Blind Zeus

By Fred Horrell

What would happen if the President and First Lady secretly snuck away on a weekend fishing trip to East Tennessee? Six Secret Service agents accompanied them for protection and planned to return early Monday morning. It would have been perfect except for Mother Nature's unexpected catastrophe. After watching five out of six of their Secret Service agents fall to their death with the collapsing bridge, they find themselves thrust into an impossible situation. Should the President and First Lady hide their identities from those helping to save their remaining agent?

While Nurse Shelby Ford tends to the injured Brandon Dyson, they embark on a roller-coaster ride of mixed emotions, ranging from contempt to hate to eventually even love.

President Bentley and the First Lady Susan are isolated from the rest of the world, trapped in a rural community. No electricity. No cell phone service. Limited fresh water and food. Will their Christian faith remain intact as a multitude of circumstances threaten to overwhelm everyone? Others had to be searching for America's first family? But where are they? How long would they remain in Ragland Bottom hiding their true identities?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886546620

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Blind Zeus

Fred Horrell

Copyright © 2023 Fred Horrell

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author. This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events is purely coincidental.

Because of the dynamic nature of the internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN 979-8-88654-659-0 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-662-0 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

This book is dedicated to Thomas Hutchinson, devoted and loving husband to Carrie Hutchinson and best friend to Fred Horrell.

We would also like to dedicate this book to Fred's brother, Steve Horrell, who was always there for everyone.

Chapter 1

There Is More to Life than Protecting the President

Chapter 2

The Country's in the Toilet

Chapter 3

You're 400 Short

Chapter 4

What Is a Hush Puppy?

Chapter 5

Get Us off This Bridge

Chapter 6

I'll Be Hornswoggled

Chapter 7

Don't Make Me Sick, Sam, on You

Chapter 8

That .22 Don't Got a Safety

Chapter 9

You Got This

Chapter 10

It's Hell out There

Chapter 11

You Are Not in Control…

Chapter 12

We Call Ourselves Raggis

Chapter 13

It Just Ain't Fair

Chapter 14

It Ain't Gonna Be Pretty

Chapter 15

I Followed Him like a Puppy Dog

Chapter 16

You Don't Smell That Great

Chapter 17

He's Been Electrocuted

Chapter 18

Thank You for Not Listening to Me

Chapter 19

I'm Here and Won't Leave

Chapter 20

Don't You Ever Shut Up?

Chapter 21

The President Has Hair

Chapter 22

Tell Him the Truth…

Chapter 23

Needing a Wooden Leg

Chapter 24

Did You See Anybody Else?

Chapter 25

I Can't Reveal My Sources

Chapter 26

You're About to Give Birth

Chapter 27

I Don't Think She Trusts You

Chapter 28

Shelby Will Turn on You like a Wildcat

Chapter 29

Dag Gum, That's a Big Boat

Chapter 30

I'm Never Getting a Hot Bath

Chapter 31

Who Do We Need Protecting From?

Chapter 32

Who Would Steal Food?

Chapter 33

I'll Take the Truth, Please…

Chapter 34

It's a New Day in America

Chapter 35

I Couldn't Pull the Trigger…

Chapter 36

Listen to a Little Story

Chapter 37

I Don't Owe Them Anything!

Chapter 38

I Am with You Always…

Chapter 39

It Sounds So Simple

Chapter 40

We Can Depend on Him

Chapter 41

You're One of Us Now

Chapter 42

He Could Read Me like a Book

Chapter 43

Let's See If I Can Explain It

Chapter 44

You Do Have a Sneaky Side, Don't You?

Chapter 45

Who Is Hurst Chrysler?

Chapter 46

I'm Going to Hide Your Shoes…

Chapter 47

How Long Should I Keep His Clothes Hostage?

Chapter 48

Try Not to Scratch…

Chapter 49

CQ! CQ! CQ!

Chapter 50

Trust Me

Chapter 51

He Loved to Write

Chapter 52

What Do I Do?

Chapter 53

Can I Give You Some Pointers?

Chapter 54

Pitching Woo…

Chapter 55

Is That the Same Star the Shepherds Saw?

Chapter 56

Where Do We Sleep Tonight?

Chapter 57

Greater Love Has No Man than This…

Chapter 58

The Son I Never Had

Chapter 59

God Bless America

Chapter 60

You Don't Need to Do This

Chapter 61

Are Those Dead People?

