down. I honk and swerve, weaving in and out of cars and trucks, driving as if I were pursuing a suspect. Like they taught me in the Academy, I keep my hands gripped low on the steering wheel for better control, and my eyes straight ahead.
At the major intersection of Washington and Broad, the light turns yellow. I accelerate—but there’s no way I’m going to make it. I slam the pedal even harder. I pound my horn like a maniac and blast through the red. “Thank you,” I whisper, that I make it past without an accident—lucky for me, all the cops are otherwise occupied and I don’t have to lead them on a high-speed chase to get to Vanessa, because I’m not slowing down for anybody.
Traffic is starting to get heavy again, so I decide to turn off this main road and zip along some side streets as I near the heart of Central City. Not far from here is the Southern Food and Beverage Museum, a kitschy collection of exhibits about a topic dear to my heart. Close by, too, is the famous Leidenheimer Baking Company, makers of bread so addictive, the stuff ought to be a controlled substance.
But Central City is also a neighborhood known for homelessness, blight, and heavy drug use among its residents and transients looking to hook up for a quick score. Not to mention murders and other crimes. Forget locking herself in a gas station bathroom. What was Vanessa doing here in the first place?
I continue zooming along potholed residential roads. Past tumbledown houses and abandoned lots, a blur of poverty and neglect. Finally, I turn onto Claiborne Avenue and keep my eyes open for that rundown gas station. I’m almost there.
I see one, a Shell, but it looks pretty clean and fairly busy.
A block later, I spot another one, a Valero, but it’s also doing brisk business.
Once I cross Felicity, I think I’ve found the place: An old, shabby Gasco.
It looks closed, but whether for the day or for good, I can’t tell. Two cars are parked sloppily in front of it. One is a maroon Jeep Cherokee that has a badly dented bumper. Maybe the vehicle that rammed Vanessa, forcing her off the road?
Then I remember: a maroon Jeep Cherokee drove into that scrapyard last week, to that sleeper cell meeting, when I was tailing Farzat.
I hate coincidences.
And then I see it: Vanessa’s Lexus, turned sideways half a block from the Gasco—that must be where they rammed her, and she escaped on foot.
Jesus Christ.
As I drive closer, four shady-looking guys are at the shabby-looking gas station. Two of them are keeping lookout by the Jeep. Two others are at the restroom door, angrily pounding on it.
None seem dumb enough to have drawn a weapon in broad daylight…but I do see some telltale bulges on their hips.
My own 9mm is still at my side—but this is not the time or place to use it. If I get into a four-on-one, close-range shootout with these guys, I’ll be pumped full of lead in seconds.
I scan the gas station, wracking my brain for possible options, desperate to come up with something to scare these assholes off and free Vanessa.
What can I do?
Then, I get an idea. A risky one.
No, a crazy one.
But it could work. If it doesn’t burn me alive first.
Chapter 59
SWALLOWING MY fear before I choke on it, I turn into the gas station and pull up to a pump. I choose one close to the action.
Before I even shut off my engine, I see the near two men, standing guard, tense up and exchange words. I assume they’re debating how to handle my unexpected arrival.
I rummage through the junk in my center console—paper clips, napkins, sugar packets, a pen, a Bic lighter, loose change, old receipts—and take what I need.
Then I casually exit and turn to the pump. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the men approaching.
My palms are starting to get clammy, but I keep my cool. I remove my wallet and dip a credit card into the slot. I lift and squeeze the nozzle’s handle, starting the flow of fuel, then I flip the little latch that locks it in place.
“Hey,” the man grunts. “Y’all can’t be here. We’re closed.”
“What was that?” I ask with a friendly nonchalance.
And without being too conspicuous, I give the guy a once-over: Caucasian, mid-thirties, shaved head, scraggly black beard, a few missing teeth, his neck a tapestry of