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  The car, of course, hadn't been there.

  Maybe he'd been screwed by his contacts – which wasn't unheard of in prison commerce. Or maybe some punks just happened by, noticed the unlocked and unattended vehicle, and stole his wheels. Either way, he couldn't go back to his helpers. If it was a screw job, they couldn't be trusted. If something had gone wrong – well, too bad, so sad: it wasn't their fault. The deal was that Isaac would never make contact with them once he was on the outside. Nobody liked to be extorted twice.

  With no wheels, he'd ended up running almost two miles, nonstop, to the Miami River. Had he known the guards at TGK were going to take so long to discover that he was missing, he might have driven the stolen boat all the way to the Bahamas. He wasn't a boater, however, and the prospect of crossing the Gulf Stream alone, in the dead of night, was fraught with problems. Instead, he headed toward the Florida Keys, made it as far as the southern tip of the mainland, and hunted down Sparky's Tavern. Plan B was working just fine until Theo called the cops. Now, law enforcement was all over south Miami-Dade County. He couldn't even risk going into a store to buy new clothes.

  Thanks for nothing brotha'.

  Isaac walked down the hall toward the bathroom. A sudden noise startled him, and he dove to the floor. It was the air conditioner clicking on. He rose and checked the thermostat on the wall. The owner had it set at eighty-five, just low enough to keep the humidity under control. The house was obviously being looked after even though it was empty. He was tempted to cool things down a few more degrees, but he decided to leave the setting alone. He used the toilet, and it flushed. He tried the sink. It didn't work, but that was quickly remedied by adjusting the shut-off valve. The city water to the house was still on, one of the many blessings that came with escaping from prison in a state where no one had to worry about pipes freezing. He took a long drink from the faucet and washed his face. It felt so good and made him want more. He could shower and even rinse out the clothes he'd stolen from the homeless guy who was passed out behind Theo's bar last night. He removed the coat, unbuttoned the shirt, and stripped down to the waist. His skin itched. The more he scratched, the more it itched. He checked himself in the mirror over the sink. His chest was covered with welts. He grabbed the shirt and took a closer look. It was infested. Bugs!

  His scalp suddenly itched. He rubbed his head frantically with both hands. Tiny insects dropped from his hair and landed as little black dots on the white sink.

  A string of hysterical and mostly nonsensical curse words followed, as he quickly kicked off his prison-issue Velcro shoes and ripped off the stolen pants. The socks and underwear were also from TGK, but they too were infested. He pitched all of it into the bathtub, turned on the showerhead, and jumped in. Hot water would have been nice, but that was asking way too much in a vacant house. The cold was more soothing to his insect bites anyway He rubbed, swatted, and scratched all through his shower, sending one nasty little black bug after another down the gurgling drain. Then he started on the shirt, but it was so threadbare that even mild rubbing risked tearing it to shreds. The pants were more durable, but once they were wet, they smelled like a sewer.

  The Grove Lord needed new clothes.

  He turned off the shower. Dripping wet and wearing only his prison briefs, he set out to search the house in hopes that something had been left: behind. He tried the linen closet in the hall. Empty. He checked the two smaller bedrooms. Nothing. The garage was accessible from the kitchen, but in there he found only a few basic supplies that the maid or the realtor needed to keep the house presentable for potential buyers. He was walking through the living room to the master bedroom when, through the bay window in the front of the house, he spotted an old man and his dog on the sidewalk. Isaac hit the deck.

  He wasn't sure if the old man had noticed him or not. The owners had taken the draperies along with the furniture, leaving a clear view into the living room for passersby on the street. Instinct told him not to move a muscle, but Isaac couldn't stop himself from raising up his head just enough to peer over the windowsill. The old man was still standing on the sidewalk. Maybe he hadn't seen anything. His dog, however, was on high alert. The miniature white poodle was barking and bouncing up and down like a Ping-Pong ball, as if to shout, "Run for your life – there's a black man in the house!"