Chapter 62

I'm Lost

Chapter 63

Thumbs Up

Chapter 64

Skedaddle

This book is dedicated to Thomas Hutchinson, devoted and loving husband to Carrie Hutchinson and best friend to Fred Horrell.

We would also like to dedicate this book to Fred's brother, Steve Horrell, who was always there for everyone.

Chapter 1

There Is More to Life than Protecting the President

Thomas Hudson Morris, you promised me last year that we would get married after your retirement. So far, you haven't done either. Jennifer Comet slammed a clenched fist onto the breakfast bar, upsetting her cup of coffee. You finished the campaign like President Bentley asked, yet you still work sixty hours a week. I'm tired of waiting for you. Throwing her hands in the air signaled frustrated surrender. This will make the third time for postponing the caterer, wedding planner, printer, and the church. I can't take any more.

While rubbing his ear, the Secret Service agent cautiously attempted calming his irate fiancée. I know, Jennifer, and I'm sorry. They put that rookie, Datsun, with me, and the kid is almost ready to solo. Give me a few more—

Last week, you told me Brandon Datsun was better than any other partner you ever had. Last week, the kid was the greatest thing for the Secret Service since you. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears of painful anger. There is always another excuse for not marrying me. All the stress is making your hair gray before you hit fifty.

Flinging her engagement ring like a 100 mph baseball at his head, she shrieked, I am sick of your excuses. All our friends are married, pregnant, raising their families, or divorced. He instinctively snatched the ring in midair with his left hand. Thomas, I'm tired of being second place to the Service. I want you moved out by tomorrow night.

The veteran agent drove his Mustang aimlessly through the flooded DC streets from clogged storm drains. His GT's wiper blades squeaked against the drizzling rain while darkened clouds added to the gloomy weather and his deepening depression. He passed the fenced capital building, concrete barriers in front of the White House, a closed Washington monument, and the National Guard patrolling the mall. Washington's dreary streets, with the lack of tourists, compounded his consuming melancholy. Repeated calls on his cellular phone yielded only the familiar recording on Jennifer's answering machine.

As he angrily tossed his iPhone into the passenger's seat, a man hovering under an umbrella came from nowhere and jaywalked in the center of the block. Morris slammed the brake pedal, forcing the Mustang's rear end to skid. From underneath the umbrella, the pedestrian executed the third finger salute. Tommy softly cursed while correcting the steering wheel. Ten days of rain, hail, or light snow with no sunshine. Can it get any more depressing? She knew what I did for a living before we started dating. She can call me. Popping the clutch, he spun the rear tires, soaking the jaywalker. He noticed the traditional arches of McDonald's and decided a cup of coffee might take his mind off her and his dismal mood.

Two long lines at the counter forced him to reconsider the need for his morning caffeine fix. The mouthwatering aroma of frying bacon, hash browns, and hotcakes on the grill tempted Tommy to order the Big Breakfast with Hotcakes. How many breakfasts did Jennifer and I miss because of my job? Why did I always choose the job over her? The agent reluctantly chose the shorter of the two lines, settling for a long wait, scanning the scene of customers enjoying their breakfasts. He fondled her engagement ring in his windbreaker pocket and thought, I'll give Jenn a few days to cool off. She might take me back if I tell her I've turned in my resignation. I'll tell her I'm giving them three months' notice. When they still need me, she would have to understand. How many days do I wait?

At the far end of the dining area, he observed a young couple with two small children. Feeling envious, the tired agent noticed the young daughter seated in a high chair, laughing at her older brother making faces. If things had been different, that could have been me twenty years ago with my own kids. Jennifer's right, I've always put the Service ahead of her. She would make a fantastic mother. I'd never seen that much painful disappointment in her eyes before this morning. Is it too late for us to start our family? What can I do? He swallowed hard, tamping down his emotions.

A short dark-haired man entered through the rear door from behind the family, and immediately, the agent's pulse quickened. Years of training taught him to study the body language of everyone near the presidential couple. Morris recognized fear and panic in the eyes and face of the man moving slowly toward the front of the dining area. His stubbly beard and filthy clothing forced the apprehensive agent to assume the man was homeless. A few of the customers moved aside and cringed at the sight of the newest customer as he slowly moved deeper into the restaurant. Thomas frantically attempted to make eye contact with him. From his peripheral vision, Morris observed the increasingly anxious suspect choose the line to the agent's right. This position prohibited Thomas from scrutinizing the suspect unless he turned around.

