Jack had said, that would be an impossible shot even for a marksman: a moving target alternating speed over rough terrain, and zigzagging to boot.
A puff of dirt exploded to his left, but not close, confirming his belief. Now he needed to get to the nearest structures and he’d be clear.
He reached the buildings and edged between two, shielded from any gunfire. But it would only be a matter of minutes before the gunman drove around and found his way into the industrial park — assuming he wasn’t working with a team. Drake forced himself to greater effort and swung onto a residential street with small homes nestled among mature oak trees. At the next block he took another turn, and at the next, another.
After five minutes of hard riding, he found himself close enough to the El Camino Real to ditch the bike and walk. He leaned it against the side of an apartment building, out of sight, and after rummaging through his backpack, changed his top. Anyone looking for him would have his description, which wouldn’t track with his dark gray T-shirt. He pulled his baseball cap on backward and inspected himself in a nearby car mirror — it wasn’t perfect, but it would hopefully be good enough.
The bank was six blocks away. By the time he arrived, he only had ten minutes. A harried-looking assistant manager escorted him to the hand scanner, which quickly verified his identity and granted him access. Drake entered the vault and moved to the section with his box, unlocked the door, and pulled the long metal drawer from its resting place. He didn’t bother carrying it to the table in the small room next to the chamber, preferring to open it there and retrieve his passport. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached into the zipped pocket of his backpack and retrieved the journal. He placed it in the box and closed the lid, and then slid the drawer back into the compartment and locked it.
Finished, he left the secure area and approached the teller. The manager seemed annoyed when he withdrew thirty thousand dollars in cash, and checked his balance twice before approving the transaction and going back into the vault for the money. The doors were closing when he walked out with his cargo pants stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. He made a right and walked along El Camino Real while scanning his surroundings for watchers. Luxury cars whizzed by him on the street as he made his way toward an electronics store, and within minutes he’d bought a second disposable cell phone and activated it. He asked the woman behind the counter to call him a taxi, and he used the waiting time to dial Jack’s cell.
“You get it?” Jack answered, no attempt at preamble or greeting, the muted rumble of motor and tires on the road audible in the background.
“Yup. But I had a little complication.” Drake told him about the key and the near miss. Jack didn’t respond with more than a grunt, so Drake continued. “I’m going to catch a flight for San Diego and walk across the border there. Hopefully I can get a night flight to Mexico City from Tijuana. If not, first thing in the morning. How’re you doing?”
“Radiator’s fixed, a can of Bondo covered the bullet holes, and we’re on our way to Austin.”
“How’s the graze?”
“I don’t recommend it, but all things considered, it could be worse.”
Drake paused. “And how’s Allie holding up?”
“Fine. She’s excited about going to Brazil. Go figure.”
“With any luck I should be there in two days. Where should we meet?”
“I’ll check into the Mar Ipanema Hotel down by the beach. Under the name Jack Keller. Stop in once a day until I’m there.”
“Got it. Jack Keller. Mar Ipanema. Easy.”
“Let’s hope so. Safe travels and good luck. Oh, and Drake? Don’t under any circumstances underestimate these guys. You’re damned lucky you’re alive. That could just as easily have gone the other direction.”
“I know.”
He disconnected and decided there was nothing to lose now by calling Harry, which he’d avoided based on Jack’s warning. The line rang and Betty picked up, sounding out of breath.
“Betty, it’s Drake. Is Harry there?”
A long silence greeted him, and then a choking sound.
“Oh…you don’t know. He was murdered. A few days ago. In broad daylight. While I was at lunch,” she said, ending with a sob.
“What? Someone killed him?” Drake’s stomach sank. “What do the police think?”
Betty pulled herself together. “They’re investigating some of his bail skips, and anyone that could have held a grudge. You know the kinds of psychos he dealt with. It’s a full roster.”
“Who’s running the show?”
“Harry’s brother is helping out, but unless someone wants to buy the business, he’s saying he’ll wind it down. This isn’t what he wants to do for a living. He’s got his construction business. I don’t blame him. I’m looking for another job. It’s creepy coming into work. I…I found him…”
Drake swallowed hard, shock setting in at the realization that his longtime friend was dead — because of him. Or more accurately, because of the murderous thugs who’d targeted him. “I’m so sorry, Betty. It must have been horrible.”
“You have no idea. What kind of animals…never mind.” She paused. “Did you want to speak to Harry’s brother?”