"Vancouver is lovely this time of year," Strak mused. "But there's a problem, Casey. The board members you mentioned? They don't like loose threads. And you, my friend, are a very frayed piece of silk."
Casey didn't wait for "one." He spun on his heel and bolted toward the back of the alley, his sneakers squeaking against the wax. Behind him, he heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of Strak’s boots—a predator who knew the prey had nowhere left to go.
He tapped a small black device on his belt. Casey’s heart plummeted. He looked toward the exit, but the heavy steel doors were bolted from the outside. Run Away, Scene 2 - Casey Flip, Johnathan Strak...
"Traffic’s a bitch when you’re avoiding the main roads," Casey shot back, trying to keep his knees from knocking. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a battered leather satchel. "I have the drive. Everything’s on it. The ledgers, the offshore accounts, the names of the board members who signed off on the 'cleanup.'"
Strak tilted his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his thin lips. He reached into his inner pocket, but instead of a passport, he pulled out a silver lighter. He flicked it open, the flame dancing in his dark eyes. "Vancouver is lovely this time of year," Strak mused
The air in the alley turned ice-cold. Casey gripped the satchel tighter. "If anything happens to me, the drive auto-uploads to the feds in sixty minutes. You kill me, you kill your employers."
Casey swallowed hard. "I told them I was bringing a friend. But let’s be clear, Strak—I want the passport and the keys to the safe house in Vancouver. No more games." They don't like loose threads
The fluorescent lights of the deserted bowling alley hummed with a low-frequency dread. Casey Flip leaned against a chipped ball return, his fingers tracing the jagged edge of a neon-pink 12-pounder. He wasn’t there for a game; he was waiting for the one man who could either get him out of the state or put him in the ground.