In front of the agent, a father and his young son discussed a problem with Mother Nature. Alerting his flustered dad and everyone else in their line, the blond-headed boy vocalized his immediate need for a bathroom. Thomas used the dilemma to his advantage. Tapping the father on the shoulder, he offered to place their order for them. Gratefully, the father accepted the courteous gesture, offering to pay in advance. The dad withdrew a pen and paper from his son's backpack and handed them to Morris. Instead of writing the father's orders, Thomas scribbled on the paper, The man standing in the next line wearing the black windbreaker may hold you up. Call 911 and be ready to hit the floor. Thomas Morris Secret Service Agent 7144.

While Thomas wrote, he turned to obtain a clearer view of the suspect. Underneath the agent's left arm, he felt sweat soaking the holster cradling his 9 mm Beretta. The restaurant is packed with innocent civilians. Any gunfire will result in casualties. Keep your cool, control the situation, and isolate the suspect.

With the father and son walking quickly toward the men's room, Thomas moved closer to the woman receiving the breakfast orders. Morris noted the fidgeting man never removed his hand from his dirt-stained pants pocket.

Arriving at the stainless steel counter, Thomas studied the teenage employee, vigorously chomping her gum. He nonchalantly slid the piece of white paper toward her. She picked up the paper, and the veteran agent cringed as her eyes widened. Are you sure?

Morris thought, Her first mistake.

After posing the unwelcomed question, the employee stared at the suspect in the adjoining line—mistake number 2. Years of training and experience forced the veteran agent to make a decision. Thomas unzipped his jacket, allowing better access to the Beretta.

Catching a glimpse of his holster, an elderly woman waiting for her order shrieked, He's got a gun!

Pandemonium consumed the restaurant as customers ran, screaming in various directions. Everyone bolted except the confused father and son returning from the men's room. As they rounded the corner, the suspect grabbed the youngster by the hair, pressing a snub-nose .38 against the child's temple. The father froze in confused bewilderment while the panicking customers escaped the restaurant.

Morris unholstered his weapon, dove to the tiled floor, rolled once, and stood with both hands grasping his Beretta. Aiming his gun with the aid of his Crimson Trace optic site at the criminal's head, the agent screamed, Everyone get out now! Move! He focused the red dot on the perp's forehead as customers outside peered through the glass front windows. The agent heard scurrying employees behind him while he opted for the green dot, increasing accuracy. Rely on your training. Concentrate on the boy and the green dot. Knees bent. Control breathing. Take the slack out of the trigger. Focus and relax. Confronting the suspect, he ordered, Let the boy go.

Drop your gun, or I shoot bambino!

I'm a Secret Service agent and cannot release my weapon. Come on, pal, don't you hear the sirens? The police are on their way. You've only created a little trouble. Don't be stupid and allow this to turn into big trouble. Release the boy and drop your gun.

The desperate man's hand shook as he ordered, I no leave till you give me money, or I shoot bambino.

Speechless, the bewildered parent stood motionless until Morris added, Please, sir, I'll take responsibility. Help your son by stepping outside and talking to the cops.

Slowly, the terrified father stumbled out the front door. A quiet silence engulfed the vacated restaurant while the two men maintained their deadly standoff. Intermittently, the occasional clicking and humming of restaurant equipment interrupted the mounting tension. Outside, sirens ceased as they converged upon the fast-food restaurant.

Smiling at the frightened child, Thomas spoke softly. Son, everything will be all right. I need you to stay calm and duck down when I tell you.

Forcing the terrified child to whimper, the gunman roared at Thomas, You shut up. I boss here. Drop your gun, or I kill you, and then I kill bambino.

Sensing an opportunity, Thomas defiantly stepped toward the suspect. Swinging his .38 from the boy's temple, the perspiring man warned, Stop! I kill you! Stop!

Squeezing off two quick rounds, Morris shouted, Now, son! Duck down and run.

The gunman hurtled backward from the recoil of the two bullets impacting his skull. Blood and gray matter sprayed the interior of the glass front doors. Outside screams continued as two uniformed DC police officers stormed through the stained entrance.

