"Exactly," I said, gripping the steering wheel. "Hannah is going to panic. She’ll have to tell Ray that the restraint is sitting at the house of a guy in a child-protection motorcycle club. Ray is a control freak who thinks he can intimidate anyone. He won't let Hannah drive over here to explain it away. He's going to come get it himself to shut us up."
"And when he leaves the house?" Caroline asked softly.
"When he leaves the house, he's committing a moving violation," I said. "I'm going to follow him. The police will pull him over for driving on a suspended license, and they will arrest him on the spot. That leaves him in the back of a squad car, and it leaves Hannah entirely alone in that house without her enforcer."
I hung up the phone and started the engine. Now, the trap was set. All I had to do was wait for the front door to open.
CHAPTER 3: The Lock On The Outside
I kept my silver sedan parked against the opposite curb, the engine idling low and the air conditioning switched completely off. The afternoon heat inside the cabin was stifling, pressing down on my chest like a physical weight, but I didn't roll the windows down any further. I needed to remain completely unnoticed. My phone sat face-up on the center console, the screen dark, as the minutes dragged out in the quiet residential neighborhood.
Fifteen minutes after I had instructed Caroline to make the phone call, the front door of the faded green rental house jerked violently open.
Raymond Kelso didn't just walk out onto the concrete pad; he stormed out. His heavy shoulders were hunched, his fists clenched at his sides, and his face was flushed a dark, furious red. Hannah followed him as far as the threshold, her arms wrapped tightly around her own ribs, speaking frantically to his back. Ray didn't even turn around to acknowledge her. He just threw his hand out in a sharp, dismissive chopping motion, ordering her back inside.
The door slammed shut. Ray marched directly to the gray Ford F-150 leaking oil on the lawn.
He wrenched the driver’s side door open, hoisted his heavy frame into the cab, and cranked the ignition. The engine roared to life with a deafening, un-muffled mechanical rattle. He didn't bother checking for cross traffic. He threw the transmission into reverse, tore backward over the cracked concrete curb, and dropped into drive, leaving a deep rut in the dead grass.
I put my sedan into gear and pulled away from the curb, keeping a safe two-block distance as I followed the Ford out of the neighborhood.
Ray drove exactly like a man who believed the rules of the world did not apply to him. He blew through a rolling right turn at a four-way intersection, merged onto the main county artery without signaling, and pushed the heavy truck ten miles over the speed limit. He was heading straight toward my side of town, intent on retrieving the severed zip-tie and the brass bell before I could show them to anyone who mattered. He thought he was driving into an intimidation tactic. He didn't realize he was driving into a net.
I picked up my phone and pressed the speed dial for Marcus.
"He’s on the move," I said, my eyes locked on the battered tailgate of the Ford. "Heading westbound on County Road Nine. He is driving the gray F-150, license plate ends in Charlie-Four-Seven."
"Copy that," Marcus replied, his voice slipping back into the flat, controlled cadence of a veteran emergency dispatcher. "I have a county sheriff's deputy sitting in the parking lot of the strip mall two blocks from your subdivision. He has the vehicle description and the suspended license alert."
"Tell him to get ready," I said. "He is about to cross the intersection at Elm."
"Stand by."
I hung back, letting a white delivery van merge between my sedan and Ray’s truck. We crested the small hill leading toward my neighborhood. The traffic light at the upcoming intersection turned yellow. Instead of braking, Ray accelerated, the Ford’s engine whining as he blew straight through the solid red light.
It was the easiest probable cause a patrol officer could ever ask for.
From the shadows of the strip mall parking lot, a black-and-white county cruiser pulled out sharply. The light bar on the roof erupted into a blinding strobe of red and blue flashes. The siren wailed a short, aggressive burst.
Ray’s brake lights slammed on. The heavy truck swerved slightly before lumbering over to the shoulder of the road, the tires grinding against the gravel.
I didn't stop. I maintained my speed, cruising slowly past the traffic stop in the opposite lane. Through my passenger window, I watched Ray Kelso shove his driver’s door open before the cruiser had even come to a complete halt. He stepped out, his chest puffed up, pointing an angry finger back at the deputy. It was the absolute worst thing a man with a suspended license could do. The deputy drew his hand flat against his duty belt, barked a sharp command, and ordered Ray to turn around and place his hands on the bed of the truck.
Ray's arrogant, furious posture evaporated. He realized, too late, that this wasn't an argument he could win with volume. I watched the deputy pull a pair of steel handcuffs from his belt and secure Ray’s wrists behind his back.
The enforcer was officially off the board.