False Witness Page 33

  Watch the road, pal, Wellington wanted to whisper back.

  On I-85 the Town Car picked up speed, and the next major problem reared its ugly head. “Don’t look now,” Isaiah said, holding the phone away from his mouth, “but there’s a cop car gaining on us.”

  “How far back are the feds?” Wellington asked.

  Isaiah put the phone back to his ear. “Where are you guys now?”

  He listened. Then, “Okay, that’s about two miles behind us.”

  “How fast are you going?” Wellington asked Isaiah.

  Isaiah gave him a don’t-bother-me look.

  Wellington glanced in his side-view mirror. The police lights came on.

  “He’s trying to pull you over,” Wellington said.

  Isaiah snuck a peek in the rearview. “I don’t see anything,” he said. But then, into the phone, “The state police are trying to pull me over. What do you want me to do?”

  The feds must have told Isaiah to keep driving. Maybe they were trying to get through to a dispatcher and explain the situation. But word didn’t seem to be reaching the officer tailgating Isaiah and Wellington, lights flashing and siren blaring. The Town Car, a quarter of a mile ahead, slowed to the speed of traffic.

  “If you don’t pull over, the mob will know something’s going on,” Wellington said.

  “I’d have never thought of that,” Isaiah snorted. He put on his turn signal and worked his way to the right lane. “When I stop this car, I want you to get out,” he told Wellington. “Get in front of the cop car. Delay them; tell them what’s going on. Whatever.”

  “What are you going to do?” Wellington asked. This plan gave him a severe stomachache. Arguing with the authorities, particularly the state police, was not exactly his strength.

  “I’m going to take off so we don’t lose these guys.”

  “With all due respect,” Wellington said, “this is a stupid plan.”

  But Isaiah was already skidding to a stop on the shoulder.

  78

  On the trip back from Jacksonville on Friday morning, Drew rode in the front of a black sedan driven by an FBI agent named Lester Aranson while Jamie slept in the back. About ten thirty, Drew woke her up to tell her the news that Lester had heard from the Atlanta office.

  “The feds arrested Huang Xu at a bank in downtown Atlanta,” Drew said. “They’re following a few other triad members to a place believed to be their headquarters.”

  Jamie felt lighter at the news—the first real breakthrough in the last two weeks. She had a strong desire to be there, to actually see justice served, but she knew the feds probably wouldn’t let her within ten miles of the triad headquarters. “How long before we get to Atlanta?” she asked.

  “About four more hours,” Drew said.

  For better or worse, Jamie realized, it would probably all be over before she even returned to the city. The triad that had tried to shatter her life either would be brought to justice or would slip through the cracks one more time.

  “I wish I could be there,” Jamie said. The silence from the front seat confirmed her assumption that she could not. She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. Instead, she prayed for justice.

  Wellington sheepishly got out of the Camaro and started walking toward the police car, his hands on top of his head. Immediately two officers jumped out and yelled at Wellington to get back in his car.

  Motivated by thoughts of Jamie bound and gagged by the Manchurian Triad, Wellington took a few more steps. “I need to explain something highly important,” he shouted.

  “Not one more step!” one of the cops yelled, drawing his gun.

  Wellington stopped, his knees nearly buckling.

  “Back in the car!” the man yelled.

  Wellington took a step back . . . two, and then Isaiah punched the gas. The tires spun and squealed, leaving behind some long, black skid marks and two shocked police officers. The driving cop jumped in the car, quickly backed up so he wouldn’t run over Wellington, and took off after Isaiah. The other officer ran toward Wellington, grabbed him, and threw him toward a concrete barrier. He forced Wellington to stand spread-eagle and cuffed Wellington’s hands behind his back.

  Wellington interrupted the reading of his Miranda rights. “I understand all that,” he said. “I waive it. But please listen to me.”

  “Save it,” the cop said gruffly. “You and your buddy are in a lot of trouble.”