As the youngster ran toward the officer, his partner ordered, Drop the gun now.

With Morris's ears still ringing, he gently laid his weapon on the tiled floor and announced, I'm with the Secret Service. Check the suspect and make sure his gun is secured. The pungent metallic smell of nitroglycerin from the discharged weapon hung in the air.

*****

From his tiny office in the White House basement, Brandon Datsun listened in disbelief to the detective on the phone. The young agent raced upstairs, requesting permission to drive downtown. At the DC police station, Brandon found a haggard Thomas Morris seated in an interrogation room with tears staining his cheeks. A senior detective entered, asking Agent Datsun, Can you take him home? He's in no condition to drive.

Thomas and Brandon rode in silence until Morris finally spoke, I've never fired my weapon except at the practice range. I pray to God I never fire it again.

Do you want me to drive you home or Jennifer's?

Take me home.

The two men sat in silence in Morris's driveway, with the car engine idling. Searching for something profound to say, Brandon realized nothing could ease the pain in the veteran agent's face. Montana and Ranger drove the motor home to Beemer's.

Nodding, Thomas opened the car door.

Morris, are you going to be all right? Why don't I call Jennifer and have her come over to keep you company?

His superior shook his head negatively as he reported, That new recruit at the academy broke your one-mile running record this morning. Brandon nodded his head in acknowledgment. Thomas stepped out of the car and reported, Your record stood for seven years, but now it's history. Everyone eventually becomes history. Kid, get out of the Service now before you wind up like me. There is more to life than protecting the president. I've lost so much and gained so little.

Watching his dejected mentor saunter slowly to the front door like an injured turtle, Brandon thought, What's happened to him? Is that me in twenty years? Is there more to life than the Secret Service?

Chapter 2

The Country's in the Toilet

A sleek Revcon motor home eased away from the Lodge Apartments in Alexandria, Virginia. Houston G. Beemer sat inside with two men and a woman busily working over his face and hair. She carefully applied his eye makeup while one of the cosmetologists applied facial foundation on Houston's right cheek. The barber whistled softly while clipping meticulously at the remaining hair on Beemer's balding head. Agent David Montana absorbed the scene as the motor home gently glided down the interstate.

A smiling Beemer asked, What is on the agenda for President Bentley tonight?

We need you to get through the first quarter of a Wizards basketball game. Afterward, you will make a photo appearance at a dinner for the Boy Scouts convention.

If my eighth-grade biology students could see their teacher now, Beemer joked, they wouldn't believe I'm impersonating the president of the United States while he goes off.

David replied, While the first family is secretly relaxing at Camp David, as the barber placed the toupee on the impersonator.

Beemer examined his toupee in the mirror and teased, You Secret Service guys have been doing this for the president for years.

Montana winked and answered, Since FDR needed to sneak down to Georgia to be with his honey.

With the cosmetologist helping him into his coat, Beemer asked, And nobody ever catches on?

Nobody catches on when we have a double that looks exactly like the president. The first lady chose you from the other twenty candidates because you had the president's smile and even his hand gestures down perfectly. Straightening the Windsor knot on Beemer's tie, Montana added, Now remember, no conversation. We'll keep the press cameras far enough away. Continue the smile and hand gesturing. No voice.

Beemer flashed his smile that landed him the exciting secret employment. Yes, sir, no talking.

One of the best-guarded secrets is that Bentley wears a hairpiece, the barber commented while adjusting the toupee.

Brushing the lint roller over Beemer's jacket, the cosmetologist added, I still can't believe they found someone with the president's frame, dark-blue eyes, and those wide ears. No other double resembled President Bentley so exactly.

It took six months to find this winner, Agent Montana confessed. We haven't been disappointed. Bentley used Beemer during the final weeks of the campaign. If former President Griffin had used his double, the election might have gone the other way.

Maneuvering through the downtown DC traffic, the Revcon eased into an abandoned shopping center parking lot. A black Cadillac limo with three escort service cars approached to whisk the impersonator off to the basketball game. Preparing to exit the luxury home on wheels, Beemer inquired, Isn't there a long weekend coming up?

Montana nodded, Yes, Mr. President. In two weeks, President Bentley and his wife will be going on a fishing trip to Tennessee. We'll need you to stay at the White House from Friday afternoon until early Monday morning. There will be no public appearances that weekend, and we promise to have you back in time for your students.

