Chapter 17: No Way Out
Chapter 17: No Way Out
Richard’s slick lawyers had completely abandoned him. His offshore bank accounts were entirely frozen by the feds. He was reduced to hiding in a squalid, twenty-dollar-a-night motel on the bleak outskirts of the city, waiting desperately for a specialized smuggler he’d paid exorbitant fees to get him across the Canadian border in the trunk of a car.
He sat on the damp, stained mattress, clutching a cheap, unregistered pistol with trembling hands, jumping at every passing siren or shadow outside the window. He was sweating profusely through his ruined designer clothes. The arrogant, polished sheen of the Easter Sunday mogul was completely washed away, replaced by the absolute, pathetic terror of a hunted animal.
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He looked at his cracked phone screen. Midnight. The smuggler was supposed to be here.
There was a soft, rhythmic knock on the flimsy wooden door. Richard exhaled a ragged breath, immense relief washing over him. "Thank God," he muttered, wiping his brow and quickly unlocking the rusty deadbolt.
