Prologue – 1966
2:53 AM
Tamiami Trail, Everglades
The rain came in sheets, completely overwhelming the single working windshield wiper. The old Mercury streaked almost blind through the darkness. Suddenly, a roar came from the wheel wells, and Bruce felt water stream down the firewall behind the accelerator. He shifted position, and pressed his left shoe down onto the hole, in a futile attempt to stem the flow.
The car lurched slightly to the left, then he felt the eery floating feeling as the tires began to hydroplane. There had been no money to buy another set of used tires, and the current ones were quite slick. He raised his foot from the pedal and eased the wheel slightly to the left, into the skid, ever so gently to prevent causing the big car to slip into an uncontrollable spin.
The heavy car didn’t seem to notice. He felt a sickening sensation as the rear end swung out to the right. There was no shoulder to maneuver into the skid, but he turned the wheel to the right anyway. The bald tires refused purchase as they floated above the road, making far less sound as the water skimmed below the tires, instead of being thrown into the wheel wells.
Adrenaline slowed down time; he glanced in the mirror at the two sleeping boys in the back seat. The older boy sat wedged into the far corner. His little brother lay down in a fetal position, facing the back amidst pillow cases containing all their clothes and toys, hastily thrown together two hours before.
Elizabeth sat up, eyes blinking. Her head had lain on his thigh, and his jerky movements had awakened her. Her face was blurred and puffy with sleep and confusion.
There was nothing to do but let go of the wheel, allowing it to straighten the tires. The car, still floating above the road, drifted to the right, its rear end swinging further out so that Bruce could no longer see the road in the headlights. Only brief flashes of far away cypress trees and weeds and cattails streaked by in the yellow light.
Luck had befriended Bruce several days before, and it did not abandon him now. The right rear wheel hit the shell shoulder first, forcing the car to face forward again. It slowed the car just enough so that Bruce was able to twitch the wheel to the left. The squeal from the tires grated into the night, followed shortly by the thrumming of the water in the wheel wells, telling him that the tires connected to the concrete again.
Another couple of busy seconds, and the Mercury reluctantly yielded control.
His heart hammered, and he felt the now familiar dull headache that accompanied adrenaline rushes. He’d never had a problem with headaches until that time several years ago when he’d had a case of the bends that had never been properly taken care of.
Despite the urgency, pushing him from Miami as quickly as possible, Bruce slowed down.
It had been a tactical choice: escaping from Miami on the Tamiami Trail, rather than going to more direct route straight north towards Jacksonville.
In the rearview mirror, he noticed the headlights in between the streaks of water. The lights had appeared a half hour ago, and didn’t fall behind as Bruce thought they should.
Without warning, the car slowed dramatically on its own, and the lights dimmed to a dull yellow. Bruce glanced down and watched as the red battery light flickered feebly. Some of the water must have flooded the distributor, stalling the engine. Damn. He was going to stop whether he liked it or not.
Up ahead, a small widening of the road allowed him to pull off. He immediately jumped out and raised the hood. Yes, there was water in the engine. It would be a while before they could get started again.
He glanced up at the approaching car. It had obviously slowed as it approached. It could be nothing – a good samaritan – but Bruce didn’t believe it for a second. “Liz, keep the boys out of sight!”
The widening of the road was nothing more than a garbage dump. The car slowed down and pulled in behind the old Mercury. Bruce stood on the passenger side of his car, then ran toward a pile of trash. His limping figure obvious in the headlights of the chase car.
POP POP. He dove behind a large rusty barrel, hearing one of the shots come uncomfortably close. He pulled out a small revolver and fired twice in the general direction of the other car. He tried desperately to draw attention away from the Mercury. Surely Elizabeth would know enough to keep her head down.
He hit nothing, but neither did the pursuer. The second car was still running, and the lights were still shining. There was enough light for him to see that there were two men. He fired another shot. They replied with several of their own, then flicked off the headlights, leaving him in total darkness.
Bruce fired often enough to keep them pinned behind their car. He had enough for a couple of reloads, but he couldn’t reliably hit anything. Between the rain, his thick glasses, and the total darkness, shooting it out was hopeless.