Extending his hand for a goodbye handshake, Beemer nodded his head, saying, It's nice doing business with you, boys. Direct deposit into my account like last time?

Montana watched as the duplicate walked with his security entourage to the waiting limo. He made himself a mental note to remind Beemer that the real president gained about twenty pounds in the past few months. David mumbled, I wonder if our impersonator will put on extra weight?

Late in the evening, the eleven o'clock news carried the McDonald's shooting as their lead story. A bubbly female reporter identified the shooter as a member of the Secret Service, and his name will not be revealed. A spokesman for the Service assures us a full internal investigation will be conducted. Until then, the agent will be placed on temporary leave.

Seated on his couch, Morris viewed a smiling chief executive at the Wizards basketball game and later dining with the Boy Scouts. Studying Beemer's face on the screen, the agent muttered, Bentley's own mother couldn't tell the difference. Beemer and the president could be identical twins.

*****

Two weeks later, Brandon Datsun scanned the internal affairs report. He read to Tommy, Agent Morris showed proper judgment in handling the hostage situation. His ability to contain the suspect while safely evacuating the restaurant demonstrated excellent decision-making processes. Agent Thomas Morris followed department regulations by not relinquishing possession of his firearm. Agent 7144 completed a clean shooting after all other avenues of disarming the suspect had been exhausted.

Morris probed, Who was he?

Brandon flipped to the second page in the file and verified, Martin Chevelle. He served time twice for drug possession and assault with a deadly weapon. Out on parole after serving less than a third of the sentence. He had a heavy crack habit and was desperate enough to hit McDonald's.

Noticing a sealed envelope on Morris's desk, the younger agent probed, What's that?

Datsun, that is my three-month notice to resign. After the Tennessee trip, you'll be partners with Montana. When Jennifer threw me out, I realized I didn't want to live without her. We are getting married the day I retire. Would you be my best man?

Are you serious?

Smiling at Brandon's shocked face, Morris chuckled. I wouldn't have asked you if I wasn't serious. She has waited too long for me already. I love her and want to spend the rest of my life making her my priority. Thomas's tone of voice turned serious. Brandon, find someone you can't live without and treasure every moment together. Don't waste your life like me. Settle down and have a family to cherish.

All I know is the Service. How do I find that kind of love? Brandon closed the file on the desk and answered, Of course, I will be your best man. You have taught me everything I know and would be honored to stand with you on the happiest day of your life.

*****

Returning from another fundraiser, Bentley wailed into his satellite phone, The luncheon was a disaster, but give the NRA whatever they want. If we don't, they'll support my opponent for my reelection. He listened for a few seconds before shouting, Cut the budgets in the military and educational departments. Are they positive concerning Zeus's timetable? Double-check with the scientists at Goldstone before we leave for Tennessee. Nothing has gone right for months, so don't screw this one up. The president slammed the phone on the carpeted floor and fished four Xanax pills from a prescription bottle. He dry swallowed the pills while moving forward inside the Cadillac's rear compartment. He sat on a jump seat closer to the two agents in the front of the limo. Thomas, tell me the truth. What's wrong with our country? How do I bring us back? Bentley's flushed face turned pale.

Thomas hesitated before answering, I don't know, Mr. President.

Bentley's anger escalated as he ordered, That's too easy. Give me a suggestion. What can I do to reduce the crime on our streets and reverse the anger and hatred?

Thomas coldly answered while turning in his seat, facing the president, Mr. President, you can't do anything. We've gone too far. The country's in the toilet, and we aren't smart enough to flush it. Have I gone too far? Well, I can't stop now. If you're lucky and the voters aren't too angry, then maybe you will serve another term. The media is already against you, and their reporting is unfair and biased based on rumors. The more violence, rioting, and confrontations they broadcast increases their ratings. Brandon glanced at Thomas, but the senior agent ignored the warning and pressed forward. Your successor will sit where you are and ask the identical question, and the answer will remain the same. It's too late. We've gone too far. The two men stared at each other, waiting for the other to speak.

Bentley solemnly returned to the massive seat in the rear of the limousine. Brandon frowned in the rearview mirror as the red-faced president fumbled with the wrapper of his third Snickers candy bar. Dejectedly, the commander and chief touched a red button, electronically raising the glass window isolating himself from the two agents.