  Isaac had to move. On his belly, keeping low, he slithered across the living room floor to the hallway, sprang to his feet, ran to the bathroom, and grabbed his clothes. Soaking wet, bugs or no bugs, they were all he had. He had to get dressed. But then what?

  Think, Isaac. Think!

  He could still hear that annoying bark. Soon enough, the old man had to realize that his dog wasn't crazy and that something was amiss. Maybe he was the friendly neighbor who'd promised to keep an eye on the house for the owners. Another minute of that high-energy yelping, and he'd probably march straight home and dial 911.

  Not good. This was not good at all.

  Isaac squeezed the excess water out of his underwear and checked one more time for bugs. Clean. The poodle continued to bark, louder and more aggressively. Isaac had to move fast, but a successful escape was not merely about speed. Once the cops with their dogs and helicopters were hot on his trail, it wouldn't matter if he was an Olympic sprinter. Hiding was the key to his success, and hiding took the courage to do whatever was necessary to keep some nosy neighbor from blowing your cover and sending you back to prison for life. Bottom line: maybe the old man had seen him, maybe he hadn't – Isaac couldn't take that risk.

  He grabbed his gun. No silencer. The crack of gunshot in this neighborhood would be suicide.

  A quick thought sent Isaac racing back to the garage. Earlier, he'd been searching only for replacement clothes, but there had to be something in that box of supplies that he could use now. He rummaged around and found a mop, a dustpan, and old rags. None of it was of any use to him. Except, maybe, the hammer.

  A hammer!

  Isaac gripped it tightly as he reentered the house and started toward the living room. From the dark hallway, with his back to the wall, he could see through the bay window. The little white fur ball was still barking, pulling the leash taut, practically dragging its so-called master toward the house. Isaac almost smiled to see that the old man was just about his size. No bugs in those clothes, he'd bet.

  He tapped the head of the hammer into the palm of his hand, waiting and watching as the old man continued up the walkway.

  This one's on you, Theo. Traitor.

  Chapter 7

  The FBI had a sighting, and Agent Andie Henning was flying down the turnpike at ninety miles per hour, her unmarked vehicle's removable blue beacon flashing in the early evening darkness. U.S. Marshals and the FBI SWAT unit had already surrounded the house in Homestead. Andie made a mental note of the fact that the address was less than four miles from Theo Knights bar. The anonymous source in the BOLO – "Be on the Look-Out" – had apparently been reliable.

  "I'm five minutes away" she said into her encrypted cell. Police radio wasn't an option. It was well known that fugitives sometimes monitored stolen radios to stay one step ahead of law enforcement.

  Andie's adrenaline was pumping, but she was again chiding herself over that awkward conversation with Jack. Not that she would have liked to redo it. She never should have gone there, period. It was just her luck that Jack Swyteck was one of the names on the list of "fugitive's friends and contacts" compiled by the task force. Her boss had jumped all over that in their multi-jurisdictional meeting.

  "Henning knows Swyteck from the Salazar kidnapping case," the ASAC had told the group. "You think he would talk straight with you, Andie?"

  "I… I suppose."

  "I only ask because he is a criminal defense lawyer. I imagine he'd be more inclined to talk to you than just any old cop showing up at his door."

  "Swyteck used to be a prosecutor. I'm sure someone at the U.S. Attorney's Office knows him just as well as-"

  "Andie, time is of th
e essence here. Can you talk to him or not?"

  No. Absolutely not. Not gonna happen. "Sure," she'd said. "I'll talk to him."

  Idiot!

  She blew past the last turnpike tollbooth and took the final exit. East-west traffic was heavy on Campbell Drive, but she had to kill her flashing blue light so as not to alert the world – and the fugitive – of the sudden arrival of law enforcement. She weaved her way down the four-lane road as fast as possible without a police strobe beacon. The tires squealed as she cut a hard right turn at the final major intersection. Moments later, she spotted the law enforcement presence in a dimly lit school parking lot. Her car stopped so abruptly that the front bumper nearly kissed the pavement. Andie jumped out and ran toward the SWAT van. Supervisory Deputy Steve Miller of the U.S. Marshals Service was there to meet her. The FBI SWAT leader was with him, dressed in full tactical regalia and toting an M-16 rifle.

