I wound my way out of Cleveland, sticking as much as possible to the smaller county roads. I was too visible on the interstate, too catchable by the fleet of Escalades with tinted windows I imagined speeding after me, though I had no way of knowing who might actually be chasing. But I sure freaked out every time another car came up on my bumper.
These slow roads sometimes led me into potential traps—miracle miles clogged with Walmart and Kroger’s traffic. I felt less exposed and more in control, my direction less predictable among the corn fields and wood lots.
I had no particular direction or destination in mind. Getting away from Cleveland was my only goal. That I seemed to be gravitating south and east was more by accident than any conscious aim.
When it got dark, I stopped for fuel in a town called Warren. I circled the truck under a fluorescent lighted awning thick with gnats and got my first look at the damage taken in the escape.
It wasn’t quite as bad as I had expected. The roof and back quarter panel taken the brunt, the roof all dented and scraped, while deep scratches scored the right rear fender. Only the stub of the FM antenna remained. That explained why the reception had gone to crap.
As I rounded the bumper, I saw some wires sticking out of a shattered brake light. I went to stuff them back in, but it was clear that these were not part of the standard equipment.
I tugged on one and out came a little black box the size of a deck of credit cards. ‘WorldTracker SMS’ was inked in white on the front. It was the freaking GPS unit!
It meant they knew I was in Warren, that all my evasive maneuvers had been for naught. They were probably homing in on this gas station this very moment.
I stomped the tracker to bits on the pavement, got back in the truck and squealed out of the station. I drove like a madman, doubling back, circling blocks, cutting through parking lots.
Wouldn’t you know, as I was screaming through Youngstown on 289, there came this charcoal Escalade in the other direction. An Escalade with tinted windows! It slowed abruptly as I passed. And in my rear view I caught them waiting for a line of traffic to clear so they could make a U-turn.
I couldn’t be sure they were Jared’s crowd but I wasn’t about to stick around to find out. I slammed my foot on the gas and surged down that road taking the first Y into an area with lots of tightly packed houses.
I plied a twisty route through the neighborhoods, and promptly got myself stuck in a cul-de-sac. I didn’t panic. I got turned around, facing the main road and turned off my lights. It might be the last place they would expect to find me, assuming there were no more trackers stashed on this truck. Maybe this dead-end was not a refuge but a trap.
I sat there, watching and waiting until some lady with a garden hose started giving me the evil eye. I took a deep breath, flicked on my lights and moved along.
I thought for sure they would be on my tail as soon as I back on a through road, but I found myself on a lonely, windy state highway with a single set of tail lights way up ahead, and no one behind me.
I seemed to have lost them, if indeed that Escalade was ‘them,’ and not simply my paranoia. Still, I couldn’t relax. My palms stayed slippery. I could still hear my pulse pounding in my head.
I wished to hell now that I had never left Florida. But how could I have stayed? What was left for me there, but to wither and die?
No one had forced me to become a mule. A simple call to Uncle Ed would have let me know his job offer was a sham. I could have gone someplace else—some place without drug smugglers out to kill me. Some place interesting, like New Orleans or Manhattan.
