corner. He hadn't realized that it was manned by an undercover FBI agent, but obviously the kidnapper had a sharp eye. Jack didn't see any upside to arguing the point, so he launched into the backup plan he and Andie had worked out in advance. Look, I never called the FBI. I did exactly what you said: no cops. If they're here, it's because they're following me. Not because I called them.
Or because your client called them.
Jack had to think for a second or two, then realized that by your client the caller meant Salazar. No, Ernesto wouldn't do that.
Yeah, sure.
Look, I don't know how this happened, but I'm sorry.
Sorry doesn't solve it, does it? The FBI is still here. So that leaves just one thing to do.
Please, don't take it out on Mia.
We gotta lose em, Swyteck.
Jack felt a slight sense of relief. Whatever you say.
Here's the drill. Turn around and go two blocks to the Miami-Dade County Courthouse. Enter the building through the south entrance. Go straight through the lobby and come out the north exit. Go down the north steps, and there's a vending machine for the Miami Tribune on the corner. Put in your quarter and reach inside. Go all the way to the bottom of the stack. The message is in an envelope underneath the last newspaper. You got it?
Yeah.
Now go! Don't run, but you'd better walk fast. I could change my mind about all this.
Andie was coming up on Miami Avenue when she spotted Jack across the street. He was walking at a brisk pace, headed away from his original location. He's on the move, she said into her microphone.
We got it, the rooftop post responded.
I'm in pursuit, said Andie.
The lunchtime crowd was at its peak, making it difficult to travel in a straight line. With vendors hustling everything from jewelry to sugarcane, from ferrets to sunglasses, the sidewalks along Flagler Street could feel like a Union Square flea market, but with a Latin beat. Andie wove her way through pedestrians, around street musicians, over a homeless guy who obviously had no trouble sleeping through all the commotion.
Can't see him, said Andie, working her way up a crowded sidewalk. Where's he now?
Crossing to the north side of Flagler Street. Looks like he may be headed for the courthouse.
Andie's pace quickened. That's not good. If he goes inside and gets stopped by security, it's sure going to look as though Jack called in law enforcement - which is exactly what the kidnapper told him not to do.
They don't routinely open briefcases. The money inside should just show up on X-ray as a bunch of typical lawyer papers.
Yeah, but they'll detect the Kevlar lining for sure. Possibly the GPS.
They had decided against the wire, but at a minimum, it had seemed prudent to equip the jacket with a tiny Global Positioning System tracking chip that would allow the FBI to monitor his movements wherever he went.
Not much we can do about that.
Andie kept walking. Crenshaw, you're nearest the courthouse. Go inside, flash your badge, flex your muscle - do whatever you gotta do to make them turn off their machines and let Swyteck pass.
Let's not overreact, said Crenshaw. So what if the security guards get all excited about Swyteck's Kevlar Windbreaker or GPS locator? That doesn't necessarily send a message to the kidnapper that he called the FBI.
You want to explain that one to a sociopath? We have to assume he's watching Swyteck at all times. Come on, Pete. I need you on this. Get moving.
Chapter 15
Once the tallest building south of the Washington Monument, the eighty-year-old courthouse was quite possibly the only architectural gem in Miami that would have looked just fine in the nation's capital. It was a quintessential government building, an imposing limestone skyscraper with massive fluted columns and Doric capitals, signatures of the neoclassic revival design. Visitors had to climb not one but two long tiers of gray granite steps made smooth by decades of foot traffic. Jack gobbled up the first tier quickly, then
Or because your client called them.
Jack had to think for a second or two, then realized that by your client the caller meant Salazar. No, Ernesto wouldn't do that.
Yeah, sure.
Look, I don't know how this happened, but I'm sorry.
Sorry doesn't solve it, does it? The FBI is still here. So that leaves just one thing to do.
Please, don't take it out on Mia.
We gotta lose em, Swyteck.
Jack felt a slight sense of relief. Whatever you say.
Here's the drill. Turn around and go two blocks to the Miami-Dade County Courthouse. Enter the building through the south entrance. Go straight through the lobby and come out the north exit. Go down the north steps, and there's a vending machine for the Miami Tribune on the corner. Put in your quarter and reach inside. Go all the way to the bottom of the stack. The message is in an envelope underneath the last newspaper. You got it?
Yeah.
Now go! Don't run, but you'd better walk fast. I could change my mind about all this.
Andie was coming up on Miami Avenue when she spotted Jack across the street. He was walking at a brisk pace, headed away from his original location. He's on the move, she said into her microphone.
We got it, the rooftop post responded.
I'm in pursuit, said Andie.
The lunchtime crowd was at its peak, making it difficult to travel in a straight line. With vendors hustling everything from jewelry to sugarcane, from ferrets to sunglasses, the sidewalks along Flagler Street could feel like a Union Square flea market, but with a Latin beat. Andie wove her way through pedestrians, around street musicians, over a homeless guy who obviously had no trouble sleeping through all the commotion.
Can't see him, said Andie, working her way up a crowded sidewalk. Where's he now?
Crossing to the north side of Flagler Street. Looks like he may be headed for the courthouse.
Andie's pace quickened. That's not good. If he goes inside and gets stopped by security, it's sure going to look as though Jack called in law enforcement - which is exactly what the kidnapper told him not to do.
They don't routinely open briefcases. The money inside should just show up on X-ray as a bunch of typical lawyer papers.
Yeah, but they'll detect the Kevlar lining for sure. Possibly the GPS.
They had decided against the wire, but at a minimum, it had seemed prudent to equip the jacket with a tiny Global Positioning System tracking chip that would allow the FBI to monitor his movements wherever he went.
Not much we can do about that.
Andie kept walking. Crenshaw, you're nearest the courthouse. Go inside, flash your badge, flex your muscle - do whatever you gotta do to make them turn off their machines and let Swyteck pass.
Let's not overreact, said Crenshaw. So what if the security guards get all excited about Swyteck's Kevlar Windbreaker or GPS locator? That doesn't necessarily send a message to the kidnapper that he called the FBI.
You want to explain that one to a sociopath? We have to assume he's watching Swyteck at all times. Come on, Pete. I need you on this. Get moving.
Chapter 15
Once the tallest building south of the Washington Monument, the eighty-year-old courthouse was quite possibly the only architectural gem in Miami that would have looked just fine in the nation's capital. It was a quintessential government building, an imposing limestone skyscraper with massive fluted columns and Doric capitals, signatures of the neoclassic revival design. Visitors had to climb not one but two long tiers of gray granite steps made smooth by decades of foot traffic. Jack gobbled up the first tier quickly, then
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