Page 27 of Go First
“Damn,” Marcus muttered.“Let’s go.”
They jogged across the lot, slipping slightly in some fish guts and drawing more jeers from the crowd, but Kate ignored it.Her focus was on the truck easing out of the slip, merging into the trickle of early-morning traffic heading back toward Portland.
By the time they reached their sedan, the truck had to be two blocks ahead already.
“Hold tight,” Marcus said, throwing the car into gear.
The chase was not cinematic.The streets of Payson were narrow, lined with parked cars and delivery vans, the air stinking of fish and diesel.The food truck lumbered through, not reckless but determined, weaving between vehicles.
Kate kept her eyes locked on the license plate, calling directions as Marcus maneuvered.“Left at the light—he’s pushing it—watch the van—”
The truck swerved suddenly, clipping a dumpster at the corner.Metal screeched.One tail light shattered, red plastic scattering across the street.
“That’s it,” Marcus growled.“We got him marked now.”
They kept on him until traffic thickened closer to the city.Finally, Martinez pulled into a side lot and braked hard.
Kate and Marcus were out of the sedan before he could move, guns holstered but hands ready.
“Hector Martinez?”Kate called, voice sharp.
The man climbed down from the cab slowly.Early fifties, lean from labor, face lined deeper than his years.His apron still stained with fish blood.He raised his hands slightly, palms outward.
“Don’t shoot.I didn’t do anything.”
“We just want to talk,” Marcus said, though his tone was iron.
Martinez’s eyes darted between them, wary.“You’re Feds.”
Kate stepped closer, her voice measured.“You ran from us, Mr.Martinez.”
“I didn’t run,” he snapped.“I just drove.I thought you were someone else.”
“Like who?”
He shrugged.“I might owe a bit of money to a few people down on the market.People who don’t send you a final reminder.”
His defence wasn’t the greatest, but it wasn’t the worst.Kate saw the fear beneath it, the weariness.She lowered her voice.“We’re not here because of money.Talk to us.Tell us why you were at the Whitfield party Thursday night.”
At the name, his expression twisted.Bitterness, sharp as bile.
“That man,” Martinez spat.“That thief.That liar.”
“Tell us,” Kate pressed.
And the story came tumbling out.
How Whitfield had promised multiplication of seed money, blessings tenfold.How Martinez had emptied his family’s savings—fifty thousand dollars—because the pastor said faith must be shown, tested.How the money had vanished while Whitfield paraded a new Italian sports car.How Martinez’s wife had left, taking the children to live with her sister, leaving him with nothing but a one-room apartment and debts that clawed at his heels.
His voice cracked once, but he recovered quickly, bitterness hardening into stone.“You think I don’t know what he did?He destroyed me.He destroyed us.And now he’s dead.Good.God’s justice, maybe.”
Kate let the silence stretch, watching him.“Where were you Thursday night, Mr.Martinez?”
His eyes flicked away.“Home.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.Watching tv.”