Thomas responded to the information provided through his earpiece. Ten-four. We'll use the H street entrance. How serious is the situation? He resumed listening while Brandon gave the veteran a sideways glance. His mentor explained, The demonstrators at Rachel Cooper Lafayette Park are becoming too numerous and unstable. So much for his impromptu press conference. Brandon nodded his head and drove toward the rear of the treasury department.

Chapter 3

You're 400 Short

Jamille was a professional…the best at his craft… No one in Knoxville was better at stealing specific vehicles than the seventeen-year-old. Over the past four years, a lengthy rap sheet guaranteed his reputation as the best of the best at boosting luxury cars and trucks.

Patiently waiting for hours, he stood outside Babies R Us in Sequoyah Hills, a posh section of Knoxville. He glanced eastward at large dark threatening clouds while the wind accelerated with tiny drops of moisture. Perfect. A thunderstorm always distracts the rich folks rushing to and from their cars to the department stores. Come on, rain. The young man studied the front doors of the famous retail store where mothers exited.

He was waiting for one unique individual: a mid-twenty blond pushing a pink baby stroller. Jamille had spotted her half an hour earlier as she parked a brand-new Cadillac Escalade in the crowded parking lot. The Escalade was his objective, and the unsuspecting mother allowed him to achieve his goal once again. Timing and distraction would work to the teen's advantage.

He had waited until she entered Babies R Us before slapping a stolen license plate over the original on the Escalade's rear bumper. Double-sided duct tape had proven very efficient in securing the stolen plate over the vehicle's original. Jamille checked his cell phone for the time, then glanced at the store's sliding glass doors, noticing the mother with the pink baby stroller emerging. She hesitated as the ominous clouds deposited a torrent of rain, and for a few seconds, Jamille sensed her hesitation in continuing to the black SUV. Thankfully, she came prepared and opened an umbrella, protecting herself and the baby in the stroller. He swiftly maneuvered himself to walk behind the unsuspecting mother. Jamille had learned over the last five years of stealing vehicles that various methods worked depending upon the location of his desired objective. For instance, stealing a truck at two in the morning necessitated expertise in quickly overriding the sophisticated keyless electronic ignition. Gone are the days of screwdrivers punching into steering columns. On the other hand, the University of Tennessee's parking lots or the Knoxville airport provided an ample inventory of luxury vehicles for Jamille. He transported them west to Sparta, Tennessee, where Larry operated an illegal chop shop.

Larry had requested an expensive SUV, such as the vehicle Jamille and the blonde were approaching. The lean teenager matched the mother's pace and gently bumped against her as he crouched underneath her umbrella. He pressed a chrome-plated revolver into her ribs and whispered, Hand me the key fob, little momma. Scream, and both you and the baby die. We're gonna get in your Caddy and drive away. She inhaled deeply, preparing to cry out for help, and he pressed the gun's muzzle deeper into her ribs. Stay cool and stay alive. I want the Caddy. You and your baby will remain safe if you cooperate.

The mother attempted halting, and Jamille pressed his hand against the small of her back, propelling them forward. He unlocked the Escalade's doors, waited while she placed her daughter in a rear-facing baby seat, then opened the passenger door for the terrified woman.

The whimpering mother pleaded, Don't hurt us. Take the car and my purse. Please let me take my daughter, and the SUV is all yours.

Jamille roughly pushed her across the console and ordered, Hand me your purse. Drive where I tell you, and nobody gets hurt. He directed the crying mother onto I-40, heading west. As the luxury SUV gathered speed, the weather improved, leaving the thunderstorms behind in Knoxville. Jamille retrieved her cell phone, threw it on the floor, and smashed it with his boot. Withdrawing a police scanner from his windbreaker, he muttered, So far, no problem. No APBs. Little momma, everything's cool as long as you do what I say. He pulled a zip tie from his pocket and threatened, Give me any trouble, and I'll tie your hands.

Ninety minutes later, the carjacker demanded, "I have two choices for leaving you and your daughter. The first choice is a rutted dirt road into the forest where there are dangerous hungry animals. Your second choice is a gravel road between crop fields in the middle of nowhere. I can leave you at the end of the road with your daughter and the stroller. By the time you walk to the