Foreign Influence_ A Thriller - Brad Thor [38]
It was almost as if the Pakistani man could read his mind. With his eyes still glued to Vaughan, he sucked in a huge breath of air and took off once again.
He had only made it three steps when he stepped off the curb into the area where the alley met the street and Paul Davidson hit him with his Bronco.
The mechanic tumbled across the ground like a human lint roller, picking up shards of glass and loose gravel as he went. It wasn’t the worst road rash ever suffered by man, but for a guy that hadn’t been pitched off a bike or a motorcycle, it was pretty impressive.
By the time Vaughan reached them, Davidson had already leapt out of his truck and had the suspect’s arms pinned behind his back.
“They teach you that move in Public Vehicles?” asked Vaughan as he leaned against the building at the mouth of the alley and tried to catch his breath.
“My doctor says I shouldn’t exert myself,” replied Davidson as he snapped a pair of cuffs on the mechanic and yanked him to his feet.
“I am in pain,” complained the Pakistani.
“The party is just starting, my friend,” said Davidson as he led him into the alley and propped him up behind his truck.
His breathing slowly coming back under control, Vaughan walked back and joined them.
“I told you not to run.”
“I am sorry, sir,” replied the mechanic.
“It’s a little late for that.”
“Please, sir, I cannot go to the jail.”
Davidson laughed. “Oh, yes you can, my friend. And it is not a happy place.”
The Pakistani looked away from him and for some reason seemed to decide that Vaughan was the more rational and reasonable of the pair and focused on him. “Sir, please, no jail.”
“You should have thought of that before you started running.”
“Actually,” injected Davidson, “you should have thought of that before you started playing with cab medallions like they were refrigerator magnets.”
“I can pay you,” said the man. “I have money. Please.”
“Don’t do that,” said Vaughan. “Bribing a police officer is a very serious offense, and you are already in enough trouble as it is. What’s your name?”
“Javed Miraj.”
Davidson removed his notebook and wrote the man’s name down.
“Where do you live?”
The man answered and, after a few more questions about his background, Vaughan asked, “Why did you run?”
“I told you, sir,” said Miraj, “I do not wish to go to the jail.”
“I got that part. What I want to know is why you ran?”
The mechanic was quiet for several moments before responding. “If I go to the jail, I will be sent back to Pakistan.”
“You’re illegal.”
Javed Miraj hung his head and nodded.
Vaughan whistled. “Not good, Javed. Not good at all, my friend.”
“Unless you can convince a judge you’re from Mexico, you’re definitely going to be on the next plane out of here. Can you habla Español?”
Miraj looked up at Davidson and then turned his tearful eyes to Vaughan. “Please, sir. There are no jobs in my village in Pakistan. I send money to my family so they can buy food. If you send me home, we will all starve.”
“But look at it this way,” replied Davidson, placing an arm around his shoulder and steering him toward the passenger door. “At least you’ll all be together.”
“No,” implored the mechanic. “Please, sir, no. Do not send me back.”
“There’s nothing we can do. We have to follow the law. Besides, you should see what you did to the hood of my Bronco.”
“I can fix your Bronco, sir.”
“Wait a second,” said Vaughan, who had figured out Davidson’s plan B the moment he stepped out of the Crescent office waving a pair of handcuffs at the mechanic. “Maybe there is something we can do. Maybe, if Mr. Miraj can help us, we can help him.”
“Javed can’t help us. He’s going back to Pakistan.”
Vaughan looked at the man and shrugged. “Sorry, Javed.”
Miraj hung his head as Davidson opened the passenger door of his Bronco. Just as Davidson was about to place him inside, he took a deep