Stolen Lives: A Detective Mystery Series SuperBoxset (16 page)

Phillip was a man who seldom liked to take chances. In addition to the escape tunnel, he had a boat waiting for him—a small, unassuming fishing boat. He had a guy keeping watch, patrolling the waters, and ready to take off as soon as Phillip resurfaced—a welder named Joe who used to work at the salvage yard. Phillip could very well operate the boat on his own, but he needed someone there and ready in the wait.

Phillip had recruited Joe, like many of the others, at a hefty price. The others—Ed, Dusty, Mike, Chuck, Ken, Dale—were either captured by the feds or dead. Phillip was on his own.

He stopped for a moment, panting. The journey ahead seemed impossible. At thirty-nine, he couldn't move like he used to. Down here in the tunnel, he could barely see straight from exhaustion and dizziness. He dropped his flashlight as its beam paused and flickered and grunted. Awkwardly, he reached into his side pocket and pulled out a handheld radio.

“I'm almost at the end!” he spat into the radio between breaths, clutching it. “You ready yet?”

Nothing came through the speaker but some static and a few crackles. He kept the radio close and held up his flashlight. The end of the tunnel was close. He could feel it. He pushed himself forward, gaining momentum as the tunnel curved slightly to the right. He shined the flashlight ahead, breathing rapidly, and looked ahead as stinging sweat dripped into his eyes.

Twenty feet ahead, there was a crawlspace which led out of the tunnel—an exit hidden within a thick, shaded patch of sawgrass near the riverbank, surrounded by trees. Even if the authorities had found the tunnel and crawled through it, the hatch would be locked and Phillip had the only key dangling around his neck.

He clenched his teeth, dug his elbows in, and pushed himself forward, reaching the escape hatch with barely an ounce of energy left. He climbed up and unlocked the padlock holding it shut. Frantic, he pushed up on the hatch as fresh air blew inside, providing instant relief. Phillip climbed out and fell to the side, rolling onto the grass and looking up into the trees.

Beyond the needled branches of the pine trees, he could see a clear, blue sky above. For a moment, everything seemed peaceful and reassuring in the shade. He pulled his satchel to him and took out his silencer, ready to move. His head pounded from heat exhaustion. His throat was sandpaper dry. He pulled a one-quart canteen from his satchel and downed the entire bit as water ran down his stubbled cheeks.

Feeling better in the fresh air, he spun around, crawled back to the hatch exit, and slammed it shut. He locked it with the same padlock and then crawled to the base of a nearby tree, peeking around in the direction of his cabin. In the distance, he could see a line of federal agents moving through the weeds, combing the area. The rumble of helicopters was getting louder. He had even less time to escape than he had imagined.

Phillip looked inside his satchel just to ensure that his passport and two thousand dollars cash money were still there. It was enough, he hoped, to buy his way out of the country for good. He looked up in a panic upon hearing dogs bark. The K-9s were loose.

He stood up hunched over as the shouts of the feds grew. He held his radio close and spoke. “I'm out now. Meet me at the east bank!” he said with urgency.

A voice finally came over the radio, much to Phillip's relief.
“I'm already there. Hurry up. They got helicopters out now!”
Joe said back.

Phillip wasted no time answering. He sprinted off, zigzag style, through the woods, steadily approaching the riverbank. Even with the helicopters deployed, he wasn't too worried. There were plenty of other boats along the Southern Glade trail, but his small window of escape was narrowly closing.

As he ran alongside palmetto bushes and heavy vines hanging from cypress trees, he felt cautiously optimistic. He reached the riverbank at the edge of the calm, green everglades and headed east where his boat awaited. On the boat were a variety of emergency items: food kits, weapons and ammo, and some disguises for good measure. His boots dug into the ground with each hurried step, and he called into his handheld once again.

“Where the hell are you? I don't see anything.”

“I'm right where I said I am. East bank right over the divider,”
Joe said, referring to a four-foot wired fence separating Phillip's property from the other land.

“Damn it,” Phillip said, frustrated. “They’re right on my tail. Move it up.”

“I’m not moving from here. Hurry up!”
Joe argued back.

