No Time To Run (Legal Thriller Featuring Michael Collins, Book 1) (38 page)

A man on the sidewalk began to cross in front of them.

Michael turned toward Krane.

“Well, you know your kids better than – ”

The windshield shattered and glass sprayed the interior of the car. Michael pressed down on the gas pedal as far as it would go. It was instinct. The BMW’s engine roared as the RPM needle hit red, but they didn’t move. The car was still in neutral.

Another shot, Michael looked at Krane and screamed, but nothing came out. Krane’s head was half gone. A third shot into the chest and Krane’s body jolted forward.

The thin figure outside the car moved quickly from the front to the side. A fourth shot was fired into the passenger side window as a hand reached in to unlock the door and grab Krane’s briefcase. That was when Michael felt a searing pain and wetness on his neck. He realized that he’d been shot, and then nothing.

Four days later, Michael woke up in a hospital. Another week, and his discharge nurse handed him a garbage bag filled with the clothes that he was wearing on the night of the incident. The envelope was still in the suit jacket’s breast pocket. The police and the FBI never looked.

Michael sat straight up in bed. His sheets and pillow were drenched with sweat.

“
Michael?”

“
It’s fine.” His heart still pounding. “Go back to sleep. It’s nothing.”

Andie rolled over, and fell back asleep.

Michael got out of the bed, and found his boxers and shorts on the floor near the door. He slipped them on, and then stepped outside.

Cool, salty air came off the Caribbean water, and Michael tried to take as much of that air in as he could.

He walked through the other guest huts, toward the beach. A series of thatch umbrellas dotted the shoreline, and Michael walked to the small hut at the end of the line. Inside, there was a cooler stocked with beer.

He grabbed a Corona and opened it, then he took a lemon, sliced out a wedge and squeezed it into the bottle’s neck. With his thumb over the opening, he slowly tipped the bottle upside down and watched as the wedge floated upward.

Michael took a drink, and then walked out to the Point that jutted a hundred yards into the small bay. He took another deep breath, sat down, and stared back at the shoreline.

Hut No. 7 sat among a dozen others. It was basic shelter, but it was his.

Michael finished his beer and walked back. Instead of going directly to his hut, Michael walked to the Sunset’s cantina and main office.

He stepped up onto the empty deck, and then into the bar. The alcohol was safely under lock and key, but everything else was open.

Michael walked into the lobby, around the front desk, and finally into the back office. He turned on Andie’s computer, and waited for everything to power up and log on to the internet.

Michael clicked, and finally got to the appropriate screen. He typed in his password, and checked his email. There were three messages. The first one was from Tammy Duckstein. He clicked and a small window opened:

Michael, hope you’re doing well. I still want to talk to you about the financial reports. Internal investigation is coming up with a lot of connections to Guardian Security. Dwight K
e
iffer pled, and has agreed to testify against the agents and Patty Bernice. Vatch is still after the money. Do you think Patty took it?

It was late, and Michael decided that he would respond some other time or maybe never. The past was the past. He clicked, and another message flashed on his screen.

Ms. Andie Larone has accepted the offer of Highland Investors, Inc. for 50% of the shares in the Sunset. I signed the partnership agreement as secretary and treasurer of Highland Investors, and I have forwarded a copy of the partnership agreement to your address. Your anonymity has been maintained. Please let me know if there is anything else I can do for you. This transaction should be reflected in your account’s current balance.

Sincerely,

Art Mittesonne

Account Services, First Swiss

Michael clicked on the third and final message. It was from Kermit Guillardo.

Yo man, thanks for the loan. Hanging in Amsterdam and helping the grieving widow. Val says howdy-doody. The numbers are aligned and in balance. Later, bro-ha, be back in a month. –K

Michael minimized the e-mails and pulled up the home page for Rutthanson Bank of Bern. He typed in his account information and password. A few seconds went by as the bank verified the information, and then a menu appeared. Michael chose English as one of the language options. The screen refreshed, and he clicked the button for current balance.

A new screen appeared, and he scrolled down to the bottom.

AVAILABLE BALANCE: $473,152,915.19

His hand moved the mouse, again, ready to click and shut the computer down. Then, he paused.

He looked at the account balance, and then Michael clicked on Kermit’s email. He looked back at his account balance, and started to laugh.

Numeric equilibrium had been achieved:

(4(7+3)-15)2) + ((9+1)-5)(1+9)) = 100

AN EXCERPT OF

NO TIME TO DIE

Another Michael Collins Legal Thriller

CHAPTER ONE

The big man hated the trailers. His employer owned these six as well as another two dozen scattered throughout Collier County. Located on the edge of
the
fields, the trailers were always dirty. They were always crowded, and they smelled raw.

He knocked on the cheap metal door. It rattled, but there were no other sounds. “Time for work.” He knocked on the door, again, but louder this time. “You’re three hundred in the hole, and causing problems for the boss.”

No response.

The big man looked behind him. A driver waited. The driver’s pick-up truck was full of workers. The workers needed to be in the fields and picking by seven. He checked his watch.

“
Go.” The big man directed the truck to leave.

After the truck disappeared—dust clouding behind it— the big man noticed an aluminum baseball bat on the ground
,
underneath a couple of wild shrubs.

