Chapter 9 - THE TRAP SLAMS SHUT
Tuesday morning arrived under a thick blanket of gray coastal fog that hung low over the highways of San Diego.
At seven o'clock sharp, a heavy, armored white transport van belonging to the Federal Bureau of Prisons pulled out of the underground garage of the Metropolitan Correctional Center. Inside the rear steel compartment, sitting alone on a cold iron bench with heavy chains binding his wrists, waist, and ankles, was Christian Reynolds.
His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His palms were slick with nervous sweat.
For the past four days, Christian had been living for this exact moment. Frank’s contact inside the prison had passed him a hidden note during breakfast, confirming the plan: during the transport along Highway 5, a dark SUV would block the transport van at an intersection near the harbor, disarm the drivers, and spring Christian free. From there, he would be handed a fake passport, his two million dollars in bearer bonds, and a ticket out of the country.
I’m going to make it, Christian repeated frantically in his mind, squeezing his eyes shut as the van bounced over the asphalt. Charlotte thought she won. She thought she ruined me! But I’m going to escape, take my two million, and start over in South America!
The transport van slowed down, making a sharp right turn near the industrial shipping docks along San Diego Bay.
Suddenly, the van slammed on its brakes!
SCREECH!
The heavy tires skidded against the wet pavement. Inside the rear compartment, Christian was thrown forward against the steel partition, his chains rattling loudly.
Shouting erupted from the front cab!
"Driver! Pull over! We have a vehicle blocking the road!" a guard yelled.
"What is that SUV doing?!" another guard shouted.
Outside, a heavy black SUV swung sideways across the narrow harbor street, completely blocking the transport van's path. Christian’s chest swelled with wild, intoxicating euphoria. Frank’s men! They actually did it! They’re stopping the van!
The rear steel doors of the transport van were violently unlatched from the outside.
CLANG!
The heavy doors swung wide open, exposing the cool morning air and thick white fog.
Christian scrambled forward on his knees, his face flushed with ecstatic triumph. "Quick! Cut my chains! Give me the keys! Let’s go!"
He burst through the rear doors, throwing his chained hands into the air as he leapt out onto the pavement—
And froze.
Standing in a wide circle around the transport van were not armed thugs or illegal smugglers.
Standing in perfect formation were twenty heavily armed federal tactical officers from the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, their heavy rifles raised and pointed directly at Christian’s chest. Red laser sights danced across his orange jumpsuit.
Parked right behind the tactical line was a sleek, blacked-out Cadillac Escalade.
The rear window of the Cadillac rolled down smoothly. Sitting in the back seat, sipping an espresso from a porcelain cup, was me. Beside me sat the Chief of the Federal Bureau of Prisons and the Director of the FBI’s San Diego Field Office.
Christian’s jaw hung open in absolute, paralyzed horror. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto his knees on the wet asphalt, his chains clinking loudly against the ground.
"Looking for this, Christian?" I asked smoothly through the open window.
I held up a small, polished brass key attached to a velvet tag—the safety deposit box key he had hidden behind the baseboard in my old apartment kitchen. Standing beside my car was a federal agent holding a steel briefcase packed with two million dollars in freshly seized bearer bonds.
"No... no... no..." Christian whimpered, his voice dropping into a pathetic, high-pitched squeak. "Frank... Frank promised..."
"Frank works for Prescott Global, Christian," I said, stepping out of the Escalade, my designer trench coat fluttering softly in the sea breeze. I walked toward him, stopping just outside the tactical perimeter.
"You thought you were a mastermind," I said, looking down at the broken man kneeling at my feet. "You thought you could manipulate people, trick women, steal money, and run away without consequences. But you were never a player, Christian. You were just a piece on my board."
The FBI Director stepped forward, pulling a heavy set of maximum-security leg irons from his belt.
"Christian Reynolds," the Director announced loudly, his voice echoing over the quiet harbor. "In addition to your previous federal charges, you are now under arrest for attempted prison escape, bribery of federal personnel, and illegal asset concealment."
The Director looked down at Christian with utter contempt.
"Attempting to escape a federal transport carries an automatic mandatory minimum sentence of twenty additional years in a maximum-security facility—without the possibility of parole."
Christian let out a blood-curdling, desperate scream of pure anguish, thrashing on the cold pavement like a dying insect as the tactical officers tackled him to the ground, pinning his arms behind his back and snapping the heavy iron lock over his wrists.
"CHARLOTTE! CHARLOTTE, PLEASE!" Christian wailed, his face pressed flat against the wet, dirty asphalt, tears and dirt smearing across his cheeks. "KILL ME! JUST KILL ME! DON'T SEND ME THERE! PLEASE!"
May you like
I didn't answer him. I didn't insult him. I didn't show anger.
I simply turned my back on his pathetic wails, climbed into the warm leather back seat of my Escalade, and closed the bulletproof door, shutting out his screams forever.
