Good Intentions (Samogon 1) by Eric Gilliland

heading to a federal penitentiary for a long sentence.
    It was almost midnight when he got back to the Red Roof Inn. In his room, Chris took a long hot shower. He kept the lights and television off, not so much to make the room look unoccupied, but because he preferred the tranquility of the still darkness. For the rest of the night he thought of nothing but Rochelle, the only girl he had ever loved. He fell asleep with a shower towel wrapped around him as he held the Sig .380 securely in his hand.

-12 -
     
    Early the next morning, Chris had breakfast at a local diner. He ate like it was his last meal. More waffles, three scrambled eggs, sausage links, and bacon. While he ate he contemplated his situation. Thirty minutes later and after three glasses of chocolate milk, Chris ordered a plate of chicken-fried steak with gravy and two buttermilk biscuits.
    The old waitress just looked at him. “Young man, are you all right? It’s not often I see someone eat so much unless they’re starving or stressed. You don’t appear to be starving.”
    For a moment Chris thought he heard Rochelle’s mother speaking to him, making fun of how much he ate and wondering if he had a tapeworm. He looked up at the waitress with a gentle smile and said, “I’m fine. I’m just sorting things out in my mind, and I like to eat. Can I get another glass of chocolate milk while I’m waiting?”
    The waitress returned his smile and nodded.
    He played every scenario out in his mind. Not one involved finishing the deal. The safest plan was to just head home, but everywhere he looked now he swore he saw a cop. Every sedan he saw he swore was an unmarked cop car. Finally, he decided what to do.
    He drove to the south end of the city to the Motel 6. He pulled into a Shop-N-Go across from the motel and filled his truck with gas. He surveyed the motel parking lot—nothing. But next to the Shop-N-Go was a Ford dealership, and parked on the end of the third row of cars was a charcoal Mustang with two occupants who were watching the motel and the street in front.
    In the cab of the truck Chris had a pair of binoculars that he used for hunting. He grabbed his Bushnell’s H2O Compact optics and took them with him when he went to pay for the gas. On the way out, he stopped next to the ice machine and pay phones to hide himself from the Mustang.
    He scanned the motel parking lot and spotted two older men leaving in a blue Chevy Suburban that had Virginia tags. Nice , he thought. Chris was able to read the room number on the door as they were leaving.
    Next, he headed to the storage facility. Again, he parked in the plaza and walked over. He extended his rental for a full month and paid cash. It was almost nine in the morning when he left the storage facility. Now it was time to drive over to the Boiler Room.
    As he approached the tavern, he spotted his customer leaving the parking lot. He followed the customer south across the city. The Walmart they agreed to meet at came into view, then they drove right by. Then they passed the Motel 6, and there in the dealership sat the Mustang and its two occupants. Two miles further his customer pulled into a city park. Chris kept going, trying to find a vantage point. He spotted an apartment complex on the opposite side of the park and quickly navigated his way over. Once there, he used his field glasses to search the park for his customer. There with the customer was an array of vehicles, including the Chevy Impala from the Boiler Room. Several law enforcement officers stood around the vehicles as if they were waiting for something to happen—like waiting for Chris to call his customer.
    After watching for thirty minutes Chris made the call. As the customer’s phone rang, the tall officer from the Boiler Room waved his hands in a circle and the rest of the officers gathered around, ready to roll-out at a moment’s notice. Chris could see a cord dangling from the customer’s cell phone and running to something in