  "What's the situation?" said Andie.

  Deputy Miller was a former marine officer, and he still carried the look so completely that, instinctively, Andie almost wanted to salute him.

  "House is two blocks east," said Miller. "We're staging from here to maintain the element of surprise."

  "Do you have authorization to breach?"

  "Yes. A neighbor spotted a black male inside."

  "Have you ruled out that it might be the owner or a repair-man?

  "Definitely," said Miller. "The house has been completely vacant. The owner moved to Plant City. I spoke to her by phone myself. Whoever is inside doesn't belong there."

  "Is the subject alone?"

  "We don't know yet. But now that you're here, any handoff from tactical assault to hostage negotiation will be as seamless as possible."

  Andie was one of several trained negotiators in the Miami field office, but the Salazar kidnapping case – where she'd met Jack Swyteck – had firmly established her as the top dog. "I don't want to negotiate for a dead hostage. We need to verify whether he's alone before you breach."

  "Techies are snaking listening devices through the attic vents as we speak. We're doing infrared scan, too. Should have the results by the time you suit up."

  Andie retrieved her Kevlar vest from her car and put it on. Another SWAT member brought her a helmet, thigh guards, and a bone mike that would link her to the tactical team. She wouldn't be part of the SWAT breach, but preparing for all hell to break loose was part of Negotiation Training 101.

  The task force leader was speaking into his bone mike as Andie approached the SWAT van. Miller said to her, "Infrared shows a warm one in the bathroom. No movement. Appears to be sleeping. Good time for a breach."

  "Infrared isn't infallible," said Andie. That was experience talking – the Salazar kidnapping case again. Would all these little Swyteck reminders just go away, please?

  Miller said, "SWAT's going in. If I'm wrong about him being alone in there and a hostage standoff develops, you're here to normalize the situation."

  "Pick up the pieces" might have been a better way to put it. Even so, Andie couldn't disagree with the decision. "Let's do it."

  THE MOMENT THEO returned from the Keys and his "personal business" – it was about the Prince Albert for Trina – Cy had that unmistakable Uncle Cyrus look on his face. Theo knew he was in big trouble.

  "In here." Cy grabbed him by the elbow and practically dragged him into the back room. He closed the door and locked it.

  Theo wanted to say something, but suddenly he felt like a ten-year-old boy again, and his uncle was ready to slap him upside the head for backtalk of any sort. Uncle Cyrus had been the Knight brothers' one and only source of badly needed discipline.

  "What the hell you been doin' with that Isaac Reems?"

  "I ain't been doin' nothin' with him." A grown man with balls the size of globes, and out pops the voice of a scared child.

  Cy opened the cabinet and threw the orange jumpsuit on the desk. "What do you call this}99

  Theo knew immediately what it was. "Where'd you find that?"

  "Shoved in the corner, behind your big stack of beer kegs."

  Theo drew a deep breath, trying not to take the anger he felt toward Isaac and misdirect it toward his uncle. "I know what you must be thinkin'."

  "Oh, you got no idea what I'm thinkin'. Why on God's green earth would you help that loser?"

  "I ain't helpin' him. Isaac broke into the stockroom, stole my gun and my money. Tried to make me help him. I told him to get lost. Then I called the cops."

  Cy grimaced, as if wanting to believe but not quite able. "I ain't an old fool. The man didn't leave here naked. You gave clothes to a fugitive."

  "No way. He came here wearing old rags. We got migrants around here who work the tomato fields. I'm runnin' the homeless out of my parking lot every night. He probably hit one, changed clothes after he broke in, and shoved the jumpsuit into a corner."

  "You told all this to the cops?"

  "You know cops and me don't mix. Four years on death row for somethin' you didn't do has a way of teachin' you that. Jack met with them. He told them everything."

