The Book of Fate

54

Y’know there is a back entrance,” Micah pointed out, tucked into a Compacts Only parking spot and checking his rearview mirror for the third time in the last minute. Diagonally behind them in the parking garage, Wes’s empty Toyota hadn’t moved. “I can take a quick look and—”

“No need,” O’Shea said from the passenger seat, his elbow perched on the edge of the car’s open window as he worked the morning’s crossword. “This is Florida — he’s not going anywhere without his car.”

“Unless he takes someone else’s. Remember that woman in Syria?”

“Syria was different. We needed her to run.”

“Why? So you had a good excuse to bring her in?”

“She would’ve killed you, Micah. You know that.”

“I was luring her in.”

“That’s your interpretation,” O’Shea shot back. “But if you try anything as hotheaded as Syria, I promise you right now, I’ll be the one putting the gun to your head.” Refusing to look up from the crossword, O’Shea pointed over his own shoulder with the back of his pen. “See that junk shop Subaru diagonally down at the bottom there… with the Grateful Dead stickers? We saw it last night. That’s Lisbeth’s. The one up here is Wes’s. Rogo’s is still in the shop. No one’s going anywhere.”

Unconvinced, Micah checked his rearview for the fourth time, then glanced over at O’Shea’s elbow resting in the open window. “You should close that up,” he said, motioning to the window. “In case he comes…”

“Micah, it’s seventy-two degrees here. In December. You know how cold it was in France? Let me enjoy the damn warmth.”

“But Wes could—”

“It’s under control.”

“Yeah, just like this,” Micah said, jabbing a finger at the photo of Nico on the front page of the newspaper that wilted across the armrest between them.

“What, you still think that was The Roman?” O’Shea asked.

“How could it not be? Boyle gets spotted… Nico gets out… hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

O’Shea nodded, finally looking up from the crossword. “But if he used Wes’s name to get in…”

“I’m just glad you got it purged from the official report. If that went out, the whole world would’ve swarmed Wes’s front steps, and we’d’ve lost our best—”

“Tsssttt!” O’Shea hissed, cutting Micah off. Behind them, a familiar voice echoed off the walls of the garage.

“—e should still call the office,” Wes said as Dreidel followed him up the concrete incline.

“Why, just to panic them?” Dreidel asked.

Studying their respective side mirrors, O’Shea and Micah watched the scene unfold diagonally behind them. From their spot in the garage, they had a perfect view of the passenger side of Wes’s Toyota. And it didn’t take anything more than that to notice Rogo was missing.

“Where’s the fat kid?” Micah whispered.

“Hitting on the girl?” O’Shea guessed.

Just as Wes stepped around to the driver’s-side door and opened the locks, his car keys slipped from his hand. Spinning to catch them, he twisted toward Micah and O’Shea, who didn’t flinch. From their angle in the garage, they were near impossible to spot.

There was a loud clink as the keys hit the pavement. For a fraction of a second, O’Shea saw Wes’s glance turn toward him. O’Shea still didn’t move. No way was Wes that good.

“What’s wrong?” Dreidel called out to his friend.

O’Shea stared in his passenger-side mirror and stood his ground. Next to him, watching his own rearview, Micah did the same. They’d been at this too long to panic.

“You hear something?” Wes asked.

“Don’t get paranoid,” Dreidel warned.

In the edge of his mirror, O’Shea could see the outline of the back of Wes’s head as he turned to his Toyota, picked his keys up off the ground, and slid into the car.

“No, you’re right,” Wes replied.

Within seconds, the Toyota’s engine grumbled to life and its wheels screeched against the concrete.

Following years of training, Micah waited before going for the ignition. At least until they heard the metallic thunk of Wes’s Toyota cresting over the speed bump just outside the garage.

By the time Micah and O’Shea reached the speed bump, Wes’s Toyota was pulling into traffic, making a sharp left back onto South Dixie.

“Any idea where he’s headed?”

“I’m guessing his office…”

“Guess again,” O’Shea said as the Toyota made another sharp left at the first traffic light — in the opposite direction of Manning’s office.

Carefully staying at least three cars back, Micah pulled his own quick left just as the Toyota blew past a sign for I-95. “He’s driving fast.”

“Maybe headed for the highway,” O’Shea guessed as the Toyota took off, shrinking in the distance. Calm as ever, Micah stayed tucked behind two minivans and a white Honda, never losing focus on the two heads in the front seat of Wes’s car.

Sure enough, a minute later, the Toyota veered left, following signs for I-95 South and hugging to the curve of the on-ramp at Belvedere Road. But as they merged onto the highway, Micah and O’Shea were surprised to see that Wes wasn’t picking up speed. He was slowing down.

“He’s at fifty-five exactly,” Micah said, checking the speedometer. “Think he’s trying to flush us out?”

Pointing to the nearest exit sign, O’Shea said, “Maybe he’s just headed home.”

“Strike one,” Micah said as the Toyota merged into the middle lane of the highway. “Okeechobee’s the other way.”

“What about the airport?”

“Strike two,” Micah said as Wes’s car chugged past the runways at Southern Boulevard. “Wanna go for a third?”

Falling silent, O’Shea reached outside his window and readjusted his side mirror.

“You got something?”

“Unclear,” O’Shea replied, studying the cars behind him. “Just don’t let him get too far.”

Tucked behind a car carrier filled with SUVs, O’Shea and Micah spent the next twenty minutes trailing Wes’s Toyota as it continued south on 95, past Lake Worth, and Lantana, and Boynton Beach, and Delray… cruising past each city, but never going more than sixty miles an hour, never weaving through traffic, never leaving the middle lane. Through the unwashed back window, with cars zipping past them on both sides, Wes and Dreidel sat perfectly still, never panicking or checking over their shoulders. It was almost as if they weren’t in a rush. Or didn’t have a place to—

“Pull up,” O’Shea blurted.

“What’re you—?”

“Let’s go — get up there,” he insisted, patting the dashboard and pointing through the windshield. “Now.”

Micah punched the gas, and O’Shea’s head snapped back, his sandy-blond hair bumping for a half second against the headrest. As their car slid out from behind the car carrier, it didn’t take Micah long to weave across traffic and pull right behind Wes.

For the first time since he got on the highway, Wes merged into the far left lane, speeding up just enough to keep pace with a convertible Mercedes on their right.

With another punch of the gas, Micah tugged the wheel to the left, plowing the car into the poorly paved emergency lane on the inside shoulder of the road. Pebbles, trash, and shards of shattered glass spun under the tires, swirling in the car’s wake. Careful to keep the driver’s side from scraping against the concrete divider, Micah had no trouble catching up to Wes’s Toyota, which was still barely doing sixty.

As they pulled neck and neck, Wes’s window slowly rolled down.

“Careful driving in that lane — it’s illegal!” Rogo shouted from the driver’s seat, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel as the two cars whipped down the highway. The only other occupant was Dreidel, who refused to make eye contact.

“Son of a—”

Ramming the brakes at a sign marked Emergency Vehicles Only, Micah cranked the steering wheel toward the open patch of grass on his left, skidding into a U-turn and heading back the way they came.

At this rate, Wes already had at least an hour head start.