Chapter 12

The next morning, I had breakfast at a nameless restaurant beside the motel where I’d spent the night, just off the interstate east of Tucson. The meal was forgettable, neither good nor bad, and nowhere near the quality of the place that had once occupied the building.

I overheard a conversation between two meth-dealing entrepreneurs sitting in the booth behind me while I waited for the check. It was obvious they regularly sampled their own product; they twitched and fidgeted while waiting for the server to take their orders. Their speech was loud and rapid-fire, making them impossible to ignore. What worried me was their growing impatience. The last thing I wanted was for them to become agitated and draw the police to the restaurant.

I was getting impatient myself. I wanted to get out of there before they did something stupid. Knowing my luck, the cops would be called, I’d be interviewed as a witness, and my true identity would be discovered. Cops always carried plenty of handcuffs, and I’d end up wearing a pair once they learned who I was.

Then they said something that truly caught my attention.

“Did you hear Ramos is offering free product for a year on top of the bounty on that guy—you know, the one everyone thinks is in San Diego but can’t find?”

“I’d have him lined up in my sights. Bang, bang, bang, and I’d be collecting that five mil.”

I don’t know why, but I reached down to make sure my 9mm was still secure in the shoulder holster beneath my jacket. Feeling it there steadied my nerves.

The same dealer said, “Word on the street is that Ramos will be in Tucson later this afternoon to meet with representatives from the various gangs in town and share the latest on that Faeth guy. What kind of name is Faeth, anyway? Sounds like some kind of preacher or something.”

I wasn’t a preacher, but I was certainly praying that the server would hurry. I wanted out of there in the worst way. She finally brought my bill and went to check on the drug dealers sitting behind me. I slapped a five-dollar bill on the table and hurried to the register, trying to pay for my meal without drawing attention to myself. The older woman running the register took her sweet time ringing up the bill and counting out my change from the twenty I’d given her.

After getting my change, I bolted to my motorcycle, slammed on my helmet, swung into the seat, and roared out of the parking lot faster than I normally would have.

With Ramos possibly in town, I wanted to get away as fast as I could. I had planned a rest day to laze around, but not with him here. There was no way I wanted anyone spotting me and reporting back. Another fear gnawed at me: someone might recognize me on I-10 and come looking for me along the highway.

I found a spot to park out of sight, alone, like in San Diego. I pulled out my ever-trusty ten-dollar gazetteer and pored over the map, looking for an out-of-the-way route out of town, preferably north and east. You sometimes talk, and the travel gods listen. In this case, a marked dirt road twisted its way out of Tucson, leading into the mountains and desert, much of it apparently BLM land. I spotted several markers indicating points of interest and historical sites along the route.

I rode east along the street I’d been on, then turned onto the road I recognized by name and kept heading north. I watched the major cross streets pass, knowing I would eventually reach the road I wanted—and that it would lead me to safety.

I finally came to it and turned onto the start of East Reddington Road. I think I knew what Dorothy felt like following the Yellow Brick Road. In my case, it was a dirt road winding through desert and mountains, not leading to the Emerald City of Oz. The first several miles were asphalt, lined with homes and businesses. I topped off the tank at a convenience store–gas station and grabbed some snacks and drinks for the road. A mile or two past the gas station, the road turned to dirt, and I slowed down to make sure the bike didn’t slip out from under me in the sand or get taken out by the side-by-sides that suddenly appeared and cut in front of me. I had a couple of close calls along the way.

The route had several attractions along its length. The first I noticed were trailheads for hiking and horseback riding. I also passed a few historical sites, each marked with a plaque explaining its significance to local history. A handful of RVs and trailers dotted the area, with people boondocking in dispersed campsites. This was the perfect place to take it easy and find a quiet spot to rest undisturbed.

The dirt road eventually dumped me onto a paved state road just outside a small community called Mammoth. The town was an oasis in the desert, with a gas station and a small convenience store. I topped off the motorcycle’s tank and replenished my supplies for the road ahead. Nothing out here was cheap, including the gas and snacks they sold.

I saw a sign for dispersed camping on BLM land farther down the road and followed it until I found a very nice, unoccupied campsite. I decided I had finally found the perfect spot for my rest day. I set up my tent and made a proper camp. It felt so perfect when I was done that I decided to stay an extra day. I did absolutely nothing for two days—I slept, read, went on hikes, and mostly forgot about the people who were after me.

It felt like I was an entirely different person when I left the BLM land and headed toward Florida. I was calm and no longer worried about Ramos. I took my time and stuck to secondary roads whenever possible, avoiding any set travel schedule by varying my daily distances and time on the road. A week later, I pulled into Orlando and began planning my time in Florida.

I had no interest in the themed resort parks that Central Florida is famous for. There were huge crowds, and cameras were everywhere. You could be watched at any moment.

I chose instead to explore what people called Old Florida: the Everglades, the white sandy beaches of the Gulf, manatee wintering areas, and the so-called “Old Florida” of the southern parts of the state—namely Miami and Key West. I wanted to see the appeal of Miami and the wildness of Key West. Both were fascinating, but I was careful not to stray anywhere my face might appear on video. Besides, who knew if I might run into Ramos amid the party atmosphere?