Phillip wanted to kill him for the insolence. Maybe he would later. After all, Joe was just a welder. Nothing special. Phillip continued his frantic journey, sloshing along the riverbank, when he stopped dead in his tracks. There was a man standing under a tree, fishing. He looked to be in his fifties, wearing a fisherman's hat, glasses, and a pair of overalls. He turned his head to Phillip and waved.

“Howdy, there.”

Phillip stood frozen, covered in dirt and sweat.

The man lowered his arm slowly as his smile faded. “Everything all right?” he asked, concerned.

Phillip didn't answer. Instead he got right to the point. “You do know this is private property, right?”

The man blinked, confused. “Uh. Not entirely, no. I was just following the bank. You know, I never did care for that fishing port off the state road. This is much better.”

Phillip turned slightly toward the faint barking behind him. The man seemed to take a sudden interest in the approaching noise.

“Hell of a commotion going on over there, don't ya think?” Without waiting for a response, he grabbed his bucket and pole and waved at Phillip. “Sorry I wandered on your property. You have a nice day.”

“Wait!” Phillip said nervously.

Startled, the man turned around.

Phillip approached him immediately with his hand out. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to chase you off. Let me introduce myself.

Phillip suddenly drew his pistol, placed it against the man's forehead, and fired. With a muffled thump, the back of his brains sprayed into the grass. The man collapsed on his back like a rag doll, with a stunned, wide-eyed expression that showed he hadn't seen it coming.

Phillip jammed the barrel back into his jeans pocket, crouched down, and pushed the man's body toward the water's edge. The body rolled into a pond, disturbing calm waters while floating on the surface. The man was covered by enough weeds and lily pads to keep him out of sight for the time being.

The dividing fence was ten short feet ahead. A large cypress tree branch stretched over the water, covered in hanging moss. The boat was directly below it. Ecstatic, Philip ran to the fence and hopped over—awkwardly—but with fervent urgency. The ground was spongy, and the sawgrass went up to his waist. The sound of the helicopters was dangerously close.

“I'm right around the corner. Start the fucking boat!”
he said into the handheld.

“You got it,”
Joe said.

A few yanks on the cord and the engine started—not nearly as loud as Phillip had feared. It had a low hum, noticeable but low-key enough to buy them some time. He ran the rest of the way to the boat, right into the water, splashing everywhere, his clothes soaking wet. The K-9s seemed as though they were right at his heels. Standing in the four-passenger boat, Joe looked down at Phillip and seemed about to make a comment, but then decided against it.

“How about a hand here?” Phillip said with his hand out, waist-deep in swamp water.

With the motor humming, Joe heaved and pulled all two hundred and twenty soggy pounds of Phillip into the boat as it tilted and rocked. As they regained their balance, Joe made his way to the stern. Phillip took at seat up front and told him to gun it.

The boat raced out from its concealed hideout, its bow rising, and traveled further east to where the other fishing boats convened. Waves tossed the boat up and then down into a shallow trough as an unexpectedly strong breeze, beat against their faces. The sound of both the K-9s and the helicopters grew fainter. To Phillip, it began to feel as though they might actually make it.

“Where are the others?” Joe called out, his hand on the tiller steering the boat toward the other fishers.

Not answering, Phillip felt his mood lift with relief. They'd blend in soon enough. Joe asked the question again, louder. Phillip grimaced. “Oh,” he said. “Feds got ’em.”

“Dead or captured?”

Phillip shrugged. “Dead, I think. A lot was going on. It was an ambush.”

“You should keep better track of your people,” Joe said. The wind pushed his bushy beard to the side. The ends of the blue bandana tied around his head flapped in the breeze, making a soft tapping sound. His skin was tan and reddened as though he had been on the boat all day.

Phillip narrowed his eyes. “I'm not in the mood.”

They sped past the first two boats, approaching others, Joe looking for a spot where they could fit in without intruding. There were no police in sight. The river, it seemed, was theirs. The plan was to head south toward Manatee Bay and then hit Key Largo. From Key Largo, it was to the airport and then—refuge. Joe, however, seemed intent on souring the mood.

“You know, Phillip, you talked a big game about taking care of us boys. You talked about helping us pay our bills. Making us rich and all that jazz. Now look. Everyone's dead, 'cept me and you. What are we gonna do? Take off to Key West together? Sip margaritas on the beach?”

