I step out, gun leveled, licking my dry lips so I can shout a challenge.
The phone buzzes again, insistent. The word flashes in my head. He wants me to abort. I can’t see what he’s seeing, can’t judge whether his call makes sense or not. Heart pounding, I start to backpedal, tucking myself behind the cover of the open unit. What else can I do?
One more look. They’re at the entrance, pushing their way out into the light. Wrangler goes first, and he’s scowling through the glass, probably wondering what happened to the cavalry. Ford motions him forward and the three men disappear from view, heading in what I presume is the direction of the white van.
The ringer chirps audibly and I answer.
“It’s a scrub,” Jeff says. “There’s at least one in the van and then a separate car. I can’t tell how many men they have total, but they’re switched on and ready for a fight.”
“What’s happening now?” I ask.
“They’re loading the van. The curly-haired guy is over at the car, saying something to the driver. He’s going around to the other side.”
“What about the good guy-cowboy-looking-?”
“Going back inside.”
I peer around the corner. Wrangler comes through the glass doors, takes a few steps, then starts running in my direction.
“They’re rolling out.”
I take off running, too, heading to the entrance. We pass each other in the corridor and I tell him to collect Dearborn and get out of here.
“Are we square?” he calls. “What about the money?”
“I’ll be in touch!”
When I reach the glass doors, I pause for a look before pushing through. The white van brakes at the edge of the parking lot, waiting for traffic to clear, then accelerates onto the street, the back end sagging. It disappears behind a stand of pines overlooking the road.
I walk outside, squinting at the glare. I rub my hand against the holster for reference, then slide the Browning in. Jeff cruises up with one hand draped over the wheel.
“Get in,” he says.
I slump into the passenger seat and pull the door shut. He punches the gas, pinning my shoulder blades against the upholstery.
“Don’t lose that van.”
“Don’t worry,” he says.
We turn onto the street in time to see the lights change at the next intersection, freeing the van to proceed on its way. I rattle off a host of instructions: don’t get too close, don’t change lanes if you can help it, don’t do anything to attract the van’s attention. In reply, all Jeff does is nod. He keeps nodding until I’m done talking, then nods some more, like he wants to make it clear he knows what he’s doing.
“They’re heading back to the tollway, looks like.”
“Just keep them in sight,” I say.
I cradle my phone in the palm of my hand, looking down at the screen. Thinking. I can have them pulled over, no problem. I can call dispatch and have patrol intercept them. I can also get a tactical team in motion if I call Lt. Bascombe and fill him in. He won’t be happy about it, but what’s more important? Keeping people happy or picking up Brandon Ford? With him in custody, the John Doe investigation blows wide open. I can hand him over and let Bascombe and Cavallo take things from there. Or I can dial Bea’s number and let the FBI take it from here.
It’s not up to me to see this through. Not personally.
“Are you gonna blow the trumpet?” Jeff asks. “Summon up the cavalry?”
“I’m just working out what to say.”
The van swings U-turns under the tollway and takes a northbound entrance, heading back toward I-59. As Jeff speeds up the ramp, he strains over the wheel, trying to see farther up.
“March,” he says.
“What?”
“I don’t see the car anymore.”
“Just follow the van.”
“Yeah, but Ford got into the car and now I don’t see it. I thought they were ahead of the van, but they’re not. It’s a silver four-door, a big Toyota, with tinted windows and dealer plates. Do you see it? I think we lost them.”
I crane my neck around, scanning the traffic behind us. I press myself against the window trying to see ahead of the van. No silver four-doors.
“What do we do?” he asks.
“Just follow the van.”
Maybe Ford went ahead. Maybe he’s planning to meet up with the van farther down the road. If we keep the van in sight, we have to catch up with him sooner or later. There’s no other option.
“They’re getting onto 59,” he says. “Going south away from town.”
“Keep following.” I lean over and check the fuel gauge. We have three quarters of a tank. “They’ll lead us to Ford, maybe take us to wherever they’re all staying. Just don’t let the van get away from us.”
The white van curves off the tollway, circling onto the Southwest Freeway, and thirty seconds later we do the same thing. Once the turn is made, Jeff finds a southbound truck to settle behind, letting a comfortable distance build between us and the van.
“I’m sorry about back there,” he says. “Maybe I just lost my nerve, but I could see it all going wrong right in front of me. They would’ve fought, and it would’ve gotten messy.”
“It’s fine. I’m sure you made the right call.”
But I don’t feel sure. My fist closes around the rim of my phone, mashing down hard. I had Ford in my grasp and I let him walk away. There in the storage facility corridor I had the power to end it all. Perhaps Jeff is right that I couldn’t have gotten away with it, would never have gotten Ford in cuffs and taken him into custody. He was in my sights, though. I could have stopped him one way or another. Even if it all went wrong, even if things did get messy, I would have stopped him. And now I can’t, and maybe I’ll never have the power again.
This phone is rigid in my grip. As my knuckles whiten, my palm starts to throb. There is no one to call. Not yet. Maybe never. I was wrong before; I do have to see this through. That’s what my gut tells me, my heart, my pain. This is my responsibility. Mine. And it has been since the last breath of Jerry Lorenz.
CHAPTER 25
The white van pulls into a truck stop on the edge of Victoria, a couple of hours outside Houston, where the driver pumps gas. The passenger trots straight inside like he’s overdue for a bathroom break. I motion Jeff toward the opposite pump island.
“Let’s switch seats,” I say.
I top off the tank, using my credit card so there’s no need to go inside. Jeff circles around the back of the car, stepping over the hose to pass behind me.
“Looks like there’s just the two of them. Want me to run inside and take a look?”
“No need,” I say. “Just sit down and don’t call attention to yourself.”
He slides into the passenger seat and shuts the door.
“We need some way to slow them down,” I say. “If I could distract the guy at the pump, you think you could get over there and stick a knife in the tire? They’d have to change it, which would give me time to make a phone call and get some real surveillance up.”
“You’re asking me to slash his tire while he’s pumping the gas?”
I let out a sigh. “There’s gotta be some way to slow them down. We could have somebody waiting for them on the other end if I had an idea where the other end might be, but-”
“I hear you,” he says. “But if you’re making that call, it had better be a good one. You only get one shot, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
He turns in his seat. “The moment you make the call, all this is out of your hands. The moment you make the call, they take over-whoever they are. It ends the way they want it to, not your way.”
Between the pumps I watch the driver out of the corner of my eye. As he finishes pumping and screws the cap into place, the passenger returns with a couple of water bottles and a road atlas tucked under his arm. They spend thirty seconds or so consulting the map, then climb back into the van. Apparently the route is new to them.