“This part of my punishment?” the old man complained from the back seat.
“Just for that, I’m turning it up,” said the U.S. Marshal who was driving, a thin Asian woman who, two years back, had broken both ankles （but still caught the perp） when she jumped from the upper deck of a bridge to the lower deck. Her name was Piper Grace Lin, though everyone called her P.G. With a twist, she raised the volume on the radio.
“Don’t take it so personally,” Salty said. “I’m not an audiobook guy.”
“It’s Sherlock friggin’ Holmes!” said Titus Huddleston, the other Marshal in the car, a beefy twenty-eight-year-old Mississippian who spent most of the ride thinking about his upcoming trials for the U.S. Olympic fifty-meter riflery team. He was sitting next to Salty in the back seat. “Who are you to not like Sherlock Holmes?”
Salty shrugged, a light jingle coming from his handcuffed wrists and the connected belly chain. Six months ago, he’d been arrested for a dozen murders that stemmed from the multimillion-dollar weapons supply route he ran, selling illegal guns to white nationalists from Virginia to Texas. Early this morning, Salty testified against his old buyers in exchange for some plastic surgery and a new name. In Marshals’ parlance, he became a “client.”
P.G. and Titus’s job was to keep him alive during the six-hour ride from the Virginia courthouse to their destination: Otisville federal prison in upstate New York. When you enter witness protection, you don’t just leave your trial and race to your new hometown. All across the country, certain prisons had private security wings that specialized in keeping witnesses safe until their new identities were ready.
“I’ll give you five grand apiece to put on some music. Ten to play Sinatra,” Salty teased.
P.G. rolled her eyes, making Sherlock Holmes even louder.
Annoyed, Salty stared out into the darkness, thinking of the old treadmill he always picked at the gym—to get the best view of the girl at the check-in desk with the lush eyelashes.
Ten minutes later, P.G. glanced at the car’s digital clock. Nearly midnight—and it felt like it as they hit one of those stretches of highway where you can’t quite remember the last few miles or what the hell you were just thinking. That is, until the bright lights of another car—an SUV from the height of it—appeared in the distance behind them.
P.G. noticed it first, squinting at the lights in the rearview. On the seat next to her was what they code-named a “WITSEC shotgun,” meaning it had a cut-down barrel to move and aim easier in the close confines of a vehicle. Titus gave her a look, reminding her that his own gun was in the front glove box. If you ride in back with the prisoner, you’re not allowed to be armed.
The SUV picked up speed, pulling neck and neck, then quickly blew past them. As the SUV disappeared into the darkness, Sherlock Holmes pointed out that life is infinitely stranger than anything the mind of man could invent.
“Okay, forget the stupid audiobook,” Salty said. “Fifty grand if you can find us a Starbucks or a proper cup of—”
“Whoa. You feel that?” P.G. interrupted.
Titus nodded. “Flat tire.”
Salty looked around, confused. “Feels good to me.”
“It’s not,” P.G. insisted as she and Titus exchanged a glance. Didn’t matter that the highway was empty—or that in front of them, the faint red taillights of the SUV were barely visible. When you have a client, you don’t just pull over.
“We need a port,” P.G. said—a place where Salty would be safe.
Titus was already scrolling on his phone, looking for the usuals: nearby police stations, firehouses, even a hospital if need be.
“Got one,” Titus said. He pointed up ahead. “Here. Get off at this exit.”