Chapter 20 - The Mud
Outside, the rain had turned into a thick, freezing sleet.
Vance was on his hands and knees in the red mud, frantically sweeping his hands through the wet weeds, searching for his dropped revolver. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his thousand-dollar suit ruined, the smell of burnt leather and singed flesh rising off his chest.
Mark walked down the porch steps, his boots crushing the wet gravel.
Vance froze, looking up. The Mayor’s lips were blue from the cold, his eyes wild with the sudden realization that his money couldn't buy a single second of mercy out here in the woods.
"Mark... listen to me," Vance stammered, backing away on his elbows like a crab. "John... John was the one who suggested Tommy. I swear to God! It was John’s idea! He said Tommy was weak, that he’d crack under federal questioning!"
Mark stopped three feet from him. He didn't draw his gun. He just looked at the man who had run their town for twelve years.
"Where’s the rest of the money, Vance?"
"In... in the truck," Vance gasped, pointing a shaking finger toward the idling red pickup. "Two million in non-sequential hundreds. It’s yours, Mark. Take it. Take the truck, take the girl, leave John to take the fall! Nobody knows you’re out here!"
Mark looked at the truck. The diesel engine hummed steadily in the dark, warm and ready to drive five hundred miles in any direction.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the satellite phone he’d used ten minutes ago, and tossed it into the mud beside Vance’s face.
The screen was glowing with an active, connected call.
"State Police Command Post," a tinny voice spoke from the speaker in the mud. "Trooper Evans here. We have your GPS coordinates, Detective Miller. Tactical unit is four minutes out."
Vance stared at the phone. His jaw dropped. The panic in his eyes turned into a complete, hollow stillness.
May you like
Mark looked down at him. "I didn't send the drive to the Attorney General, Vance. I needed you to say all of that out loud."
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