  Cy seemed willing to accept that, or perhaps he just didn't see the point of arguing anymore.

  Theo said, "Now that I think about it, Isaac left that jumpsuit behind for a reason. He said if I called the cops, he'd tell them I was the one who helped him escape in the first place. Good thing Jack said no way to a police search inside the building. They would have found this, just like Isaac knew they would. Then I'd really have some explaining to do."

  Cy stepped around the desk and stood closer to Theo, a soulful expression on his wrinkled face. His voice no longer had an edge to it, only concern. "Do not reach back into the old 'hood and help that scum," he said. "The past will hurt you, boy. It will cut you open and laugh in your face."

  "I ain't helpin' him."

  "Swear it." He grabbed Theo's hand and placed it palm down, flat on his chest.

  Theo could feel the old man's heart pounding.

  His uncle said, "Swear to me, boy. Swear that you won't help that snake."

  Even if his life had depended on it, Theo could not have turned away. Never before had he seen that look in his uncle's eyes – such a powerful combination of fear and love.

  "I promise," said Theo. "In fact, I'll call Jack now and tell him to hand over the jumpsuit to the cops."

  Cy grabbed the jumpsuit before Theo could, then shoved it against his nephew's chest. Their eyes locked for a period of time that seemed much longer than it was, neither man saying a word. Finally, Cy broke the silence, Theo's comment about four wasted years on death row seeming to have carried the day.

  "Burn it," he said.

  “ON THREE WE'RE GREEN,” SWAT leader Michael Penski whispered, his voice breaking the radio squelch in Andie's ear.

  Andie was in a cover position behind a coral-rock fence across the street from the target residence. She didn't live and work beneath the SWAT rainbow, but she knew that yellow was code for the final position of cover and concealment. Green was the assault, the moment of life and death, literally. With the aid of night vision, she watched the well-choreographed SWAT movements unfold in a wave of stealth.

  Penski counted down in a calm voice that reflected years of training: one… two… three. The word "three" unleashed a cacophony in Andie's headset, the sound of shattered glass and a blown-out door. She braced herself for the crack of gunfire, but she heard only the shouts of Special Agent Penski and his team as they swept through the house.

  "Down on the floor, now!"

  Andie's radio crackled with more shouting. Moments later, the front door opened and Penski gave a hand signal as he announced over the radio, "All clear."

  Andie ran across the lawn and hurried through the front door. Penski and another SWAT agent were standing outside the bathroom. Their night-vision goggles were up, and the ceiling light had been switched on. Through the open doorway, Andie saw an old man kneeling on the bathroom floor beside the tub. His hands were untied, thou
gh the torn rags that had bound them together were still dangling from one wrist. A saliva-soaked gag lay atop the sink. He wore only his boxer shorts and was apparently unharmed. But he was sobbing uncontrollably, staring down at what appeared to be a small white dog.

  It was little more than a blood-soaked stain on the white tile floor.

  "He smashed Puffy with a hammer," the old man said, his voice quaking.

  Andie could only presume that Puffy had been the "strange noise coming from the house" that the next-door neighbor had reported to 911.

  The man continued. "He said he'd do the same to me, if I made a move before daylight."

  Andie was a dog lover herself, but no matter how distraught the old man was, she needed to get Reems's photograph in front of him. She carried it with her at all times, as did everyone on the task force." Is this the man who did that?"

  He only glanced at the photograph. "I saw his picture on television this morning. It was the guy who busted out of prison last night. He even stole my clothes."

  Andie got a description of the clothing, then asked, "Did he have a gun?"

  "I didn't see one."

  "How long ago did he leave?" Andie said with urgency.

  "Couple of hours ago, maybe."

  "Did he steal your vehicle?"

  "No. I didn't drive here. I was out walking my-" With that painful reminder of his beloved companion, he broke down.

  Andie needed to question him further, but she filled the emotional pause with a quick phone call to the task force leader.