Page 31 of Wild Oblivion

Jack was never a fan of stakeouts.

At that moment, a medical transport van pulled into the lot and drove to the main entrance. Two men in pale green scrubs hopped out. With heads on swivels, they gave cautious looks around the parking lot before they stepped into the lobby.

Something was odd about it. Too much situational awareness.

We watched as they moved to the front desk and presented paperwork.

JD and I shared a look.

We decided to hang out for a minute and see where this was going.

A moment later, Kathy appeared and escorted them through the facility.

I shared another suspicious look with Jack.

I can’t explain it, I just had a bad vibe about the whole thing. I pulled my phone from my pocket, logged onto the county network, and ran the plates of the van. The vehicle came back registered to Coconut Emergency Medical Transport, LLC.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

I figured my paranoia was just getting the best of me and dismissed it.

It wasn’t long after that when the two men in scrubs pushed Henrik out of the facility in a wheelchair. He slumped in his seat, looking sedated.

That was our cue.

We hopped out and hustled toward the van as they loaded Henrik inside.

“Excuse me,” I shouted, flashing my badge as we approached.

Their eyes rounded. They slammed the doors, hustled to the front, and hopped inside. The driver cranked up the engine and dropped the van into gear. The tires chirped as he pulled away from the main entrance. Rubber squealed as they banked the vehicle around.

JD and I ran back to the Porsche and hopped inside. Jack twisted the ignition and put the car in gear. He let out the clutch and launched out of the parking space.

The transport van tilted as it turned out of the lot, tires screaming, engine howling.

Jack followed.

The Porsche cornered on rails. He stood on the gas as soon as we turned onto the straight. We were on their bumper in no time.

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Icalled dispatch and asked for backup.

The van barreled down the avenue and took a hard right on Clearwater Boulevard. Tires howled, and inertia lifted the van onto two wheels for an instant.

Jack followed around the corner and downshifted.

I held on as inertia threw me toward the left side of the vehicle.

The shifter kicked back against Jack’s palm, popping out of gear with a metallic snarl. The tach revved, and we lost momentum.

The van pulled away.

Jack stabbed the clutch, blipped the throttle, and jammed it back into 2nd gear.

“Can’t find it, grind it,” I snarked.

Jack scowled at me and stood on the gas. These older Porsches weren’t horsepower beasts. Slow by modernstandards, but their quirky handling and tactile feedback made them gems from an analogue era.