The Easy Way Out

46

On his way to the bank of elevators in the parking garage, Blake realized that by glancing over his shoulder so frequently he looked suspicious but he couldn't help himself. If Uncle Geo's goons should burst from the shadows, he wanted at least a fighting chance for a head start before they wrestled him to the ground. He'd barely weathered one brutal assault, odds weren't in his favor of surviving another. He took that thought with him as he neared the elevators and chose the stairwell instead. His knees ached but he was damn sure he could run if he had to.

Once he began climbing the stairs to Level C, he heard the distinctive RACK-RACK-RACK of a wheelie suitcase gathering momentum down the concrete steps a few floors above him. He no longer felt the need to check behind him. Stairwells were used almost exclusively by people going down, not up, especially people with luggage.

At the next landing, he met a red-faced man laden with two shoulder bags dragging his wheelie. He squeezed past Blake and exited on Level B.

One more flight. Blake's shirt felt like wet wallpaper on his back. What he wouldn't give for a whisper of breeze.

When the large yellow C painted on the wall greeted him at the next landing, he pulled open the steel door and inspected the garage. He didn't see the red car at first, but when he rounded the bend he found the BMW parked a little further up the ramp. On high alert, he strolled past the car with the remote key in hand, checking to see if anyone was watching the vehicle. He made another pass, this time more deliberately.

Outside, in the back seat of the taxi, Rachel fixed her eyes on the parking garage like an abandoned dog, willing to look past the fact that its owner had tied it to a tree out in the middle of nowhere, faithfully staring for as long as it took, pushing back against the terrible truth.

She felt a momentary lift when a thin guy clutching a canvas bag emerged from the shadows of the garage. When he stuck a cigarette between his lips and looked up, squinting into the white sky, he dashed her hopes. He cupped his hands around the lighter to ignite his cigarette, a cloud of blue smoke obscuring his face.

The voice in the back of her head said, "He's not coming back" and she felt it in her bones. She glanced at the dashboard's digital clock, then back to the garage, anxiety building a nest in her brain.

"Hey," she said to the driver. "Do you mind if I borrow your hat?"

"What?"

"Just for a minute." She shouldered her bag and then opened the rear door of the cab. Reluctantly, he removed his beloved navy blue Coast Brewing ballcap and handed it to her.

"Wait for me, okay?" She pulled the hat onto her head, insurance that he wouldn't drive off without her. "I'll be right back."

When Rachel slipped out of the taxi she noticed a police cruiser approaching. She lowered her head and pushed the door closed, her back to the cops. Jet exhaust and heat waves rising from the white concrete burned her eyes. She waited for the patrol car to drift on by. Despite her mind working furiously and tension tightening her neck, she drew a deep breath and forced calm onto her face as she advanced toward the garage.

Blake hadn't been gone long and he couldn't have gotten far, not weighed down by that heavy bag. Once she found him she knew that she could clear up the misunderstanding and make things right. She hadn't lost control of the situation. She could salvage it. She would sell the story that she'd been scared, too scared to have any idea about what to do but run for her life in a screaming panic. She thought she'd die when she saw those men dragging Blake away, devastated to think that maybe it was the last time she'd ever see him alive. But he'd escaped and come back for her and now they had a second chance. He'd been through hell and understandably trusted no one. Who could blame him? But he was wrong about her and didn't give her a chance to explain. Once she talked him through it, he'd see. They were together again the way they were meant to be. That's all that really mattered.

She'd swear to Blake that she thought Damon was dead but it turned out that he'd played her. She never trusted him from the beginning. He was shady and she should have known that he was up to something, scheming to get his hands on the money. She could make that story work. With the money, she and Blake could start a new life together.

She scurried into the garage and then pushed past a slow-moving couple on the walkway, drawing angry looks. She diverted between two parked vehicles then jogged up the first ramp, headed for the second floor and level B.

No Blake.

She raced around the corner, becoming more frantic with each parked car she passed. A pickup truck drove down the ramp, heading for the exit. She trotted past a dad transferring a cart full of suitcases into the back of a minivan while his wife secured two drowsy kids into their seats.

Up ahead, at the top of the next ramp, she saw a large yellow C painted on the wall beneath a sign that read, WEEKLY PARKING 7-10 DAYS. She broke into a full-out sprint. She rounded the corner, struggling for breath.

No sign of Blake.

She started up the next ramp when her heart seized in her chest. Ten yards ahead on the left sat the red BMW, its trunk lid open.

Numbness began in her face and completely consumed her by the time she reached the car. The trunk was empty except for a golf bag stuffed with clubs. The canvas duffel was gone. The realization blanched her face. She spun on her heels, eyes scanning. She ripped the phone from her pocket and fired off a text: Where are you?

No response.

Tears brimmed in her eyes, her stomach rolled. Clusters of pedestrians with luggage swarmed the garage, their chatter echoing. She studied the sea of faces, none of them Blake's. A wave of nausea rose and fell. She jogged to an exterior wall then peered down at the pavement below where the taxi idled at the curb. Groups of people converged on the terminal building pulling wheelie suitcases, lugging travel bags, and pushing strollers through the heat.

Rachel sprinted into the stairwell, rambling down the steps, stumbling in the process. She shot through the door on the ground floor and raced for the cab. Had she been focused on the moment at hand instead of strategizing two, three, four moves ahead, she would have noticed the expressionless cab driver's peculiar rigidity. By the time it registered, it was too late.

When she opened the taxi's rear door, a thick hairy hand clamped her wrist. Karas lunged from the back seat. She fought to squirm away, going for her Glock when from behind, Pat threw a short, thunderous punch to her kidney. Rachel's head whipped backward, her body contorted like a crash test dummy, the hat tumbling from her head.

He caught her before she hit the pavement. "I always liked you," he said devoid of his usual sarcasm. "Why'd you gotta go do something so damned stupid?" He confiscated her handgun and the bundle of stolen cash from her bag and then tucked them away.

The shiny Lincoln raced up and lurched to a stop, Gizmo at the wheel. Pat yanked the wig from her head, discarded it, then shoved her inside. Karas jumped in beside her in the backseat.

"He's got the money!" she howled. "He's getting away!"

Pat slid in and then slammed the door closed behind them. With Rachel sandwiched between Pat and Karas, the Lincoln roared out of the parking lot.

Shaken, the cabbie cautiously emerged from his taxi to retrieve his ball cap from the sidewalk, praying that he'd never see those faces ever again.