“Come on Martin! Give it up! We’re just here to bring you back. Relax! Johnny just wants to talk to you!”
As if to prove their point, one man stood up and made a big show of putting his gun into a shoulder holster. “Come on, we’re all getting soaked out here. There’s no problem.”
They obviously knew that Bruce couldn’t shoot worth a damn, and it didn’t help to be forced to shoot with his left hand. With that thought, he felt a spasm wrack his damaged right index finger.
He didn’t see the other man, but heard a soft crackle very close to his left, as a foot stepped on a bit of trash. The show in front of him had been just that – a show. The magician’s hand attracting attention to distract the audience.
Bruce froze into position. He was already crouched, with the bad leg stretched out on one side of the chemical drum. The rain made it very hard to hear anything, but he was certain one assassin was approaching from his left. Thank god they were ignoring the car.
Suddenly, he heard a crunch, very close. Without thought, he instantly catapulted himself backwards in a somersault, landing on a hill of trash. Just then, the barrel rang like a bell as a heavy stick or club bounced off it. Bruce bounded up and grabbed the coat of the second man.
The man was already off balance, and Bruce easily tripped and threw the man head first into what looked like an old wringer washing machine. Before the man had finished falling, Bruce pounced on his back and with very powerful arms, placed the head of the man into a wrestling hold called a full nelson.
The struggle was violent but brief. Bruce, his interlocked hands behind the unfortunate man’s head inflicted the inexorable forward pressure. His arms were thick from years of weightlifting, with special attention to hand strength exercises. The victim reacted to the pain, thrashing, trying to concentrate on relieving the pain in his neck.
Bruce’s right hand was in agony, the missing fingertip dripped blood, black as ink in the dim night light, onto a white collar. His opponent was very strong, and it was all Bruce could do to keep the hold. He kept the face buried into the garbage, muffling the cries of pain and frustration.
Finally, there was a dull crack, and the man went limp. His head lolled far down below what should be possible, and the body became instantly slack. The man was dead.
Panting from the effort, Bruce searched the body and found a revolver. He took that. In the dim light, it was hard to see whether or not he knew the guy.
“OK. I’ve killed your buddy over here. I suggest you clear out, or I’ll take you, too. Tell Johnny I’m not coming back, and I’m not going to trip him up. I just want out.”
“The silhouette behind the second car spoke sarcastically. “Shit Martin, you didn’t have to do that! Our orders were just to bring you in. Damnit, now what am I going to do?”
“I don’t care what you do as long..”
A shot rang out. Bruce heard and felt the impact of the heavy bullet as it embedded itself six inches to the left of his face. Reflexively, Bruce fell backwards, largely shielded by another barrel. A load of trash fell down, and covered him. Again, he froze.
Time dragged slowly. Playing dead was much better than not playing, but it became maddening. His ears couldn’t hear anything above the white noise of the rain. His eyes couldn’t see, either. He waited for the sound of the second man.
POP POP POP POP POP. Bruce saw the flashes light up the chase car, through the water smears of his thick glasses, he couldn’t make anything out.
Still he didn’t move. His heart was frozen, because he couldn’t tell where the assassin was shooting. But, he could hear no other noise, either. If Elizabeth and the boys were the target, surely they would have made some noise?
In spite of the horrid visions swirling in his head, Bruce still remained motionless. His gambit had been played, he had to see it through.
The distinctive high pitch whine of an ignition motor sounded, and the headlights flickered to life, illuminating the old Mercury where his family lay hiding. Still he did not move.
Finally, he heard the door slam, and he watched in amazement as the chase car engine roared, and its tires squealed backwards and swerved around and headed back toward Miami.
Unseen, in the backseat of the Mercury, five year old Chance blinked as the red bugs flew away into the dark. He was in the dreamy state that was neither sleep nor wakefulness. In his dream, he’d heard some balloons pop, and he wanted to see if there were more.
He blinked again, and felt a strong and terrified yank as his mother pulled him back down into the seat. He closed his eyes and joined his older brother, who had somehow remained asleep.