No Time To Run (Legal Thriller Featuring Michael Collins, Book 1) Read Free Page B

passport, said he didn’t have anything to declare, and was waved through.
    Vatch flashed his badge and followed behind.
    “ Or could it be that you do need the money?” Vatch whistled. “Now, that would be something, burning through all that dough in just over two years. What was the grand total, again?”
    “ Don’t know what you're talking about.” Michael kept going. His head was cloudy from the Valium, and he wondered if he was really having this conversation. Michael knew that he would have to deal with Vatch at some point, but not like this, not so soon.
    A man in a long, black coat stood in front of the door holding a white sign with Michael’s name on it, and Michael remembered Lowell’s offer to arrange for a car.
    “ Thank you, God,” Michael mumbled under his breath. He pointed at the sign. “That’s me. Let’s go.”
    The driver hesitated as he noticed the man in the wheelchair ten yards behind giving chase and saying something about secret bank accounts.
    “ He’s not with me,” Michael said to the driver. “Just a crack-pot.”
    “ Fine, sir.” The driver took Michael’s knapsack into his hand, his eyes lingered for a moment on Michael’s sandals, torn pants, and wrinkled shirt. “Gonna be cold,” the driver said, and then started walking.
    Michael followed him out of the terminal to a shiny black Crown Vic. The sun was setting, and everything was cast in an orange tint, even the inch of New York slush that had settled into the nooks and crooks of the otherwise cleared sidewalk.
    The driver opened the door and Michael got in.
    “ See you, Francis.” Michael closed the door, and Agent Frank Vatch flashed an obscene gesture. He also shouted something that likely went along with that gesture, but Michael couldn’t hear it.
    The driver put the key in the ignition, and started the car. He began to shift the car into gear, but stopped.
    “ You an internet guy?”
    Michael thought about it, and then nodded.
    “ Yeah.” He saw no sense in disturbing the only rational explanation the driver could think of for helping a thirty-something hippie escape in a limousine from an angry paraplegic.
    “ Lost my f’n shirt in the bubble,” the driver said. “You mus’ be one of the only ones left.”
    The driver reached down, and then pulled up a thick manila envelope. He handed it to Michael.
    “ Supposed to give you this.”
    On the outside, was the logo of Wabash, Kramer & Moore, and inside was a binder of paper with a cover memorandum written by some first-year associate summarizing the contents.
    It was Andie’s police file.
    “ Mind if we make an extra stop?”
    “ You got me for the night.” The driver pulled away.
    When they merged into traffic, Michael briefly looked up from the papers at a group of people standing in line for a taxi.
    That was when he saw him. Michael couldn’t remember the guy’s name, but they talked once or twice when he stayed at the resort. He loved using big words, and always wanted to play Scrabble with other people in the cantina. He was odd at the time, but the beaches around Playa del Carmen were filled with odd people, particularly the Sunset.
    Shaped like a barrel—six foot, maybe just over, balding, goatee― every part of his body - from his legs to his neck to his fingers - was thick. That was really the best description for him: Thick.
    He must have been on the same flight as Michael, but how co uld he have missed him? Michael thought about asking the driver to stop, but then thought better of it. He didn’t know what he would do.
    Michael stared as they drove past. And then, at the last possible moment, the thick man looked at Michael, smiled, and waved.

CHAPTER FIVE
     
    Adjacent to LaGuardia Airport, ten mismatched buildings, collectively known as Riker’s Island, sat on a small patch of land in the middle of the East River. They housed over 130,000 men and women who had been arrested, imprisoned or otherwise just plain thrown away. In the