A random aluminum bat would be better than his own night-stick or his gun.
L
ess traceable
, he thought.

The big man pulled a pair of thin, disposable rubber gloves out of his pocket. He slipped them on, and
then
knelt beside the shrubs. He pushed
to the side
a few rusting Tecate
beer
cans and an empty fast food container and picked up the bat.

He walked back to the door, got out his master key, and then opened it.

Inside, there was only one person still in the trailer, although there were a dozen other empty mattresses on the crowded floor.

He walked across the room.

The big man stood over a lump inside a thin sleeping bag. He nudged it with the toe of his boot.

No movement.

“
Get up.” He nudged harder.

A little groan. “I’m sick.” The voice coming from the sleeping bag was soft.

“
You owe us too much money to be sick.”

“
Can’t work today.” The lump in the sleeping bag didn’t move.

“
We been over this.”

“
No work today.” The lump still didn’t move.

“
I’m telling you to work.” The big man adjusted his grip on the bat. “You gotta work or you gotta go.”

The big man took a step back. He thought for a moment, but the call had already been made. It was a simple cost-benefit analysis. There were lots of workers who wanted to find wealth in America. Sick days and paid vacations weren’t part of the deal. And this one, well, this one was a pain in the ass. He was giving the other migrants ideas. Ideas were never good.

It was time to solve a problem.

He raised the bat over his head and brought it down hard. The lump coiled and tried to roll, but the bat came down again.

The lump in the sleeping bag tried to get up.

Then once more, the bat came down. This time it came down square, cracking the skull. Everything stopped. Then h
e h
it
it
again, just to be sure.

The big man stepped back. He was breathing hard
.
A bead of sweat rolled down from beneath his hat
as h
is heart-rate kept going
. H
e couldn’t
seem to
catch his breath
even though it had all taken less than a minute
.

The trailer’s air was too thick.

The big man took a
nother
couple steps back. He leaned over and put his head between his knees, a breath and an exhale, then another, and then another. His heart
rate
slowed, and he finally calme
d down
.

He needed to finish the job.

The big man stood up. He looked around th
e
tiny trailer.

His employer charged workers $250 per month in rent to live there. He looked at the floor strewn with mattresses, dirty clothes and garbage.  He looked at the plastic bucket in the corner that served as the unit’s only toilet, which his employer charged each worker $10 per month to use. Then he looked at the lifeless lump in the sleeping bag.

Some blood began to seep out. It pooled on the floor.

There would be more questions about this one. He supposedly had a lawyer. Lawyers were never good. The big man hated lawyers even more than he hated the trailers.

“
What a mess.”

CHAPTER TWO

Kermit Guillardo was too close when he spoke. “You gotta go, mi amigo.” His ratted beard tickled Michael’s cheek.

Michael felt it. He turned and opened his eyes. He brought Kermit’s face into focus, but didn’t want to. It was an involuntary act.

Michael’s preference would have been for the world to remain dark and blurred.

His mouth was dry
, and his
body ached. The night before came back to him in pieces. It was an evening of tequila and dancing with the other misfits who resided at the Sunset Resort & Hostel, a series of run-down huts about a mile down the road from the
mega-resorts of Playa del Carmen and
Cancun. Michael could complain, but he wouldn’t. The pain was self-inflicted.

He looked at Kermit, just a few inches away from him. Michae
l
cycled through his memor
ies
.

No matter how hard he tried, those memories did not explain the present. “What are you doing in my bed?” Michael moved away. “And I hope you have some clothes on.”

Kermit’s eyes got wide, and then narrowed. “I love ya’, but I ain’t lovin’ ya, man.” Kermit nodded, agreeing with himself. “The airplane shoots to the sky in just a few ticks of the clock, mi amigo.”

Kermit sat up, pulled the sheet off of Michael, and then sprung out of the bed. “You gotta pack.” Kermit clapped his hands a few times. The sound rang in Michael’s head. “A whole bunch of kiddos and their momma are depending on u
s
to find their daddy.”

Michael didn’t respond. A dozen tiny screws inched their way into the deeper portions of his brain. It was a feeling that was all too familiar. “What are you talking about?”

“
You promised.” Kermit put his hands on his hips. “We were all there and heard you promise.”

“
When?”

“
Last night.” Kermit’s head bobbled back and forth
; h
is graying dreadlocks dangled on either side. “A promise is a promise, especially when we're talking about our little Pace.” Pace was a local boy who was also the star of Michael’s soccer team. He hung around the resort so much that Michael had started giving him odd jobs and paying him a little money.

“
I don’t know anything about that.” Michael put his feet on the floor, and then stood. Easy does it.

He walked over to his dresser, opened a sticky drawer, and removed some clothes.

Michael put on a pair of shorts and a fresh shirt. He slid the drawer shut. “Why would I get on a plane to find Pace’s dad?”

“
For two reasons.” Kermit tapped his foot, getting agitated. “Numero uno is that you promised—”

“
And a promise is a promise,” Michael said. “I heard that before.”

“
And, numero dos,” Kermit continued, “is that you’ve been driving everybody around here crazy for the past few months.  You need to get outta here.”

“
I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” Michael walked into the tiny bathroom in Hut No.7. He turned on the faucet. Pipes rattled, and then water sputtered out of the faucet and into the sink.