He looked down the track in the direction the train was coming from. A caboose was visible in the distance. It would be there in less than a minute. They’d catch him before he could run to the next street.
Kevin looked at the low-slung train cars piled high with lumber. Through the gaps he could see his pursuers searching for him. Then he saw something which caught his attention. It looked like his best chance. He began running away from the crossing, and angled across the street, using the traffic waiting at the signal to stay out of sight of the other side. When he was sure Barnett and Kaplan could no longer see him, he headed back toward the tracks.
In front of the crossing, at the back of the line of waiting traffic, a pearl black pickup with tinted windows was stopped. Its back window and bumper were festooned with stickers with the familiar maroon and white colors of Texas A&M. Many of them said “Texas A&M Aggies” or “Gig ‘em Aggies.” Kevin had seen bumper stickers that said, “My daughter and my money go to Texas A&M,” but he’d never seen the one on the truck’s bumper that said, “I did your daughter and spent your money at Texas A&M.”
He ran up to passenger’s door, hoping that it might be less threatening in this era of carjackings, and knocked on the window. The electric window lowered to reveal a man around his age in a tank top and jeans. A gun rack was mounted on the back window, but it held only an umbrella.
“You got a problem, bud?” the man said.
“My damn car broke down,” Kevin said between gulps of air, “and I was wondering if you could give a fellow Ag some help.” He wiggled his class ring toward the man.
The man looked at the ring and a smile broke across his face. “I’ll always help another Ag in trouble. And today’s your lucky day. My dad owns a garage. Maybe I can take a look at it and see if we can’t get it fixed. Name’s Bob Tinan.” Bob leaned over to extend his hand through the window, and Kevin took it.
“Kevin Hamilton.” Through the windshield, he could see the approaching caboose thirty seconds away. “Thanks, Bob, but I know what’s wrong with it. It’s the head gasket.” Kevin jerked his thumb toward the Mustang. “It was bound to happen sometime. The only way it’s going to move now is behind a tow truck.”
Bob looked at the heavily damaged car 100 yards behind them and turned back to Kevin. “Hell, you’re probably right. No sense messin’ it up more than it already is. Come on in. There’s a gas station a couple blocks from here.
As Kevin climbed in and closed the door, the caboose passed, and he could see the Pontiac shoot under the opening gates.
“He’s in a hell of a hurry,” Bob said. Kevin bent over, pretending to tie his shoes.
“What year did you graduate, Bob?”
Bob told him and drove toward the intersection. Kevin looked back towards his car. Barnett and Kaplan were already out of the Pontiac and slowly approached the immobile vehicle, their guns discreetly held at their sides. As the pickup turned right onto Westpark and out of sight, they still didn’t realize that Kevin was gone.
CHAPTER 9
From the Transco Tower, the 800-foot-tall suburban skyscraper on the West Loop, the railroad crossing at Westpark and Newcastle was easily visible, as was most of the rest of Houston. It was one of the reasons that Clayton Tarnwell had chosen it for his vast office headquarters. On clear days, the Houston ship channel, over ten miles to the east, could be seen through the silvery towers of downtown Houston. From this vantage point, Tarnwell could survey the vast metropolis as if he owned the entire expanse. He loved to watch the expressions of visitors as they walked into the enormous office, toward the floor-to-ceiling picture window. It was an awe-inspiring sight.
Clayton Tarnwell was paying no attention to it whatsoever.
“What!” he screamed into the phone. “Are you telling me that two highly-trained, very expensive operatives couldn’t handle the simple task of bringing in a college student?”
“I think you may want to hear the entire report,” David Lobec said from his car phone. “And I recommend not discussing it any further over an open line. We can be there in less than five minutes.”
He thought about using some choice words, but trusted Lobec’s professional advice. Someone might be eavesdropping. “You damn well better be!” He slammed the phone into the cradle, then stabbed the intercom button.
“Coffee. Now. And when Lobec gets here, send him in.”
A female voice replied, “Yes, sir.”
Tarnwell picked up the loan contracts he had been studying, then slapped them down on the desk without seeing any of the words. Damn! He was so close. After years of building his small, but extremely profitable empire, he was now on the verge of leapfrogging into the ranks of the Forbes 400. Ward’s Adamas process — no, Tarnwell’s Adamas process, he corrected himself — was the key. Once he had the process patented, he would own the most lucrative invention of the decade. He could truly be one of the richest men in the world. And now some pissant little college kid was getting in his way. He would not let that happen.
Tarnwell’s office had all the trappings of a successful businessman: the teak coffee table, the leather sofa and antique Chippendale chairs he had bought at auction, the state-of-the-art media center on the far wall, the hand-made oriental rug. A vast array of photographs adorned the office, most of them pictures of him posing with tennis pals from the club, local sports celebrities, a couple of congressmen and a senator. They showed a tall, handsome, rugged blond in prime condition. An all-American boy living The American Dream.
But it wasn’t enough. He was a nobody outside of Houston. He could get his share of attention in Washington, in the mining and chemical circles, but he wasn’t a big player, not like the chairmen of the megaconglomerates. The giants in the industry would brush him aside if he were too much of a nuisance. He was a barracuda in an ocean of killer whales.
He wanted to be more. He wanted to be one of the killer whales, maybe even the biggest. And thanks to Adamas, Tarnwell’s name was on the brink of becoming a household word. He would be one of the most powerful men in the world. And this Hamilton snot was endangering everything.
The door to his office opened, and a shapely blonde emerged with a sterling and china tea set. She placed the set on the spotless mahogany desk and gave Tarnwell a playful smile as she poured. Even though they were occasional lovers — one of the reasons she was hired in the first place — Tarnwell ignored her and went back to staring at the wall. After serving his drink, she retraced her steps to the exit without saying a word.
Moments later, Lobec walked in. Tarnwell didn’t wait for him to cross the entire room.
“Let’s hear it,” Tarnwell spat.
“These are Mr. Hamilton’s,” Lobec said, throwing a wallet and a set of keys onto the desk.
Without asking, Lobec filled one of the other cups from the pot. He sat in one of the high back leather chairs and took a sip before starting his report. He took Tarnwell through every detail of the morning’s events, starting with their stakeout and finishing with the high speed chase that ended at the rail crossing.
“He apparently received a ride from one of the vehicles traveling in the other direction,” Lobec concluded. “Otherwise, we would have seen him running. There was no place to hide within the immediate area.”
Despite his anger, Tarnwell had been involved in some of Lobec’s previous operations. He knew Lobec was capable, so he didn’t waste time trying to assign blame. The most important thing was to find Hamilton. “Then that means he’s not mobile.”