  But Wellington knew he couldn’t back down. Not this time. “My friend and I were trying to keep within sight of a vehicle driven by members of a Chinese triad, the Chinese mob,” he said, talking quickly. “Some FBI agents should be coming by any minute, trying to close the gap. But in the meantime, they asked us to keep these guys in sight. It’s a long story as to why—but if you don’t believe me, just call the FBI.” Wellington looked over his shoulder, hoping to see a screeching federal sedan any minute.

  The officer gave him a shove. Kicked Wellington’s legs even farther apart. “Why don’t you just turn around and shut up while I pat you down,” he said.

  He finished patting down Wellington’s chest and waist and had started on the first leg when the sedan came speeding past. The feds had a blue light on the dashboard to alert traffic but were not using their siren.

  “There they are!” Wellington cried. “That’s the FBI car. At least call your partner. Call the feds. Something! It’s a matter of life and death!”

  The cop watched the sedan. He turned again to Wellington. “Don’t move a muscle,” he said. Then he reached for his radio to alert his partner.

  Isaiah had his own problems. He had put a little space between his Camaro and the state police car based on the element of surprise. But he could no longer see the Town Car that he was supposed to be following. Worse, he was fast approaching a major decision—stay on I-85 North or veer onto Route 400, another eight-lane divided highway that ran in a northerly direction west of the I-85 corridor.

  He still had the FBI agent on the phone. “I lost visual contact,” Isaiah said. “You want 400 or I-85?”

  “Just a second,” the agent said.

  “Hurry up.”

  The state trooper was gaining on Isaiah, siren blaring. If the driver of the Town Car heard the siren, he would probably take the first exit and never be seen again. Isaiah decided to slow down a little. He couldn’t risk pulling within sight of the Town Car right now, not with the police officer hot on his tail. Maybe Isaiah could make up the distance once the state trooper figured out what was going on.

  “That state cop is behind me again with his siren blaring!” Isaiah said into the phone. This was getting ridiculous.

  “We know. We’ve alerted their dispatcher.”

  “I’m taking 400,” Isaiah said. “You guys can take 85.” He swerved at the last minute toward the exit on his right. He was hoping to shake the trooper, but it didn’t work. Isaiah slowed some more, and the trooper was now right on his bumper.

  This was so frustrating! Isaiah felt like punching somebody. The mob was getting away while the good guys were stumbling over each other, worried about a traffic infraction.

  At that moment, just when Isaiah was ready to do something drastic, though he wasn’t quite sure what, the trooper turned off his siren. Isaiah rolled down his window, stuck his arm out, and gave the officer a thumbs-up.

  Then he punched the accelerator. Let’s see what this baby’s got.

  79

  Isaiah guessed right. He caught sight of the Town Car a few miles after the 400 turnoff as the vehicle rolled through the exact-change lane at the toll booth. The state trooper was still behind Isaiah but had killed his lights and siren. Isaiah decided to make up a little more time and go through the Cruise lane, though he had no Cruise Card on his windshield. For the first time that day, he allowed himself to enjoy the adrenaline rush—the rules of the road no longer applying to him.

  “I’ve got them in sight again,” he told the FBI agent. “I’m just going through the toll boot
h.”

  “We know,” came the response. “We’ve established visual contact with you.”

  “I thought you were going I-85.”

  “There are multiple vehicles involved,” the agent said. “Maintain visual until we catch you; then you can back off and slow down.”

  “Ten-four,” Isaiah said. He smiled to himself. Sure, it sounded hokey and maybe a little disrespectful. But after everything he’d been through, a guy was entitled to have some fun.

  A few minutes later, Isaiah was following the FBI sedan at a distance. He wasn’t about to miss the fireworks. The sedan took the Holcomb Bridge Road exit, a six-lane local highway heading northwest through a gauntlet of traffic lights. Isaiah followed. And he wasn’t the only one. The state trooper passed Isaiah and tucked in several car lengths behind the federal sedan. Two other nondescript sedans passed Isaiah and fell into line as well. Two local police cars appeared out of nowhere, trailing Isaiah and the other state trooper by about half a mile. It would be a good time to rob a bank someplace.

