Chapter Twenty-five

The kid got in and Chip started to drive. He was about to ask him a question when his phone rang.

“It’s Chip,” he said.

“Chip! It’s Gigi.” Her voice was hushed. “The FBI is here and they’re doing a raid! Everyone is supposed to stay where they are.”

“Did they tell you why?”

“No, but I’m calling you because Ken is here and he’s refusing to follow their orders. I think he’s going to get arrested.”

Chip smiled. “That’d be too bad.”

“Oh, they’re yelling at me. Gotta go.”

He rushed to add, “Are you going to –”

It was too late. She’d ended the call.

Chip shot a look at the kid in his passenger seat. He wasn’t really a kid. He looked young to Chip, but he was probably older than his son. It dawned on him that he might be dangerous.

“I just got a call that a bunch of FBI agents are in my hotel. Are they looking for you?”

He shifted, clutching his bag. “Yes.”

What was in that bag? Chip had heard there was some talks of the FBI looking for someone on the islands, but he hadn’t paid it any attention. Now he wished he had.

“Why is that?” Chip asked.

The kid said nothing.

Chip continued driving, leaving the hotel behind. He decided to try something else. “Why would Claire get arrested?”

It took him a moment to reply. “Because of me.”

No kidding. Chip resisted the urge to roll his eyes. They were getting nowhere. “If you don’t start talking, I’m going to turn around and hand you in. Is that what you want?”

The kid leaned down, and for a second Chip was afraid he would pull a weapon from his bag.

He didn’t, though. Instead, he buried his face in his hands. “Maybe that’s a good idea. I don’t know.”

What kind of a criminal was this kid? He wasn’t a good negotiator. “Was Claire helping you?”

“I don’t want her to get in trouble.”

“I’m not going to rat her out,” Chip said heavily. “Now talk.”

He let out a sigh. “She wanted to get me to a lawyer.”

Chip nodded. “Okay. And?”

“We were supposed to meet with him next week. I don’t know how they found me.”

Chip drove along in silence. They’d already reached Olga, the sleepy little town where he lived. He’d driven there instinctively, but now he wasn’t sure what to do with the young outlaw. His gut told him that the kid wasn’t a threat.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Marty. Marty Coursin.”