Chapter 8 - The Desperate Escape
Z
During the court recess, the atmosphere in the hallway was thick with anticipation. The media was already declaring the prosecution's opening testimony a total victory. But my investigator instincts were screaming at me that something was wrong.
Richard Holloway had been too quiet during the last twenty minutes of the hearing. He wasn't looking at the judge or the jury; he was constantly staring at his watch.
I walked toward the hallway window overlooking the back parking garage of the courthouse. Down below, an unmarked black ambulance was idling near the judge's private exit, its engine running.
"Lena," I called out, my voice sharp. "Where is Richard right now?"
"He went to the private holding cell with his legal team to discuss a potential plea deal," Lena said, checking her watch.
"No," I said, my pulse spiking. "He’s not pleading out. Check the holding cell now!"
Lena and two state troopers rushed down the restricted basement corridor toward the holding cell. I followed right behind them. When we reached the cell door, the guard posted outside was unconscious on the floor, a syringe sticking out of his neck.
Inside the cell, the rear emergency exit door had been forced open with a heavy electronic bypass tool.
"He's fleeing!" Lena yelled, pulling her radio. "All units, lockdown the courthouse! Richard Holloway is in transit!"
We sprinted through the emergency stairwell, taking the stairs four at a time, emerging directly into the subterranean parking garage.
Fifty yards away, Richard Holloway—having removed his suit jacket and ankle monitor using a specialized ceramic cutter—was being pushed in a wheelchair toward the black ambulance by two men dressed as paramedics. Vivian was already inside the vehicle, holding a duffel bag filled with passports and bearer bonds.
"Richard!" I roared, my voice echoing off the concrete walls of the garage.
Richard turned around, a manic, desperate grin spreading across his face. "Too late, mechanic! A private jet is waiting for us at a private airstrip in New Jersey! In three hours, I'll be in a country without an extradition treaty!"
The two fake paramedics drew suppressed handguns from beneath their coats and opened fire. Bullets ricocheted off the concrete pillars, sending sparks flying through the air. Lena and the troopers ducked behind a police cruiser, returning fire.
I didn't duck. I flanked around the left side of the garage, moving through the shadows behind a row of parked SUVs. My military training took over completely—every angle, every cover point, every distance calculated in milliseconds.
As one of the gunmen reloaded his pistol, I burst out from behind a concrete column, tackling him into the side of the ambulance. His head slammed against the metal door, knocking him out cold. The second gunman aimed at my chest, but I caught his wrist, slammed his arm against the bumper, causing him to drop the weapon, and swept his legs out from under him.
Richard scrambled out of the wheelchair, trying to climb into the front passenger seat of the ambulance himself.
I grabbed him by the collar of his expensive silk shirt and yanked him backward onto the concrete floor.
He landed hard on his back, gasping for air, looking up at me with pure, unadulterated terror. The powerful billionaire who had spent his entire life controlling people was now flat on his back, pinned under the boot of a retired military mechanic.
"You... you can't touch me!" Richard gasped, blood trickling from his nose. "I have millions! I'll buy the guards! I'll buy the prison!"
I leaned down until my face was inches from his.
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"You don't have enough money in the world to buy your way out of what's coming, Richard," I said softly. "Your money is gone. Your family is gone. Your legacy is dirt."
Sirens echoed down the garage ramp as dozens of federal agents swept into the area, weapons raised, securing the perimeter and handcuffing Vivian and the mercenaries.
