The questions kept on coming. The cover-up was wide-ranging, perhaps encompassing elements within the FBI, the CIA, other players within the American government.
McNeal thought back to what Graff had said. The former CIA operative had been approached by Nico, a wet work specialist, who had been contacted by someone close to the President. It was all too much to take in. He searched his memory to try and determine if Graff was lying. Maybe the crazy bastard wanted to throw him off the scent. But something about Graff speaking those words with a gun pointed at his head made McNeal believe that Graff was telling the truth. It was a gut instinct, that’s all.
What did the President know about the death of Graff’s wife? Was someone shielding him? Was Graff’s killing a vow of silence too? Had he told McNeal all he knew?
McNeal’s head was going to explode. He checked his rearview mirror. A light appeared. It was closing in. A single light. A motorbike. Jack’s gut tightened. The light edged closer. He gathered his strength and focused, in case this was it. Was this the end game? He slowed down. The light was still there. The same distance, as if whoever it was didn’t want to get too close. He picked up the two-way radio. “Peter, motorbike in my rearview.”
“What?”
“The last mile.”
“Slow down.”
“I have. They did the same.”
“Fuck!”
“Keep moving, Peter. I’m going to pull over.”
“Jack, for Christ’s sake. Think!”
“This car is not going to outrun them.”
“You got your gun?”
“Yup. Keep on going, Peter. Take care of yourself.”
Jack pulled over and flicked on his hazard lights. He pulled out his gun. The cold metal on his warm fingers. The beam of the headlight washed over his car. He was in their crosshairs. The seconds seemed like hours. The motorbike was closing. A matter of yards now. Then the motorbike accelerated hard past him, the driver and a hanger-on both clad in black.
His heart skipped several beats. “Motherfucker.”
Suddenly, the two-way radio on the passenger seat crackled into life.
“You okay, Jack?”
McNeal put down the gun and got back on the road. “I’m okay. Graff said it was a two-man team coming for me. I swear to God, there were two people on the bike.”
“Jesus Christ, seriously?”
“So, why didn’t they open fire?”
“I have no idea.”
“We’re not out of the woods yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jack, up ahead, we’ve got single-lane traffic. Some truck crashed. Cops and paramedics everywhere. The traffic is slowing.”
McNeal’s heart nearly stopped. This was exactly what he had feared. “Fuck.” He questioned whether this was an elaborate trap. Were the two people on the bike part of this?
“Let’s just go with it.”
“Nothing else we can do. Let’s sit tight and be cool.”
“Exactly.”
“If I get pulled over, Peter, I just want to say I love you. But you need to look after number one.”
“No one’s going to get pulled over.”
McNeal slowed down until he saw the red lights in the distance. The traffic slowed to a crawl. Cops with nightsticks and high-visibility vests directed the cars to keep moving. He knew they would see his out-of-state plates and wonder what the fuck he was doing in the dead of night in the Middle-of-Nowhere, Maryland. At least that’s what he would think.
McNeal began to disassociate. He disconnected from his thoughts. His identity. Even his consciousness.
His mind drifted. He saw a time when he and Caroline were together. Before she left him. Before she was by herself, without him to protect her.
He grappled with a sickness that spiraled to the very depths of his soul. He had become everything that was immoral in man. The beast within had raised its head. McNeal wanted to close his eyes and see his son again. He wanted his son back in his arms. He remembered the day his son was born and the days that followed. He was working, and when he returned home, there was his baby son, sound asleep in Caroline’s arms.
The sound of police shouting for traffic to slow down snapped McNeal back to reality. It was single-line traffic as they passed the smoking wreckage. He stared straight ahead as he drove on.
McNeal tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He drifted into a fugue state. He mentally fled his own body. He could hear his heart beating. But a strange calm washed over him.
The faces of the cops were bathed in red and blue lights. Waxy. Slow-motion blur. Nightsticks pointing the way.