But all the events leading up to this moment weren't worth pondering. Keith had 3 tasks ahead of him: get out of the U.S., find Johan Fendler, and kill him. Nothing else mattered.
---
Driving south through Illinois was probably the most uneventful and boring stretch Keith would encounter on his jaunt to Mexico. This gave him the opportunity to gather his thoughts and put a plan of action together about just how he was going to carry out the execution of Rita's co-conspirator, Johan. Furthermore, locating someone in southern Italy when all you have to go by is a first and last name would surely prove to be a daunting task.
The wind whistled annoyingly near Keith's left ear. Apparently some worn weatherstripping around the door frame was to blame. A quarter turn clockwise on the radio knob allowed the music to drown the wind.
That's when, to use Keith's words, the shit hit the fan.
"WKLN radio brings you this developing news bulletin: police in Minocqua, Wisconsin have issued an APB for 38 year-old Keith Ibbotson, currently wanted for questioning in a newly-opened murder case ..."
Keith's eyes narrowed as he listened intently.
"Keith Ibbotson is assumed to be driving a black, older model Corvette with license plate 8586AME. Keith is thought to be armed and dangerous. Anyone with any information as to the whereabouts of Keith Ibbotson should contact their local authorities immediately."
The urge to piss his pants was an unrelenting one but Keith maintained his composure. He knew that panicking or over-thinking his situation couldn't help so he drew in a few deep breaths and let this new information sink in. Keith was now a wanted man and the clock was ticking.
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck ... " he said softly. His fingers nervously drummed on the steering wheel.
Just ahead was exit 211 to Springfield. Keith flipped up his turn indicator. After making his way from the off-ramp Keith headed east on a small, 2-lane road.
"6 AM and there isn't a damn place open for breakfast. Great." Keith observed. About a quarter-mile down the road a flickering neon sign caught his eye.
"Lynn's Diner - Open 24 hours"
The 'r' in 'hours' had burned out.
"Just as good as any", he thought.
Under the cover of early morning the black 2-door Corvette Keith was driving pulled slowly into the parking lot of Lynn's Diner and parked 4 spaces away from a large, older Chevy pick-up truck being exited by a short, staunch man wearing construction boots and a raincoat.
Keith waited a few seconds, got out, locked his car and then drew back and heaved his car keys far off into the distance. He looked at his baby Corvette, the machine he'd put so many hours of loving labor into ... and grimaced.
He followed the driver of the pick-up into the diner and had a seat at the bar.
"Coffee?" Keith asked.
"On the way, hun. Take sugar?" the waitress asked. She was 30-ish, a bit pasty but not altogether unattractive.
"Sure" came Keith's response. He got a solid look at her ass as she spun around to fill his order.
"Seen better ... ", he thought.
Keith's focus turned to the man he had followed into the diner. The man had taken his seat about 7 feet from Keith and had put his Harley Davidson wallet and car keys next to the newspaper he brought with him.
"Hey, you gonna read the sports section, pal?" Keith asked.
"What? Oh, yea. Probably. But here, it's yours for now."
With that, the man removed the sports section from his paper and plopped it down on the counter half-way between him and Keith before returning his attention to the conversation he had started with the fellow next to him.
"Too easy" Keith remarked under his breath.
"Here's your coffee, darlin'. 'Thin else?" the waitress asked, popping her chewing gum in wait for Keith's answer.
"Nah, that'll do it. Thanks." He said.
"Eighty cents."
Keith reached in his pocket and pulled his roll of twenties from its keep. He peeled off a bill and handed it over.
The waitress didn't say anything about the blood she saw on his hand. After all, she saw a lot of rough characters come through these doors. Whatever. Was it 9 yet? She had a screaming 10-month old waiting for her back home.
The waitress handed Keith his change, of which he left a buck for her on the counter. He then casually reached over and grabbed the sports section along with the keys, and Harley-Davidson wallet, of Hank Darby, farmer and buck hunter extraordinaire.
Keith then stood up, walked outside, jumped into Hank's truck, took one last look at his Corvette and peeled off into the now-rising sun.
"FUCK yea!!" Keith exclaimed. "Jesus, thank you. Payback is hell. I'm gonna off this sonuvabitch like nobody's business."
Adrenalin was pumping madly through his veins. Keith Ibbotson had just added GTA to his rap sheet.
"You've got to be KIDDING me!! Oh, god yes. This is perfect. Perrrrrrrfect ..." Keith expressed, upon finding a loaded 20-gauge shotgun nestled neatly behind the driver's seat.
"Gotta be a hunter. No other explanation" he thought aloud.
The gas tank read full. Things just kept on getting better. Mexico would be here in no time.
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