William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

“Come on out, Byrne. You’re just wasting our time.”

No thanks, Travis thought. At least I’m wasting it in a reasonably safe place.

“I don’t understand,” Travis heard the third man say—the one with the curly blond hair. “Why did we open fire? We were supposed—”

Travis heard another shot, then a cry of pain. He peeked over the top of the dumper. The man with the gun had shot his companion. He shot one of his own men!

“Ten seconds, Byrne. Then we come after you.”

Travis heard him count to ten, then heard the snap-crackle-pop of gravel that told him the two remaining men were approaching. In the six inches between the gravel and the bottom of the dumper, Travis could see Hush-Puppied feet shuffling down the driveway. He tried to think—what had his police training taught him to do in a situation like this? All those drills must have been worth something. Only one answer came to him. If you’re totally helpless: bluff.

“Don’t come any closer,” Travis shouted. “I’m armed.”

The footsteps stopped. Travis could see the Hush Puppies shifting weight, deliberating. He knew the questions that would be going through their minds: was he lying, and if not, what was he packing?

“We don’t want to hurt you, Travis,” said the man with the gun.

“You have a funny way of showing it,” Travis muttered.

“Throw down your weapon and come with us peacefully.”

To the morgue? No thanks. One of the two pairs of feet skittered away. Of course—he was going to do an end run, try to come up on Travis from behind. If Travis was going to make a break for it, the time was now.

Travis turned and bolted toward the Sears service entrance. As soon as he emerged from cover, he heard the first man yell, “He’s moving!” A second after that, Travis heard him fire another shot.

Too quickly. He was reacting, not aiming. Travis’s practiced ears could tell the bullet was more than a yard away from him. He kept barreling forward, zigzagging back and forth—an erratic target was a lot harder to hit. He grabbed an iron railing and vaulted over just as he heard another bullet zing by. Closer this time, but not close enough. He reached the service entrance and yanked at the door.

It was locked.

Travis glanced back over his shoulder. Both men were running toward him, trying to get close enough to get a decent shot off. Travis pounded desperately on the door.

A dark, unshaven man in a gray service uniform opened the door just a crack. “I’m sorry, sir. You need to deposit your invoice at the front register, then—”

Travis yanked the door open and shoved the man out of the way. He raced through the warehouse, careening down corridors lined with refrigerators and washing machines and power tools. Seconds later he heard the two alleged FBI men hit the door and race through.

Travis had no idea where he was going, but he knew if he stopped he was a dead man. The endless rows of merchandise were like a maze. And he was a stupid rat trying to find the cheese.

He plowed through a group of uniformed workers huddled around a clipboard.

“Hey, what’s the—”

Travis didn’t stop. He kept on running, sending the clipboard flying into the air. No time to inquire about exit doors. Judging by the sound of his pursuers’ footsteps, they were closing in on him.

Finally Travis came to a wide set of double doors. He smashed through and found himself on the main retail floor. Before he could stop himself, he careened into a display of wedding crystal. A punch bowl and some stemware shattered on the tile floor. A man behind a cash register whirled around. “Just a minute—”

Unfortunately, Travis didn’t have a minute. The two men in the unseasonable overcoats burst through the double doors and spotted him almost immediately. Travis plunged further into the store, hoping against hope they wouldn’t fire in front of witnesses. It was just possible that he could lose them in the shopping mail.

After a crash-and-smash detour through the perfume and hosiery departments, Travis found himself in the main thoroughfare of the mall. He was panting and gasping for air. He probably hadn’t run like this in years. His overweight body was complaining mightily.

He blended into the main stream of traffic, then glanced back over his shoulder. His trackers were still there, but following at a discreet distance. Apparently, his hope was fulfilled—they didn’t want to be seen gunning him down before hundreds of witnesses. He passed the Hickory Farms outlet, the Suncoast Video store, and the food court. He was hungry and he wanted to pick up some food—some real food, with meat in it—but he didn’t think that advisable at the moment. His immediate objective was to get back to his car and get the hell out of here.

He circled the food court and retraced his steps. A quick glance confirmed that his pursuers had done the same. They were walking faster now, closing the gap. They knew what he was trying to do, and they were determined to prevent it.

Travis reentered Sears and spotted a small group of people talking, apparently on their way back to their cars. The group was composed of three couples, all well-dressed yuppies. Travis plunged into their midst.

“Excuse me,” he said to one of the men. “Do you have any jumper cables?”

“Sure,” the man replied, stroking his salt-and-pepper beard. “In the back of my Land Rover. Car trouble?”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t you know? I try to do some shopping for the little woman’s birthday, and my car won’t start.”

“That stinks,” said one of the other men. “We were just gonna pop into the wine shop. If you don’t mind waiting, we’ll be happy to help you out.”

Travis tried to maintain his facade of calm. “The trouble is—I’m supposed to meet the little woman at eleven-thirty. And it’s her birthday.”

“Ye gods,” the first man said, checking his watch. “We’d better move fast. We’ll come back for the wine later.”

“Thanks,” Travis said. “I really appreciate it.”

Travis fell into step with them, careful to keep his newfound friends between himself and the two men in the overcoats. He didn’t have to look over his shoulder; he knew they were still back there.

After providing a lame story about his gimp leg, Travis convinced the group to go to their car first, then drive him to his own car. All seven of them squeezed into the Land Rover; Travis kept himself in the middle. He instructed the driver to park his car in the aisle between two parking rows, blocking oncoming traffic. Travis then crawled into his car and put it into neutral, resisting suggestions that he give it another try first. Travis steered while the others pushed his car in front of the Rover. As he stepped out of his car he saw the long black sedan with leaded windows pull into the same lane, just behind the Rover. It was waiting.

The first man, whom Travis had now learned went by “Buzz,” attached the jumper cables to the two cars’ batteries. After a believable period of time Travis tried his engine and—what a surprise!—it started right up.

After letting the car charge briefly, Buzz removed the jumper cables and closed the hood of Travis’s car. “Well, that should take care of—”

Travis never heard the rest of the sentence. He floored the accelerator and peeled out of the parking lot. In his rearview mirror, he saw the sedan press forward, but they couldn’t get around the Land Rover. The sedan honked, then someone leaned out the window and began shouting. Buzz closed his hood, got into the Rover, and tried to get out of the way. He eased forward, the sedan riding his rear bumper.

Travis was already at the Park Lane intersection and the light was green. He turned right and shot down Park Lane, leaving the sedan and its occupants well behind.