The Racketeer Page 0,72

name. Too bad. I'll take my chances hiding on my own. Westlake begs me to stay with them. My testimony will be crucial at trial, and without it there may be no conviction. I remind him repeatedly that they have a confession, and no federal judge is going to suppress it. I promise I'll show up for the trial. I argue that my life will be safer when only I know where I'm hiding. There are simply too many agents involved in protecting me. Raynor reminds me more than once that the Marshals Service has never lost an informant within its protection, over eight thousand and counting, and I repeatedly remind him someone will be the first casualty. Someone other than me.

The discussion is often heated, but I'm not backing down. And all they can do is argue. They have no authority over me. My sentence was commuted and I'm not on parole. I agreed to testify, and I plan to do so. My agreement with the Marshals Service plainly states that I can leave witness protection anytime I want.

"I'm leaving," I declare and get to my feet. "Will you be so kind as to drive me back to my car?"

No one moves. Raynor asks, "What are your plans?"

"Why would I share my plans with you?"

"What about the condo?"

"I'll leave in a couple of days, then it's all yours."

"So you are leaving the area?" Diana asks.

"I didn't say that. I said I'm leaving the condo." I look at Westlake and say, "And please stop following me. There's a good chance someone is watching you as you watch me. Give me a break here, okay?"

"That's not true, Max."

"You don't know what's true. Just stop following me, okay?"

Of course he does not say yes. His cheeks are red and he's really pissed, but then again this is a man who usually gets his way. I walk to the door, yank it open, and say, "If you won't give me a ride, I'll just walk."

"Take him back," Westlake says.

"Thanks," I say over my shoulder and leave the cottage. The last thing I hear is Raynor calling out, "You're making a big mistake, Max."

I ride in the backseat of the Jeep as the same two agents chauffeur me in silence. In the parking lot outside the gym, I get out and say nothing. They drive away, but I doubt they go far. I get into my little Audi, put the top down and go for a drive along the beach on Highway A1A. I refuse to look in the rearview mirror.

Victor Westlake returned to Washington on a government jet. When he arrived in his office after dark, he was briefed on the news that Judge Sam Stillwater had denied the defense motion to suppress the confession of Quinn Rucker. While no great surprise, it was still a relief. He called Stanley Mumphrey in Roanoke and congratulated him. He did not inform the U.S. Attorney that their star witness was about to leave witness protection and disappear into the night.
Chapter 26
I sleep with a gun, a Beretta 9-millimeter, legally purchased by me and duly licensed by the State of Florida. I haven't fired a weapon in twenty years, since my days as a Marine, and I have no desire to start shooting now. It's resting on the cardboard box that passes as a nightstand beside my bed. Another box on the floor is filled with the possessions I need - my laptop, iPad, some books, a shaving kit, a Ziploc bag filled with cash, a couple of files with personal records, and a prepaid cell phone with unlimited minutes and a Miami area code. A cheap suitcase, one that will fit into the Audi's rather small trunk, is packed with my wardrobe and ready to go. Most of these items - the gun, the cell phone, the suitcase - were purchased recently just in case a quick exit became necessary.

Well, said exit is now at hand. Before dawn, I load the car and wait. I sit on my terrace for the last time, sipping coffee and watching the ocean fade into pink, then orange as the sun peeks over the horizon. I've watched this many times and never grow tired of it. On a clear morning, the perfect sphere rises from the water and says hello, good morning, what another fine day it's going to be.

I'm not sure where I'm headed or where I'll end up, but I plan to be near a beach so