Chapter 5 - The Asphalt Dragnet
The rain began to fall as Reynolds’ cruiser tore down Interstate 35 South, its siren wailing a high-pitched, desperate scream into the darkening night. Raindrops struck the windshield like tiny lead pellets, blurring the red taillights of the evening traffic into long, bleeding streaks of light.
I sat in the passenger seat, my hand clutching Ethan’s leather-bound journal against my ribs like a holy relic. Every time the car hit a bump on the highway, my mind flashed back to Leo’s crushed femur, the bone calluses, and the iron cage sitting in the damp darkness beneath Ethan’s house.
Reynolds drove with disciplined, aggressive focus, weaving through heavy commercial truck traffic at over one hundred miles an hour. His radio crackled continuously with real-time updates from the Texas Department of Public Safety.
"All units, target vehicle has bypassed Exit 184," the dispatcher's voice crackled through the speaker, layered with heavy static. "Comal County units have established a visual on the suspect vehicle. Speeds exceeding ninety-five miles per hour. Target is weaving dangerously across lanes."
"Do they know they've been spotted?" Reynolds asked sharply into his shoulder microphone.
"Negative, unit 4412. No emergency lights have been initiated yet. We are moving state trooper units into position five miles ahead to execute a rolling roadblock near mile marker 175."
"Tell them to exercise extreme caution," Reynolds warned. "The male suspect, Richard Miller, has a prior federal conviction for illegal firearm possession. Assume they are armed."
I looked out the side window at the dark Texas countryside blurring past. "Why San Antonio? Why drive south?"
"San Antonio has private airfields," Reynolds said coldly, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "Richard Miller held a private pilot's license until it was revoked by the FAA three years ago. If they reach a private hangar with a charter aircraft pre-paid in cash, they can be over international airspace in under twenty minutes."
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out with trembling fingers. It was a text message from Sarah Chen at the hospital.
Leo is awake again. He asked if you found his daddy’s book. I told him you did. He said to tell you the 'black box' is in the car.
"Reynolds," I said, holding the screen toward him. "Look at this. Leo just told Sarah Chen there's a 'black box' in the car."
Reynolds glanced at the screen, his brow furrowing. "A black box? In Richard's Lexus?"
"When Ethan was building his firm," I explained, my memory flashing back to late-night phone calls with my brother, "he was obsessed with vehicular safety. He installed dual high-definition, hardwired dash-cam telemetry systems in all family vehicles—systems that record internal audio, cabin video, and GPS coordinates directly to an encrypted onboard solid-state drive hidden beneath the center console."
"If that Lexus was Ethan's old car..." Reynolds realized, his eyes widening. "...then every conversation Rebecca and Richard had inside that cabin for the last three years was recorded automatically."
Before I could reply, the radio burst into frantic, chaotic noise.
"MAYDAY! MAYDAY! ALL UNITS, TARGET HAS REFUSED TO YIELD! TARGET HAS STRUCK A STATE TROOPER CRUISER AT MILE MARKER 178 AND OFF-ROEDED ONTO THE FRONTAGE ROAD!"
Screams of metal against metal and the roar of high-horsepower engines echoed through the radio receiver.
"Target vehicle is spinning out on the muddy embankment near the Cypress Creek bridge overpass! All units, move in for hard containment!"
"Hang on!" Reynolds roared, stomping his foot to the floor. The cruiser surged forward, its engine screaming as we cleared the rise of a hill.
Ahead of us, a quarter-mile down the highway, the night sky was torn apart by a blinding constellation of red, blue, and white flashing lights. At least six state trooper vehicles had pinned a metallic silver SUV against the concrete guardrail of the Cypress Creek overpass.
The Lexus's front bumper was crushed like an accordion, smoke billowing from beneath its twisted aluminum hood.
Reynolds slammed on the brakes, the cruiser skidding sideways across the wet asphalt before coming to a halt thirty feet from the wreckage.
We burst out of the doors, drawing our weapons—or in my case, staying behind the safety of the cruiser's engine block as Reynolds drew his Glock and advanced alongside four state troopers with drawn rifles.
"GET YOUR HANDS OUT WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM! DO IT NOW!" a trooper screamed through a bullhorn.
The driver’s side door of the crushed Lexus burst open.
Richard Miller stumbled out into the pouring rain. His expensive grey suit was torn, his face covered in blood from an exploded airbag. In his right hand, he held a dark metal semi-automatic pistol.
"BACK OFF!" Richard shrieked, his voice wild, cracked, and completely unhinged. "BACK THE HELL OFF OR I’LL BLOW MY OWN HEAD OFF!"
"DROP THE WEAPON, RICHARD!" Reynolds shouted, taking cover behind a high concrete barrier. "IT'S OVER! WE HAVE THE BASEMENT! WE HAVE ETHAN'S JOURNAL! IT IS ENTIRELY OVER!"
At the mention of Ethan's journal, Richard's face went completely blank. His eyes drifted toward the passenger side of the vehicle.
The passenger door opened slowly.
Rebecca stepped out into the rain.
She wasn't wearing her signature pastel cardigans. She wore a dark leather jacket, black trousers, and carried a heavy canvas duffel bag slung over her shoulder. Her hair was soaked, plastering against her skull, her manicured face twisted into a mask of pure, ugly venom.
She didn't look at the police officers pointing rifles at her chest. She didn't look at her bleeding brother.
Her eyes swept across the line of police cars until they locked directly onto me.
"Thomas," Rebecca called out, her voice carrying over the sound of the pouring rain and the roaring sirens with a chilling, artificial sweetness that made my blood run cold. "You always were an annoying, nosey little pest, weren't you?"
"Where is the money, Rebecca?" I shouted back, stepping out from behind the door, my voice booming through the storm. "Where is Ethan's money?!"
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Rebecca laughed—a sharp, shrill, hysterical sound that rang out over the flooded highway.
"The money is gone, Thomas!" she screamed, taking a step toward the edge of the bridge overpass, where the dark, swollen waters of Cypress Creek raged thirty feet below. "Every single cent is gone! And those pathetic little brats should have died in that cellar three months ago!"