  Everyone turned left on Highway 9, including Isaiah, who set off a chorus of horns when he ran the light after it had turned red.

  Isaiah followed the law enforcement entourage to a strip mall located on the fringe of the Roswell historic district. Six federal agents jumped into action, securing the parking lot and vacating the businesses—a Wings restaurant, a tanning salon, a dry-cleaning establishment.

  One of the agents directed Isaiah to a spot by another federal car on the far side of the lot. “We’re going to need a statement from you after this is over,” he said.

  “What’s going on?” Isaiah asked.

  “There’s a wooden fence behind this strip mall,” the agent explained. “On the other side of the fence is a large, historic brick house converted into an office, tucked back among those trees down there. It’s where the Town Car is parked. We’re securing all four sides, and then we’ll move in.”

  “Is that where they’re holding Jamie Brock?” Isaiah asked. It had been at the front of his mind the entire day, the reason he had agreed to help Stacie in such a high-risk assignment, the reason he was determined to not let the Town Car out of sight.

  The agent looked dumbfounded at the question. “She’s already been freed,” he said.

  Isaiah felt a rush of elation, the joy of winning a huge SEC football game times ten. “What? When?”

  “I can’t talk right now,” the agent said over his shoulder as he hustled away and pulled out his radio. “Stay in this area, and I’ll fill you in later.”

  Isaiah called Jamie’s number, but she didn’t answer. He left an elated message, all the while watching his tax dollars at work. He had never been much of an FBI fan before, but even a cynic like him had to be a little impressed at this operation.

  Within minutes, the place was crawling with law enforcement officers. They quickly secured the strip mall, as well as the historic estate located across the street from the mob headquarters. Though Isaiah couldn’t see it, he assumed they had done the same with the residential neighborhood that abutted the back of the brick house and the row of houses on the other side.

  In the midst of the law enforcement officers scurrying around, another black sedan pulled into the parking lot, and Stacie Hoffman got out of the backseat. Isaiah jogged toward her and called her name. She looked haggard, but her face lit up as Isaiah approached. She gave him a quick hug.

  “Thank you so much, Isaiah. I’ll never forget this.” She turned to the man next to her, who appeared to be in a fair amount of pain. “This is my husband, David,” Stacie said.

  Even before David could express his thanks, one of the agents handed the Hoffmans bulletproof vests. “Put these on quickly,” he said, ignoring Isaiah. “We’re taking you to that white van over there.” He pointed to a vehicle parked about seventy-five feet from the house. “It’ll be just outside the perimeter. With binoculars, you should be able to ID anybody who comes out.

  “Keep your heads down. Let’s go.”

  Before they hustled away, David turned to Isaiah and lowered his voice. “I knew we could trust you, Isaiah. We owe you our lives.”

  “No problem,” Isaiah said. But he couldn’t help feeling like a hero.

  Isaiah stood in the parking lot, mesmerized by the beehive of activity swirling around him. Local police stopped and rerouted traffic; officers pushed pedestrians a few blocks away. SWAT teams and officers in bulletproof vests swooped in and blockaded the driveway of the brick house with federal sedans and what looked like armored trucks. Agent in Charge Parcelli stood behind one of the vehicles with a portable mike and speaker. He ordered the triad members to toss out their weapons and come out with their hands on their heads.

  There must have been fifty rifles trained on the building. It seemed to Isaiah like the entire National Guard had suddenly converged on Roswell, Georgia.

  Isaiah didn’t exactly have a front-row seat, but he was inside the taped-off area, squatting behind a federal sedan, about a hundred yards from the building. He could see the front door through a stand of pine trees. He was so engrossed watching the house that he didn’t realize Wellington had arrived. He felt a tap on his arm.

  “How’d you get here?” Isaiah asked.

  “The state police brought me here,” Wellington said. “I guess the feds called and said I might be needed for questioning.”

  “You did good, my man,” Isaiah said. He could tell from the look on Casper’s face that the kid had never felt so cool in his entire life. But that didn’t mean he felt safe.

