Bridger patted his arm. “Do your best. If I know DJ, he’s dug himself a deep hole and only comes out when he has to.” Bridger glanced to Slippy and saw the raised brow. “Yeah, we’re cut from the same cloth.”
Slippy gave him a lopsided smile. “That ain’t necessarily a bad thing.”
“Yeah, I’ll tell him that if we can find him before the cartels do.”
Central Florida
DJ bounced along the dusty dirt road in the worn out pickup, the radio turned low so that he could hear beyond the belching and backfiring engine. He slowed the truck and practically stood on the brakes at the intersection.
He sighed as he lifted the old gas station map to his eyes and studied it. It had been far too long since he’d left his swamp cabin. Not since the last hurricane had he so much as ventured out of the shadows. He’d done the majority of his trading with the locals who seemed to enjoy going into town on the weekends.
DJ would rather stay hidden in the woods, hunting, fishing and trapping to supply his needs. He was actually surprised when the truck finally started. He had to jerk the battery from the interloper’s car to get the old pickup to turn over, but he felt it would be far easier to blend into the background of south Florida in the beat up old rust bucket than in the nearly new Buick that the cartel hitmen had rented.
And who sent professional hitmen to the swamps for somebody like him? Who the hell was this Hermana guy, and why did he want DJ dead? Murillo, he could understand. After they had been made by the cartel, Bridger took over the operation and practically bombed them into oblivion. DJ could only imagine how long it took to rebuild the little villages that processed their cocaine. He imagined that the dirt runways used to fly the blow out weren’t salvageable either. He also imagined that Murillo wasn’t happy looking for a new summer house.
Too bad he hadn’t been at any of the locations they took out.
DJ chuckled to himself as he recalled them using Laughlin’s connections to do their dirty deeds. Wolcott had flown the CIA’s own chopper into the supply depot and they loaded it with every munition they could fit. They charged it all to Laughlin’s White Rock program then slipped out before the supply nerds could verify authorization.
He actually laughed when Laughlin came over the radio and screamed at them. Lisa was fit to be tied as soon as she heard his voice and Bridger simply turned the radio off. DJ had clung to Big Bertha and prayed that he never pissed off Bridger or Mauk because those sons of bitches were crazy.
He folded the map and stared at the dirt roads.
Turning left would send him to Arcadia and Bradenton, eventually to Tampa. A right would send him to Okeechobee and eventually I95. But going straight would keep him off the beaten path a while longer. Oh, he’d eventually hit I75 and head north to the panhandle. But where would he go after that?
DJ sighed and wiped the sweat from his brow. Even though it was officially winter, Florida rarely cooled off enough to kill the humidity and everybody from the South knew that it wasn’t the heat, it was the humidity.
Right.
He shoved the old pickup into gear and feathered the clutch, the rusty beast shuddering as it pulled through the intersection. He couldn’t know for sure where he was going, but as long as it was away from the Murillo cartel hitmen, he would gladly put the miles between them.
“I’ve no idea where I’m going, but there’s no sense in being late.”
Central Texas
Lisa drove the stolen Mercedes as far as she dared. The fuel gage tapped at the big red “E” and she knew it was only a matter of time. She pulled into the truck stop along Interstate 45 and sighed as she realized the drying blood slickening the black leather interior of the sedan would be a dead giveaway that something nefarious this way had come.
She slipped out of the wide sedan and glanced at the ladies room. She pushed her way inside and grimaced at the dried speckles of blood splattered across her face and shirt.
She unzipped her black hoodie and hung it across the top of the stall beside the sink. She began to scrub at her hands and face until she had removed the dark brown freckles then pulled her white t-shirt off and tossed it into the trash.
She glanced into the mirror again and snorted at herself. There was no way she was running around Texas in a stolen car wearing just a black bra.
She quickly inspected her jeans and they passed muster. The black motorcycle boots probably had a nice spray of blood, but it was well hidden. She snatched the hoodie from the wall and slipped it back on. She had just zipped it up when a blue haired lady strolled into the restroom. Lisa glanced at her in the mirror but the older woman was intent on getting to an open stall quickly and didn’t give the dark haired woman at the sink a second glance.
Lisa quickly rinsed the bloody spots from the sink then pushed through the door. She made her way inside and pulled a generic touristy shirt from the rack and grabbed a bottle of iced tea. As she stood in line, she snatched up a pack of pistachios and a cheap prepaid cellular phone then studied the people coming and going as she waited.
She quickly paid for the items then hustled back out to the car. Behind the dark tinted windows she quickly donned the t-shirt and pulled the hoodie back over it. She stared at her reflection and sighed.
“I have to figure out what the hell is going on here.” She rubbed
