nothing like the guy in the newspapers. But close up I was sure I’d be recognized.
Still, the beard would grow. And every day of being on the run, I’d get thinner.
I was used to being alone. Parents killed. Sister keeping her distance from me because she knew that lots of people wanted me dead. My work as an operative mostly done without support.
But God, this was different. What I’d give to see just one friendly face.
Anyone who could look me in the eyes and tell me they knew I wasn’t guilty of murder.
That encouragement would mean more than a hundred hot dinners, a bed, and a full night’s sleep.
Time to focus.
On foot, I made my way out of Roanoke.
One hour later, I was in the outskirts of the city. I found a quiet street and stopped under a streetlamp. Most of the street was in darkness and there were few houses in this area. I ate the last of the food I’d bought in the Baltimore convenience store, my stomach rumbling as I did so.
That’s when they stepped out of the shadows and came at me from different directions.
Three men.
With knives.
Muggers.
They were wearing hoodies. Two of them white, one black. All of them in their early twenties. They surrounded me.
I held up my hands and said in my fake American accent, “I got no money. That’s why I’m on the streets. Got no place to stay.”
They were circling.
The black guy said, “What’s in the pack?”
“Just old clothes. You definitely won’t want them.”
“How come you don’t look scared?”
“This ain’t the first time this has happened. Comes with the territory.”
The gang leader said, “Give us the pack.”
No way was that going to happen. I definitely needed my gun and the encyclopedia.
Casually, I said, “You’ve got the wrong guy. Unless you’re looking for a pair of muddy pants and a sweater that smells like crap. I can show you.”
All three took a step closer.
“Just throw it here.”
“Come on, guys. I need my bag.”
The leader came right up to me and put the tip of his knife against my gut. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.
“You’d seriously stick a knife in me, just for what I got?”
The leader nodded.
I wished he’d said something different. This was the last thing I needed right now.
“Okay, okay,” I said with resignation, unslinging my pack.
I dropped it and swooped my leg against the man’s heel, causing him to completely lose balance and topple away from me. His head smacked the pavement. He was out of it. I ran at one of the other men. He lunged with his knife. I dodged, elbowed him in one eye, grabbed his head, and hurled him at his pal. His colleague moved his knife, but not quickly enough. It sliced into his friend’s arm as they connected. The wounded man fell to his knees, his face screwed up as he clutched his arm. The one still standing rushed me. His knife was aimed at my stomach. I twisted, locked my hands on his wrist, kicked him in the balls, and kneed him in the face. Still gripping his wrist, I slammed my other knee into his elbow. I wrenched back on his arm, hearing bones snap. He screamed and dropped the knife. I kicked it away. The man with the slashed arm was trying to get to his feet. I walked up to him and punched his face so hard that his body lifted off the ground as he flipped sideways.
I checked his colleagues. They were moaning, starting to regain consciousness. “Don’t get up,” I said to the mugger with the broken arm. I pulled off his hood and patted his head. “It’s in all of our interests that no one hears a thing about what just happened. Agreed?”
The mugger nodded while gasping.
“Good.” I smiled. “I did warn you that you’d got the wrong guy.”
I walked on, needing to cover twenty miles before I reached Robert and Celia Grange’s house.
CHAPTER 15
T hyme Painter was giving a briefing to a room of forty-six uniformed and plainclothes Charlottesville cops, midway in the 277 miles between Baltimore and Roanoke. Her
Still, the beard would grow. And every day of being on the run, I’d get thinner.
I was used to being alone. Parents killed. Sister keeping her distance from me because she knew that lots of people wanted me dead. My work as an operative mostly done without support.
But God, this was different. What I’d give to see just one friendly face.
Anyone who could look me in the eyes and tell me they knew I wasn’t guilty of murder.
That encouragement would mean more than a hundred hot dinners, a bed, and a full night’s sleep.
Time to focus.
On foot, I made my way out of Roanoke.
One hour later, I was in the outskirts of the city. I found a quiet street and stopped under a streetlamp. Most of the street was in darkness and there were few houses in this area. I ate the last of the food I’d bought in the Baltimore convenience store, my stomach rumbling as I did so.
That’s when they stepped out of the shadows and came at me from different directions.
Three men.
With knives.
Muggers.
They were wearing hoodies. Two of them white, one black. All of them in their early twenties. They surrounded me.
I held up my hands and said in my fake American accent, “I got no money. That’s why I’m on the streets. Got no place to stay.”
They were circling.
The black guy said, “What’s in the pack?”
“Just old clothes. You definitely won’t want them.”
“How come you don’t look scared?”
“This ain’t the first time this has happened. Comes with the territory.”
The gang leader said, “Give us the pack.”
No way was that going to happen. I definitely needed my gun and the encyclopedia.
Casually, I said, “You’ve got the wrong guy. Unless you’re looking for a pair of muddy pants and a sweater that smells like crap. I can show you.”
All three took a step closer.
“Just throw it here.”
“Come on, guys. I need my bag.”
The leader came right up to me and put the tip of his knife against my gut. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.
“You’d seriously stick a knife in me, just for what I got?”
The leader nodded.
I wished he’d said something different. This was the last thing I needed right now.
“Okay, okay,” I said with resignation, unslinging my pack.
I dropped it and swooped my leg against the man’s heel, causing him to completely lose balance and topple away from me. His head smacked the pavement. He was out of it. I ran at one of the other men. He lunged with his knife. I dodged, elbowed him in one eye, grabbed his head, and hurled him at his pal. His colleague moved his knife, but not quickly enough. It sliced into his friend’s arm as they connected. The wounded man fell to his knees, his face screwed up as he clutched his arm. The one still standing rushed me. His knife was aimed at my stomach. I twisted, locked my hands on his wrist, kicked him in the balls, and kneed him in the face. Still gripping his wrist, I slammed my other knee into his elbow. I wrenched back on his arm, hearing bones snap. He screamed and dropped the knife. I kicked it away. The man with the slashed arm was trying to get to his feet. I walked up to him and punched his face so hard that his body lifted off the ground as he flipped sideways.
I checked his colleagues. They were moaning, starting to regain consciousness. “Don’t get up,” I said to the mugger with the broken arm. I pulled off his hood and patted his head. “It’s in all of our interests that no one hears a thing about what just happened. Agreed?”
The mugger nodded while gasping.
“Good.” I smiled. “I did warn you that you’d got the wrong guy.”
I walked on, needing to cover twenty miles before I reached Robert and Celia Grange’s house.
CHAPTER 15
T hyme Painter was giving a briefing to a room of forty-six uniformed and plainclothes Charlottesville cops, midway in the 277 miles between Baltimore and Roanoke. Her
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