Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure by Tom Abrahams
Authors: Tom Abrahams
Tags: Politics, UT, Texas, president, Assassination, Houston, Election, Health Care, Environment, David Baldacci, austin, alternative energy, Nanotechnology, texas aggies, income taxes, second amendment, brad thor, oil, texas chl, tom abrahams, gubernatorial, petrochemicals, post hill press, big oil, rice university, bill of rights, aggies, living presidents, texas politics, healthcare, george h w bush, texas am, taxes, transcanada, obamacare, wendy davis, gun control, rice owls, campaign, george bush, texas governor, ted cruz, rick perry, 2nd amendment, right to bear arms, vince flynn, keystone pipeline, chl, keystone xl, longhorns, phones, clean fuel, ipods, university of texas
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recognize we’re still in southwest Houston. “Maybe you’re mixed up in this because nobody’s sure exactly what you know,” he continues. “Maybe they want to make sure you stay quiet about whatever it is that’s going down.”
“It’s evident that’s why I was kidnapped,” I said, though I can’t reconcile why I was let go or who killed Bobby.
George checks his side view mirror and changes lanes. He presses on the brake as we approach a red light. “Yeah. Why were you let go? Why did someone else, I assume, try to kill you? What was on those iPods? What is it they think you know? Does this conspiracy end with an attempted assassination? Is there more to it? Was the Buell shooting the beginning?”
I’m about to tell George about what I saw on the Alaska iPod when he jerks the SUV from the left lane and into the right. He glances in his rear view mirror and grimaces.
“This ass won’t stay off my bumper,” he says, slowing the SUV. I turn around to look over my left shoulder and see a car inching even with us. It’s a black sedan with dark tinted windows.
“George! You’ve got to get us out of here. That’s the car!” My heart is racing in my chest. “Those are the guys who killed my friend Bobby!”
George accelerates, speeding through a yellow light and on to a feeder road. Within a second he’s merged onto the highway heading north towards downtown. He must be doing 90 miles per hour as he moves to the left and he slams on the brakes, the brakes scream, and we stop inches short of a red SUV in front of us. Traffic is at a standstill.
***
I’ve seen slow speed police chases on television before. I even covered one in San Antonio. Some idiot robbed a taqueria and led police through nearby neighborhoods for close to an hour before he ditched the car and surrendered. I’ve always wondered what must go through the mind of someone as they try to escape.
Now I am that person. I’m the fox and the dogs are giving chase. It seems surreal, being chased on the highway by two dudes who want me dead. We’re traveling at something like 5 miles per hour at the most. I should be fried. Strangely, I am calm. My mind is clear. I’m focused. My heart rate has slowed.
George is doing his best to navigate between cars and five lanes of northbound traffic as the black sedan gives chase at the same speed. Every time the sedan, a Cadillac CTS, switches lanes, George forces his way over to the next lane. Horns honk at him one after the other. People must think we’re trying to push our way past the logjam.
I glance behind me at the sedan. “Instead of trying to get ahead of them, why don’t we fall behind them?” I suggested.
“What?”
“This traffic is so slow that if we fall behind them by a few car lengths, we’ll be able to exit without them knowing, or at least without them being able to follow us.”
“Good idea,” he acknowledges, and checks his rear view mirror before trying to merge to the right. “We can exit up here on the ramp to downtown and take surface streets to the airport.”
George moves to the far right lane, which is barely moving. The sedan tries to merge right behind us, but George slams on the brakes. It creates an opening in front of us, which the driver of the sedan lurches forward to take.
The car slowly passes on our left. Both of us watch the car as it inches ahead. Through the dark tint on the front windows, it’s difficult to see into the car, but I can see there are two men, both with short, military-type haircuts. The one in the passenger seat is staring at us as they pass. He rolls down the automatic window about halfway. He’s wearing sunglasses and a dark suit jacket, white shirt, no tie. He smiles at us and waves with his right hand before the window rolls up again and closes. The car merges in front of us.
“What the hell was that?” George asks. I can see the sweat forming on his brow and upper lip. He keeps wringing his hands on the
“It’s evident that’s why I was kidnapped,” I said, though I can’t reconcile why I was let go or who killed Bobby.
George checks his side view mirror and changes lanes. He presses on the brake as we approach a red light. “Yeah. Why were you let go? Why did someone else, I assume, try to kill you? What was on those iPods? What is it they think you know? Does this conspiracy end with an attempted assassination? Is there more to it? Was the Buell shooting the beginning?”
I’m about to tell George about what I saw on the Alaska iPod when he jerks the SUV from the left lane and into the right. He glances in his rear view mirror and grimaces.
“This ass won’t stay off my bumper,” he says, slowing the SUV. I turn around to look over my left shoulder and see a car inching even with us. It’s a black sedan with dark tinted windows.
“George! You’ve got to get us out of here. That’s the car!” My heart is racing in my chest. “Those are the guys who killed my friend Bobby!”
George accelerates, speeding through a yellow light and on to a feeder road. Within a second he’s merged onto the highway heading north towards downtown. He must be doing 90 miles per hour as he moves to the left and he slams on the brakes, the brakes scream, and we stop inches short of a red SUV in front of us. Traffic is at a standstill.
***
I’ve seen slow speed police chases on television before. I even covered one in San Antonio. Some idiot robbed a taqueria and led police through nearby neighborhoods for close to an hour before he ditched the car and surrendered. I’ve always wondered what must go through the mind of someone as they try to escape.
Now I am that person. I’m the fox and the dogs are giving chase. It seems surreal, being chased on the highway by two dudes who want me dead. We’re traveling at something like 5 miles per hour at the most. I should be fried. Strangely, I am calm. My mind is clear. I’m focused. My heart rate has slowed.
George is doing his best to navigate between cars and five lanes of northbound traffic as the black sedan gives chase at the same speed. Every time the sedan, a Cadillac CTS, switches lanes, George forces his way over to the next lane. Horns honk at him one after the other. People must think we’re trying to push our way past the logjam.
I glance behind me at the sedan. “Instead of trying to get ahead of them, why don’t we fall behind them?” I suggested.
“What?”
“This traffic is so slow that if we fall behind them by a few car lengths, we’ll be able to exit without them knowing, or at least without them being able to follow us.”
“Good idea,” he acknowledges, and checks his rear view mirror before trying to merge to the right. “We can exit up here on the ramp to downtown and take surface streets to the airport.”
George moves to the far right lane, which is barely moving. The sedan tries to merge right behind us, but George slams on the brakes. It creates an opening in front of us, which the driver of the sedan lurches forward to take.
The car slowly passes on our left. Both of us watch the car as it inches ahead. Through the dark tint on the front windows, it’s difficult to see into the car, but I can see there are two men, both with short, military-type haircuts. The one in the passenger seat is staring at us as they pass. He rolls down the automatic window about halfway. He’s wearing sunglasses and a dark suit jacket, white shirt, no tie. He smiles at us and waves with his right hand before the window rolls up again and closes. The car merges in front of us.
“What the hell was that?” George asks. I can see the sweat forming on his brow and upper lip. He keeps wringing his hands on the
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