“Those kids are watching everything you all do here, scumbag.” I shove him across the street then into the back seat, smacking his head on the way in. “Clean up your act and put some time into becoming a better fucking example.”
Holstering my Glock, I don’t bother snapping the leather strap over it. Odds of getting jumped in this neighborhood are too high. “I fucking hate this part of town, and I fucking hate you for making me come into it.”
I pat the KA-BAR at my side for reassurance, reach into my inner vest pocket and pull out my cell phone.
After I dial home base I hear, “Axton Security and National Bail Bonds.” Briggs has said those words way too many times.
“Dude, you sound like a robot.”
“It’s been a long day,” he groans, more human.
“Tell me about it,” I quip, shooting a look over my shoulder. “Fuckface made me chase him halfway across the city of Memphis.”
“Did you get him?” he asks.
“What the hell kind of question is that?” I smile for the first time today. I always get my skip.
“You got a call from D’Angelo this afternoon. He mentioned Homeland Security.”
The smile is gone.
“Have you seen today’s national news headlines?” Briggs inquires.
“No, man.”
“I sent the video to your inbox. Find a hotel, clean up, get a meal and we’ll go from there.”
“Yeah okay, I’m heading to the precinct to deliver Tyson now.”
Fuck! I’d wanted to go home and catch a breather—share a few brews with the guys back at House of Ink and Steel . . . and most definitely pick up a girl to help me celebrate my victory here today. Thanks for the cockblock, Briggs.
After putting some distance between me and Memphis, I pull off the highway and head to a crappy off-the-exit Motor Inn. Idling trucks, a neon sign that reads, “Thirty dollars, one person,” and a greasy diner with probably lousy coffee—it’s the ambiance I’m looking for.
I get into my room and immediately set up my cell phone and laptop, both cradled in government grade protective cases, and go through the secured network via my phone.
An email from Briggs leads me to a CNN news bulletin.
“Eduardo Miguel, the primary suspect in the July shooting of Tulane University student Drew Jameson, escaped prison transport early this morning in St. Paul and is still at large. He is considered highly dangerous. A nationwide manhunt for Eduardo Miguel is underway.
The public is urged not to approach or attempt to apprehend Miguel in any way, but if you have any information you’re encouraged to please call the FBI information number.” The screen flashes with a photo of Miguel—dark hair and eyes, defiant expression—along with a hotline number.
Pausing the CNN bulletin, I open a second search tab on Google.
“The fuck,” I mutter aloud, leaning closer to the screen.
Two videos that have been posted to YouTube capturing Miguel’s sensational getaway have gone viral.
The road Miguel’s armored transport vehicle is following is dark and virtually empty. Until it approaches what appears to be an official state law enforcement barricade. When the transport halts, the passenger opens his window to speak with the detaining officer.
No conversation takes place. The barricade officer raises his pistol and shoots into the cab several times. Immediately afterward, he climbs into the driver’s seat and wipes the blood off of the windows.
At this point, the flashing lights revolving atop the escort police vehicles go dark, and the cop cars quickly and quietly back up and drive away in separate directions.
The man recording the scene on his iPhone begins a chain of profanities in shocked disbelief as he watches the hitman drive the prison transport away into the night.
My cell rings. “Axton.”
“D’Angelo,” the caller announces. “Hope you put on a pot of coffee.”
“I’m trying to quit.”
“Bad timing.”
“Will there ever be a good one?”
“US Intelligence was tracking Miguel before he got sloppy and put two rounds through Jameson’s skull,” Police Chief Salvador D’Angelo, my contact and friend from the St. Paul police force, explains.
“What was Miguel’s connection to Jameson?”
“Theory points to Jameson having been Miguel’s Tide-cleaned and Clorox-fresh liaison, serving the high society kids at a couple prestigious southern universities, including Tulane in New Orleans and Rice in Texas.”
“You think Jameson got greedy?”
“Maybe. But again, it’s all just speculation at this point. All we know right now is the two obviously had some sort of falling out.”
“Obviously.” I Google Drew Jameson’s name and immediately locate his Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Tumblr social media sites.
D’Angelo says, “Jameson is—was—a straight-A student, he had never been arrested or even cited with a traffic violation, and seemed close to his family. His parents are devastated.”
“Tox screen?”