  “Shouldn’t we move back a little farther?” Wellington suggested.

  80

  The first few actual arrests went like clockwork, as far as Isaiah could tell. Watching it all go down, the culmination of a case on which he had risked his own life, made Isaiah’s body hum with intensity. A few minutes after Parcelli started making demands on his mike, six members of the Manchurian Triad marched out of the brick building, one at a time, hands on their heads.

  These were mob members, Isaiah reminded himself. Men who would snuff out a human life without remorse. But today, they had no options. They calmly left the building, heads held high, eyes focused straight in front of them. Federal agents swarmed the gang members, hustling them away from the building, handcuffing them, throwing them in the back of squad cars.

  After the initial round of arrests, Parcelli got back on his microphone. He warned that anybody else inside should leave the building immediately. The entire scene grew disturbingly quiet. Isaiah had his eyes glued on Parcelli, who appeared ready to give the order for the agents to swarm the building. That’s when Isaiah heard the sound of breaking glass and saw smoke pouring out of an upstairs window.

  He thought at first that someone had fired a smoke bomb or tear gas into the building. But then he heard someone shout, “Fire!” and a nearby police radio crackled with a confirmation that the fire had been started on the inside, blowing out a window. “They’re burning evidence,” somebody said.

  Parcelli motioned forward, and dozens of agents stormed the building. Smoke still billowed from the upstairs window, but the fire didn’t appear to be spreading. Sirens blared in the distance behind Isaiah, the sound of approaching fire trucks. Ever curious, Isaiah edged closer.

  A few agents scrambled out of the building with another Chinese man handcuffed between them. A few seconds later, two more agents appeared with a man in custody, hands cuffed behind his back, and Isaiah had to shake his head to make sure he wasn’t seeing things.

  Walter Snead. Hunched over. Pulled along by two feds. He stumbled, but the agents had a tight grip on his arms and kept him upright, dragging him toward the vehicles until the professor gained his footing again. He was wearing dress pants, a white shirt, a yellow tie—it was Snead dressed for class in everything but his sports coat. The man’s gray hair was disheveled, his face contorted in a trademark Snead scowl.

  What was he doing here?

  The men had pulled
Snead about twenty feet from the building when Isaiah heard a pop that seemed to come from the second or third floor. Snead lurched forward, his body going limp, the agents keeping him from doing a face-plant on the concrete. A bright red spot appeared in the middle of his shoulder blades, spreading like a starburst on his back.

  Isaiah ducked behind a car, watching the building through the glass windshield. Chaos erupted. He heard somebody yell, “Gun, upstairs right!” He heard other gunshots, tried to get his bearings, watching while trying to keep his body shielded, focused on the mob headquarters.

  The explosion that rocked his world came from a totally unexpected direction.

  81

  They were still about two hours from Atlanta when Lester’s phone rang again. Jamie kept her eyes closed but listened carefully. Lester kept his remarks vague and cryptic. After a few minutes of listening, he asked, “Where do you want me to bring her?” and Jamie knew she was headed in for more questioning. He signed off, and Drew started in with the questions.

  “What’s the word?”

  “You might want to wake up Ms. Brock,” Lester said.

  Drew reached back and touched Jamie’s knee. She pretended to wake up, stretch a little, open groggy eyes. “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Lester just got a call from the FBI team in Atlanta,” Drew said.

  Jamie sat up straighter. She checked out Lester’s face in the rearview mirror and could tell that something was terribly wrong. She braced herself for the news.

  “We located the triad’s headquarters,” Lester said, his eyes on the road. “We made some clean initial arrests, six members of the triad’s leadership including the granddaddy, a guy named Li Gwah. The AIC gave one additional warning and sent the SWAT team in.”

  Lester hesitated for a moment, and Jamie sensed an uncertainty as to how much he wanted to share. She waited him out, and eventually he continued. “There were three other men still in the building. They apprehended one without incident. The second was Walter Snead—”