The Hunted

13

Chambers could feel his heart pounding in his ears. This was not mall security. This was trouble. Big trouble. Those instincts he had had in the hospital emergency room kicked in again, and he instantly felt he had to find a way out.

To his immediate right was the flower stand he had passed earlier. It was now his only means of exit. With a store to his left and the men in front of and behind him, there was no other choice. He bolted right, jumping and grabbing on to the post of the ornate display wagon. Under all his weight and momentum, the cart started to tip over. With a huge crash, the potted plants and floral arrangements spilled across the floor behind him, blocking the entire walkway.

Chambers darted down that side of the mall, the two men who were not blocked by the downed cart in close pursuit. They were frantically shouting orders into their radios, no doubt attempting to line up coverage in and around the area in anticipation of their suspect’s next move.

Chambers turned and headed into Dillard’s, suddenly becoming aware of the pulling pain in his thigh. Limping slightly, he moved in an irregular, weaving manner through men’s sportswear, suits, and casual wear. Angles and distance, he told himself, were the most effective ways of eluding a pursuer. But how did he know that?

He fought off a swell of dizziness, then dumped the baseball hat, grabbed a windbreaker off a hanger, and ripped off the tags. After slipping the jacket on in one motion, he moved left toward the exit — and slammed into a man in a suit. They both fell backward, Chambers landing against a display table of jeans, on his left, sutured thigh. He let out a low grunt, then realized he was in trouble as the man parted his suit coat.

Is he reaching for a gun?

Chambers leaned back on the table and fully extended his right leg in a swift uppercut, his tennis shoe connecting hard with the man’s jaw. The man reeled backward, striking his head on a coat rack before crumpling to the floor. Blood oozed immediately from a gash on the left side of his face, where Chambers saw a coiled wire connected to an earpiece that had become dislodged.

Chambers stepped around the fallen man and continued on toward the exit. Nothing at the moment made any sense, but for now all that was protecting him were his instincts.

With his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his windbreaker, Chambers walked briskly toward the cab, which was still waiting at the curb where he had left it. As he approached from behind the first line of parked cars, he noticed that the driver was now wearing a baseball hat. The top two buttons of his pea coat were open, revealing a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar.

And he no longer had a mustache.

Chambers immediately turned right and headed down the next aisle, attempting to lose himself amongst the cars. He was reasonably sure that the driver had not seen him; if he had, he would have radioed his suited buddies, and another car would be waiting for Chambers as he emerged from the aisle.

He turned right again and moved through the lot. A moment later, with apparently no one following him, he reached the edge of the mall’s property. He crossed a small maintenance driveway and headed toward what appeared to be a main street a block away, where a Mobil station occupied the nearest corner. But before he had gotten far, he heard the swerve of tires moving quickly on pavement. He ducked down behind a brick wall that was part of an adjacent building and watched as three dark sedans sped by.

After they had passed, Chambers moved out from the cover of the wall and continued on, crossing the street. He walked quickly, the pain in his leg stinging with each stride. He entered the station’s minimart and caught sight of the very visible video surveillance cameras mounted near the ceiling in the corners of the store. They all appeared to be aimed at the cash register, which is where, he figured, most of the substantial crimes occurred. He grabbed a small bottle of Excedrin off a shelf and sauntered around the shop, pretending to browse. He glanced out the window, scanning the area. He then palmed the bottle and shoved it deep into his pocket.

Chambers headed outside and nonchalantly walked past three of the cars that were parked around the same island. He caught a glimpse of keys in two of them, so he had a choice. A burly man was standing by a Ford Escort, while a young woman was leaning against the back of a Chevrolet Tracker SUV. The decision was easy.

Chambers sauntered up to the Tracker, grabbed the door handle, and yanked it open. He turned the engine over and was shifting into drive when he heard the woman scream. In the side-view mirror, he saw the large Escort owner turn and head toward the SUV. Chambers accelerated hard and swerved out of the station, gasoline spewing into the air as the hose twisted and writhed like a snake.

He entered the interstate and took the Tracker up to sixty-five. There was about a half tank of gas, so for the moment that was not a concern. His priority was putting some distance between himself and those men at the mall, before they could zero in on him. He also knew it would only be a matter of minutes before the state troopers were alerted to the stolen Tracker. The faster he got off the main drag, the better, but only after he could first gain some distance.

He exited at the first opportunity, took the loop around, and headed back onto the interstate in the opposite direction. If anything, those witnesses who had seen him entering west would cause the police to look in that direction. If he was now headed east, it might buy him some time. Time and distance… and soon he would add angles.

Tooling along at the speed limit — he did not want to get caught on a routine moving violation — Chambers reached into his pocket, pulled out the Excedrin bottle, and ripped off the protective plastic wrapping with his teeth. He popped a couple of the tablets into his mouth and dry swallowed them.

After driving for another fifteen minutes, he jughandled off the interstate and found a quiet two-lane switchback that curved abruptly around a hillside. As he negotiated the turns, a hard rain began to slam against the windshield. He searched for the wiper control, a difficult task since the truck’s interior, and the winding road, were both dark.

Chambers turned on the interior lights, quickly bent his head down, and found the wiper switch. When he looked up, another bout of dizziness struck and his vision faded to a hazy gray, like a television tuned to an off channel. He slammed on the brakes and felt the vehicle swerve. The front tires skipped and groaned along the slick, wet asphalt, finally gripping just before the wheels slid off the edge of the roadway.

He knew he would be better off pulling into the next available turnout and resting. But he wanted a little more distance, and the farther he went along this road, the narrower and less traveled it got. He continued on for another few minutes, trying hard to focus and maintain control of the vehicle. Lightheaded, hungry, and tired, he breathed a sigh of relief as he finally spotted a dirt turnout along the embankment. He carefully edged the Tracker off the road and shut the engine. He reclined the seat and glanced at the dashboard clock: it was five minutes after seven. He could rest for an hour or so, drive back toward a populated area, dump the SUV, and hitch a ride.

As he was going over the plan in his mind, he drifted off to sleep.