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Glenn Pyke walked out the door of his office building, pulling a suitcase on wheels with important files and personal items he wanted to take with him on his escape to Nicaragua. His plane was waiting at the commercial hanger. His CFO was waiting for him there, or at least he better be! Pyke fumed.
The sounds of downtown New Orleans at night were lost on him, the distant echoes of jazz music at a nearby club, the cable car bell, horns honking, people yelling. He was thinking of nothing more than getting away.
The story in the paper was posted online at 4 p.m. It was more devastating than he could have ever imagined. The whistleblower had laid open all their schemes and scams, even details of several environmental “accidents” he had orchestrated. His office phone and cell phone had been ringing virtually nonstop since he’d returned to the office to pack and get away. He didn’t take a single call. All that is over!
Everything he had worked for was coming apart at the seams. At least there is still the money! he thought as he walked down to his car parked along the curb.
With his last look online of bank statements and other assets, his rough count was nearing $20 million. It seemed a staggering sum, and he had been tempted on many occasions to just walk away, disappear, change his identity and live out a more than comfortable life. Now I’m running!
He popped open the back hatch of the big Tesla SUV and lifted the suitcase in along with his leather bag on his shoulder. As he pulled the hatch closed, he felt a hand on his shoulder, then something hard pressing into his lower back.
He turned his head and saw two men, both Middle Eastern. The closest pressed the gun more firmly into his ribs and said, “We saw the piece in the paper this afternoon, Mr. Pyke. We thought you might be thinking of making yourself scarce.”
“Who are you?” Pyke demanded, trying to mask the cold fear he was really feeling.
“You’re coming with us,” the other man said as a car pulled alongside, and the back door was pushed open. He was thrown inside, followed by the man with the gun. He watched as the other took his keys and recovered the luggage in the back of the Tesla, putting it in the trunk of the car and then getting into the front seat with the driver.
The man turned and looked back at Pyke with narrow black eyes. “Our common friend wishes for no loose ends.”
Pyke panicked and tried the door handle with no success as the car pulled out into traffic.
“Please don’t make me shoot you here, Mr. Pyke,” the man beside him said. “It would make such a mess in my car!”
At that moment, Pyke knew he was a dead man. No loose ends!