fbpx

The Matter of the Vanishing Greyhound – Chapter 7

The Matter of the Vanishing Greyhound

Golden Gate Disappearing Greyhound Bus Caper

Steven Levi

Master of the Impossible Crime

Chapter 7

If nothing else, the perps were prompt. Just as John had said they would be moved at 10 a.m., almost to the second the panel truck with the ten seats bolted in the rear backed up to the entryway of the room where the hostages were being held. For the second time in two days, Candice Greenleaf and the other nine hostages were hustled aboard the truck. A canvas sheet had been tossed over the truck to disguise its appearance and license plate, a fact Cheri Molk was quick to point out to Greenleaf. Greenleaf just nodded her head and sat down in the same seat she had taken the first night when they had been hustled out of the Greyhound bus in a dark warehouse. She sat down and on the cold, green, plastic make-shift chair and attached the seat belt, which had been bolted to the wooden wall of the truck. It was the same seat she had been in the previous night. When the latch was closed, she let her hand wander down the side of the chair and underneath. There her fingers came in contact with the Butterfield-Fargo deposit slip she had left there the night before. Then she set her hands on her lap and waited.

When all the passengers were in their seats, a fact confirmed by a perp who was obviously watching through a one-way mirror in the front wall of the panel truck, the van was closed with a sliding door. They could hear the latch catch and a lock secure the handle from the outside.

“There’s no reason to worry, my friends,” came the soothing voice of John over the intercom into the back of the truck. “There was a little complication which we are resolving. We’re going to a new location. The trip should take about 15 minutes. As long as you behave yourself there won’t be any problems. If there are, as I mentioned the last time you were in this van, we have attached some gas to make you immobile. So, just sit back and relax.”

“Why do you think they’re moving us?” asked the young teller as the truck lurched sideways as though it was bouncing through a field of potholes. Then it rolled onto the smooth pavement like a city street.

“As long as they’re moving us, be happy. It’s when they don’t care about us we’ll be in real trouble.”

Steven C. Levi is a sixty-something freelance historian and commercial writer who lives in Anchorage, Alaska, his home for past 40 years. He has a BA in European History and MA in American history from the University of California Davis and San Jose State. He has more than 80 books in print or on Kindle. 

Login/out