No Way Back(Jack McNeal #1)(61)

Was this a fucked-up mind game Graff was playing with him? It was true he wanted answers about Caroline’s death, but he knew better than anyone that taking the law into one’s own hands was never the smart move. Never the right choice. McNeal had let himself be led by emotion. By gut instinct. He was definitely not using his head.

He wondered if the burning rage he felt at his son’s senseless death was fueling his desire for some kind of revenge. Some kind of justice. Or maybe his recklessness was just part and parcel of his personality, something he had kept hidden from most.

The more he thought about it, the more he questioned if he even wanted to live anymore. Did he have a death wish? Maybe he didn’t care if he lived or died. Was that it? Had he become like his dead former partner, Juan Gomez? Did he want someone to end his life? Was that the driving force?

On and on the questions mounted, with no answers in sight.

McNeal had investigated hundreds of cops who had embarked on similarly hotheaded adventures, all ending in terrible mistakes. Cops stalking estranged wives. Psychotic cops roaming the streets in the dead of night, screaming and hollering at anyone that would listen. Suicidal cops who wanted their partners to put them out of their misery.

McNeal knew that if all his layers were peeled back, the one constant was the loss of his son. He had never gotten over that. Never would. He should have tried to come to terms with it. He should have done the therapy sessions. But he hadn’t. Instead he kept all his emotions in check, as he had been trained to do. But the animal instincts were always there.

McNeal drove on. Headlights pierced the nighttime highway gloom. He got closer and closer. He passed a sign for Frederick.

He turned off the highway and drove into town.

The two-way radio buzzed and he pulled over. “Yeah?”

“Jack, the gas station?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m here. Up the road from it.”

“Is he there yet?”

“No one’s here. It’s abandoned.”

“What do you mean, abandoned? It’s not open?”

“I mean it’s an old, run-down place. There are old gas pumps still there but nothing else. The shell of what was once a diner. It’s empty. The place looks like it’s been like that for years, maybe decades.”

“What else?”

“I see there’s a restroom adjacent to the diner. A pay phone next to that.”

McNeal’s mind raced as he tried to figure out a plan. “You can see the pay phone clearly with your night sights?”

“Got it.”

“What’s the number?”

“Hang on . . . got my hunting binoculars with night vision in the trunk.”

McNeal waited for a few moments as he got closer.

“Bingo! Got the number.”

“Write that down. Then text me the number.”

“What’s the plan?”

“You wait where you are with your lights off. You let me know when he arrives. I’ll text him telling him to pick up the pay phone when it rings. And then I’ll call that number.”

“I like it.”

“It’s the best we’ve got. I’ll bounce him to a place of our choosing farther down the road. And that’s where I’ll be.”





Forty-Six

McNeal slowed as he drove past the abandoned gas station. It was a relic from the sixties. Faded Pepsi ads peeled off the windows. He looked to his left and saw bean fields. Somewhere down there perched his brother. He checked the luminous display on his dashboard. It showed 3:23.

He drove on for about a mile.

A few moments later, his cell phone vibrated. A text from Peter.

Porsche Carrera with one male driver just pulled in.

McNeal’s heart beat hard as he drove on. Up ahead, beside a telephone pole, a dirt road had been illuminated by pale moonlight. He turned there, down the bone-dry, rutted earth road. The bean field seemed to go on forever. The middle of nowhere. This was good.

He stopped and switched off his lights.

He had perfect sight to the old gas station just over a mile away, the lights of the Porsche visible.

McNeal texted Graff. Pick up the pay phone when it rings. He then called the number. It rang for nearly a minute before it was picked up.

“Jack?”

“Turn off your lights. Leave your keys on the passenger seat.”

“Why?”

“This is how we’re going to work it. You’re going to walk a mile on the path adjacent to the road until you get to a dirt road marked by a telephone pole. You walk up that dirt road. I’ll be waiting for you.”

McNeal ended the call. A few moments later he got a text from his brother. Our guy hung up the phone. He’s walking.

He replied, I’m in position. Dirt road, one mile out of town. Turn into it. That’s where I am. Follow with lights off. But also find a spot behind the gas station to get Graff’s car out of sight soon. Keys on passenger seat.

He took out the unlicensed Glock. There was no safety on the gun. He was locked and loaded.

Twelve minutes later, the sound of heavy footsteps approached. McNeal crouched behind his car.

A silhouetted figure came into view, slowly approaching, as if tentative.

“I’m alone.” The voice of Graff.

McNeal stood up, gun aimed at Graff’s head. “Nice of you to turn up.”