Phillip leaned forward, sneering at his snarky underling. “Why don't you shut your trap, Joe?” He leaned against the front railing of the boat and crossed his arms. “That is, if you know what's good for ya?”

Suddenly, Joe slowed the boat. Its engine downshifted as waves smacked the side. Phillip looked around, confused.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Not saying a word, Joe stood up as the boat drifted, unmanned. Phillip looked around nervously at the attention they were getting from the other fisherman in the channel.

“Now’s not the time,” he said, seething.

Joe reached into his pocket and pulled out a remote control, the size of a brick. “That's where you're wrong,” he said to Phillip. “The timing is perfect. Been waiting for this moment for a while now.”

Phillip pointed his gun at Joe. “Drive the boat, Joe, or I'll shoot you right in the gut.” He leaned forward, taunting him with the gun. “You ever been shot in the gut before, Joe? It's about the most painful area to be shot in other than yer dick. Now drive.”

They continued to drift, aimless, as Joe furrowed his brow and stared at Phillip, unwavering. “Your older brother was a good man.”

“Yeah?” Phillip said, as though it was common knowledge.

“And we were good friends. Some might even say best friends.”

“Okay?” Phillip said with a shrug. His pistol remained aimed but he was hesitant to make a scene and draw more attention. On top of everything else, the familiar helicopter sound rumbled through the air.

“I know you had it in for Greg. We all did. So when Greg came up dead in some car accident, I didn't doubt your involvement for one second.”

Phillip stood up, infuriated. “
Are you out of your mind?
We're about to get locked up for the rest of our lives and you're moaning on about the past.” He took a step forward and sat on the middle bench.

“I didn't come out here to help you, Phillip. I signed up to even the score.” He raised the controller in his hand. “I got about twenty pounds of explosives right under your seat.”

Phillip's eyes darted toward the decking in a second.

“So who's in charge of now?” Joe yelled.

Phillip calmly took a step back, taking his aim off Joe. “Okay. I get it. Greg was your friend. Well, he was my brother. And I loved him. And for you to even suggest—”

“You killed him!” Joe shouted. “His wife and his kids—”

Thrump! Thrump!
Phillip shot two holes into Joe's chest without a moment’s further hesitation. Joe seized up, clutched the controller, and stumbled back. The second he fell over the railing, Phillip could see his chubby digits going for the button on the controller.

Phillip spun around, placed one foot on the front of the boat, and leapt off just as a loud explosion blew against his eardrums, followed by a searing heat engulfing him in flames.

Breathe

Miriam lay on the ground after being shot in the chest by two slugs from a silenced Glock 9mm. Her bulletproof vest absorbed most of the shock, but the impact had launched her against the wall and onto the floor, where she lay gasping. Her head had smacked against the cold pavement. One intense, brief flash, followed by the gradual loss of consciousness and then Detective Lou’s muffled voice calling to her as he shook her in his arms.

“Miriam, come back!”

Footsteps hammered down the stairs leading to the basement, many more lawmen than before. Lou swung Miriam onto the bed and eased her down. Her eyes flickered open as blurred faces surrounded her.

“Where is he?” Detective Clark shouted as newly arrived police officers poured into the basement. “Search the room. He couldn’t have gotten far.”

“We’ve got an officer down,” Lou said, turning to face them. “Need immediate medevac.” It was the last thing she remembered before everything went black.

Several agents dispersed throughout the basement, tearing it apart for signs of Phillip. They tossed chairs. They pushed over a bookcase. They moved aside box after box underneath the staircase. They felt along the walls. They searched every last inch of the basement, coming up short—save for two empty 9mm shells.

Clark tended the unconscious and badly beaten girl on the bed, presumed to be Miriam’s daughter, Ana.

“What’s her condition?” Lou asked.

Clark felt her pulse and put his ear close to her face. “She’s breathing,” he answered. “Has a steady pulse.” He then pointed at Miriam as she lay back, knocked out, with a nasty cut on her forehead. “What the hell happened to her?”

“She’s been shot,” Lou said, surprised that Clark would even ask. There were two holes in her shirt—one in the stomach and one by her upper rib—but no blood. Lou lifted her black overshirt, exposing a bulletproof vest. “Thank God,” he said. Her vest was torn and punctured, but it had done its job.