The rusted V8 engine of Elias’s flatbed truck roared to life, a deep, rattling explosion of sound that shook the enclosed loading bay. I jammed the heavy column shifter into drive and hit the garage door release button on the cinderblock wall. As the corrugated steel door rolled upward, letting in the harsh mid-morning sunlight, a sharp, violent crash echoed through the interior wall of the hardware store behind me. Hollister and his deputies had just breached the front glass.
I didn't wait for the door to open completely. I slammed my foot on the accelerator. The heavy truck surged forward, the roof of the cab scraping loudly against the bottom of the rising steel grate. I swerved hard to the right, bouncing off the sloped concrete apron and hitting the opposing side street. In the rearview mirror, I could see the reflection of blue strobe lights flashing frantically against the brick walls of the alleyway, entirely focused on the front entrance I had just abandoned.
Every turn of the heavy, unassisted steering wheel sent a spike of white-hot pain through my bruised ribs. The left side of my face was completely numb, though fresh, warm blood still seeped from the gash on my chin, dripping steadily onto my collar. I kept the truck off Main Street, navigating the narrow, pothole-riddled service roads that ran behind the industrial park.
On the passenger seat, the county emergency scanner I had grabbed from Elias's desk hissed and popped.
"Unit One to Dispatch, the hardware store is clear," Deputy Miller’s panicked voice crackled over the speaker. "Suspect is not inside. Store owner claims the suspect forced him to the ground and stole a vehicle. Rusted Ford flatbed, commercial plates."
"Copy that," the dispatcher replied. "Updating ten-thirty-one. Suspect is mobile."
There was a brief, heavy silence on the radio before Hollister’s voice keyed in. He didn't sound panicked. He sounded furious. He had seen the empty delivery bay, and he knew I wasn't just running blindly.
"Dispatch, where are the local press pools right now?" Hollister demanded.
"They are set up at the main courthouse, Sheriff. The Commissioner's budget hearing started at ten hundred hours."
"He's going for the cameras," Hollister barked, the realization tearing through his manufactured narrative. "All units, converge on the downtown square. Do not let that flatbed reach the courthouse steps. If he exits the vehicle with anything in his hands, you are authorized to neutralize the threat."
The downtown square was two miles away. I pushed the heavy truck up to fifty miles an hour, ignoring the rattling suspension and the loose tools clattering in the flatbed behind me. I had to beat Hollister's perimeter. If a cruiser intercepted me on these back roads, Hollister would shoot me through the windshield and claim I reached for a weapon. He needed me dead before I could speak.
I ripped the blue bandana from my pocket and pressed it hard against my bleeding jaw, trying to keep my vision from blurring. The adrenaline was beginning to fade, replaced by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. I was seventy-two years old. My heart pounded an erratic rhythm against my bruised sternum, a clear warning that my body could not sustain this level of trauma much longer. But the small, heavy weight of the black USB drive resting in my breast pocket kept my hands locked on the wheel.
I rounded the final corner onto Elm Street, the courthouse square suddenly rising before me. The massive limestone building was surrounded by a manicured lawn and a wide, concrete plaza. Three white news vans with satellite dishes extended on their roofs were parked illegally along the loading zone in front of the sweeping marble steps.
There were no county cruisers. I had beaten the perimeter by less than two minutes.
I didn't look for a parking spot. I drove the heavy flatbed directly over the concrete curb, the suspension groaning loudly, and slammed the brakes, abandoning the truck squarely on the plaza lawn, fifty feet from the main doors. I left the engine idling and the keys in the ignition.
I pushed the heavy driver’s door open and stepped out. My left leg nearly buckled without the support of my aluminum cane, but I forced my knee to lock. I ignored the shouts of a startled groundskeeper and limped directly toward the towering oak doors.
Inside the soaring marble atrium, the metal detectors were unmanned. The security detail was likely glued to the dispatch radios in their office, trying to track the very fugitive who was currently bleeding on their polished floors. I walked straight past the screening checkpoint, keeping my right hand pressed over the breast pocket of my jacket to secure the drive.
The double doors to the main assembly chamber were at the end of the hall. I could hear the muffled, echoing drone of the County Commissioner speaking into a microphone. I hit the brass push-bar with my good shoulder and shoved the doors open.
The assembly chamber was packed. Five elected commissioners sat elevated on a curved wooden dais at the front of the room. Behind them, a massive white projection screen displayed a complex, color-coded pie chart detailing the county's municipal expenditures. To the left of the dais, an AV technician sat at a small folding table cluttered with laptops and HDMI cables.
The gallery seating held roughly eighty local residents, business owners, and municipal workers. In the back row, three television cameras were mounted on heavy tripods, their red recording lights glowing steadily in the dim room.
The heavy wooden doors slammed shut behind me with an echoing boom that cut the Commissioner mid-sentence.
Every head in the room turned. The low murmur of political gossip died instantly.
I stood in the center aisle, breathing heavily, my chest heaving against the blood-soaked flannel of my jacket. I knew exactly what I looked like. I looked like a violent transient, a madman who had just wandered out of a horrific car wreck. But I kept my posture rigidly straight, channeling the exact military bearing I had carried for twenty years.
"Sir?" the lead Commissioner, a balding man named Abernathy, said into his microphone. His voice echoed nervously through the overhead speakers. "This is a closed session for the budget docket. You need to step outside. Someone call for the bailiff."
I did not stop. I walked down the carpeted center aisle, my boots leaving small, dark impressions of Marcus’s diner coffee and my own blood with every step.
"I am a taxpayer in this county," I said. My voice was hoarse, but it carried clearly across the silent room. "And I have a direct submission for the law enforcement budget review."