Road Rules Online

Agent Scalzi drove Kennedy, Estevez, and Jordan out to the WSVN studios.  In the sheriff’s cruiser behind them sat Mason and Luis Contreras.  Even through the tinted windows of Scalzi’s government-issue Ford, Estevez could turn around and see Mason squirm in the back of the cruiser.  Luis sat there like a statue, never moving.

They rolled into the parking lot and came to a stop where the station had cleared an area.  Three remote cameras with lights had been set up, ringing the space.

Kennedy got out of the car and waited for the deputies to escort the cuffed Contreras and Mason over to them.  She pointed at Mason.  “You.  Keep your mouth shut until spoken to.  Got it?  You’re going to make sure it’s Myron Blake getting out of that car.”  To Luis, she said, “You’re going to tell your story to me, to Lieutenant Estevez, and to the Bishop Hewson himself.  And it’d better be a riveting tale.”

“It is, I assure you,” said Luis.

They watched as a black Town Car entered the lot.  When it stopped, a wizened old man in the white habit of a priest climbed out and walked over to them.

Kennedy bowed her head.  “Your Eminence…”

***

The sign called the place The Newcastle and billed it as an English pub.  Funny, Mike thought, but he didn’t hear a single English accent inside.  He pushed his way to the bar and asked to see either the owner or the manager.

A thick man with thick arms and a thick mustache came out from an office behind the bar.  “What can I do for you?”

“I’m not sure if you can help,” said Mike.  He reached into his wallet and pulled out five twenties.  “There’s a C note in it if you can, though.”

The thick man smiled and took the proffered bills.  “I’m sure we can work something out.  What’d you have in mind?”

***

The shoulder still throbbed, but Vicodin worked wonders for Stan.  The stitches in his cheek, however, itched.  He sat in the back of a sheriff’s car headed into town.  “So what are we doing again?”

“Apparently,” said the deputy, “the FBI wants all the players at the hand-off so they can question all of you on site.”

Stan frowned.  “Good luck getting Franco there.”

“We’ll dredge the river for him tomorrow,” said the deputy.

For the first time that day, Stan could laugh.  Why shouldn’t he?  His worst nightmare lay at the bottom of the Savannah River.

***

Nobody paid Julian Franco any mind as he slipped out a service entrance behind the Westin.  He wore a flannel shirt and jeans.  The limp might tag him, but there was nothing he could do about that.  Felix rolled up in a green Dodge Ram.

“Ready, chief?” he said, opening the door.

“Ready.”  Franco hopped into the truck.  “You know where this place is?”

“Yeah.”  Felix leaned over and opened the glove box.  A .45 Smith & Wesson lay inside.  Felix reached down beneath his seat and came up with two clips.  “You’ll need these.”

Franco took one clip and pocketed it.  The other he slid into the gun.  “Who we looking for again?”

Felix had it all.  From above the visor, he pulled down two photocopies and handed them to Franco.  “The one of the girl is a little dated, but Blake, from what I learned, hasn’t aged much.”

He smiled at the girl.  “I ought to ride her once or twice before I kill her.”  He looked at Blake’s picture and scowled.  “Let’s go.”