The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [94]
“Any idea where he’s headed?”
“I’m guessing his office . . .”
“Guess again,” O’Shea said as the Toyota made another sharp left at the first traffic light—in the opposite direction of Manning’s office.
Carefully staying at least three cars back, Micah pulled his own quick left just as the Toyota blew past a sign for I-95. “He’s driving fast.”
“Maybe headed for the highway,” O’Shea guessed as the Toyota took off, shrinking in the distance. Calm as ever, Micah stayed tucked behind two minivans and a white Honda, never losing focus on the two heads in the front seat of Wes’s car.
Sure enough, a minute later, the Toyota veered left, following signs for I-95 South and hugging to the curve of the on-ramp at Belvedere Road. But as they merged onto the highway, Micah and O’Shea were surprised to see that Wes wasn’t picking up speed. He was slowing down.
“He’s at fifty-five exactly,” Micah said, checking the speedometer. “Think he’s trying to flush us out?”
Pointing to the nearest exit sign, O’Shea said, “Maybe he’s just headed home.”
“Strike one,” Micah said as the Toyota merged into the middle lane of the highway. “Okeechobee’s the other way.”
“What about the airport?”
“Strike two,” Micah said as Wes’s car chugged past the runways at Southern Boulevard. “Wanna go for a third?”
Falling silent, O’Shea reached outside his window and readjusted his side mirror.
“You got something?”
“Unclear,” O’Shea replied, studying the cars behind him. “Just don’t let him get too far.”
Tucked behind a car carrier filled with SUVs, O’Shea and Micah spent the next twenty minutes trailing Wes’s Toyota as it continued south on 95, past Lake Worth, and Lantana, and Boynton Beach, and Delray . . . cruising past each city, but never going more than sixty miles an hour, never weaving through traffic, never leaving the middle lane. Through the unwashed back window, with cars zipping past them on both sides, Wes and Dreidel sat perfectly still, never panicking or checking over their shoulders. It was almost as if they weren’t in a rush. Or didn’t have a place to—
“Pull up,” O’Shea blurted.
“What’re you—?”
“Let’s go—get up there,” he insisted, patting the dashboard and pointing through the windshield. “Now.”
Micah punched the gas, and O’Shea’s head snapped back, his sandy-blond hair bumping for a half second against the headrest. As their car slid out from behind the car carrier, it didn’t take Micah long to weave across traffic and pull right behind Wes.
For the first time since he got on the highway, Wes merged into the far left lane, speeding up just enough to keep pace with a convertible Mercedes on their right.
With another punch of the gas, Micah tugged the wheel to the left, plowing the car into the poorly paved emergency lane on the inside shoulder of the road. Pebbles, trash, and shards of shattered glass spun under the tires, swirling in the car’s wake. Careful to keep the driver’s side from scraping against the concrete divider, Micah had no trouble catching up to Wes’s Toyota, which was still barely doing sixty.
As they pulled neck and neck, Wes’s window slowly rolled down.
“Careful driving in that lane—it’s illegal!” Rogo shouted from the driver’s seat, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel as the two cars whipped down the highway. The only other occupant was Dreidel, who refused to make eye contact.
“Son of a—”
Ramming the brakes at a sign marked Emergency Vehicles Only, Micah cranked the steering wheel toward the open patch of grass on his left, skidding into a U-turn and heading back the way they came.
At this rate, Wes already had at least an hour head start.
55
Flat on my back underneath a silver Audi, I press my chin to my chest and stare out between the back tires and sagging muffler into the silence of the Palm Beach Post’s parking garage. It’s been nearly fifteen minutes since Rogo and Dreidel pulled out in my Toyota. And nearly fourteen minutes since O’Shea and Micah’s blue Chevy slinked