SEVEN
At the Outskirts Motel, where Chance had paid cash for a room, he counted out what was left of the few bills he always kept with him for emergencies. If this wasn’t an emergency, he didn’t know what was. He’d at least purchased a cheap burner phone. Depending on how long it took him to get out of this situation, he wasn’t sure he could live on a hundred and fifty bucks. If he survived this, he would make sure to increase his emergency cash on hand.
If Chance didn’t figure out who was behind the deliveries, he would be dead. But there were worse things than death.
Chance stared at the phone. What an idiot he’d been nearly twenty years ago. One simple mistake born of greed and stupidity had brought him to this point in his life—the ripple effect of one stone tossed on a pond.
He set the phone aside, piled the two shabby pillows behind his head on the bed, and rested his aching body while he surfed the television for a local news channel. Maybe he would learn more about his plane crash. He’d communicated with the NTSB that he’d been in the hospital and would call them soon.
Maybe his delivery contact had seen the news that the plane had crashed, but Chance doubted that, even then, he would be given mercy if he didn’t deliver the package. This one last delivery that was to secure his freedom forever might be the delivery that put the nails in his coffin.
Chance sat forward as a news story played about a body found in the forest, and the images revealed a vaguely familiar face.
Fuzzy memories came back.
He’d been twisted up in the cockpit for how long, he didn’t know, when a concerned face appeared, the voice gruff as the man had spoken.
“Don’t worry, buddy. Help is on the way. You hang in there. You’re going to be all right.” That man’s face now appeared on the television.
A sick feeling engulfed Chance.
He had no doubt that saving Chance’s life had cost Jim Raymond his own.