White Space Season 1

spotted a fast moving pair of headlights about a block behind him. It had to be his pursuers.
    Shit, shit! Shit!
    “Come on!” Houser screamed, slapping the steering wheel and waiting for a break in the other lane, as he was stuck behind a battery operated shit wagon.
    Houser saw a break in the traffic, then took a hard left and gunned the engine, racing up the street into the path of oncoming cars before swerving back into the right lane. He drove a block, and then took the first right along another small road in the tourist district. The boulevard was crowded, as patrons from the bars and restaurants spilled into the street.
    Shit, fuck, shit!
    Houser looked back in the rearview to see if he could back up, but two fast moving headlights appeared in his rearview, gaining inches by the second.
    Fuck, shit, fuck!
    “Come on, you stupid fucks!” he shouted.
    Houser honked his horn and gunned the engine, racing toward a cluster of people just standing in the road, drinking and not realizing enough to give a shit that they were seconds from roadkill.
    They scattered all at once, their eyes wide and mouths cursing him as he flew past. A beer bottle hit the side of his car and shattered. Houser kept going, taking his first left, then turning again, until he found himself on the main road — four lanes along the coast.
    Not knowing which was the best way to go, Houser headed north, figuring he’d probably have to navigate through less traffic on the north end of the island. He kept his eyes on the rearview, half-surprised, and the rest of him relieved, not to see any sign of pursuit.
    Houser didn’t think he was clever enough to have lost them so quickly. Particularly if they had any familiarity with the island, which he had barely at all. He drove until he found a left turn that looked like it wouldn’t lead to a dead end or back to a road which might put him face to face with the men in black.
    Houser took a few more turns until he found himself at the end of a cul de sac in a residential neighborhood. He killed his lights, then backed up to a vacant looking house. Many of the homes on the island were used as island getaways, the sort of homes you’d visit often when the ink was still fresh on the mortgage, but less and less as years passed, until you eventually decided to rent the place or sell it.
    Houser killed the engine, then rolled his window down, listening to the evening for any sound of a threat. He wished like hell he’d thought to take his phone now. He could call Jon to tell him what was going on. Maybe he’d call the cops, too.
    Who the hell are these people? What do they want?
    Houser saw three possibilities.
    It was a kidnapping gone bad, in which case, Jon Conway was the most likely target, which meant Houser had to get a hold of Jon as soon as possible so he could make sure he was safe and didn’t go back to the hotel.
    Option two was that Houser had made an enemy, but that seemed unlikely, especially given the weapons and number of people. He’d pissed off a lot of people in his lifetime, scumbags each and every one, but none with that kind of firepower or organization.
    And then there was option three — the flash drive.
    As weird and unlikely as option three appeared, it made the most sense. If it had been a botched kidnapping, they wouldn’t have chased Houser from the hotel or drawn so much attention to themselves.
    Houser dug into his wet pocket and found the flash drive. He shook water from it, and wiped it off with a napkin he had in his console, hoping the water hadn’t damaged the flash drive’s contents further. He held it between his fingers and narrowed his eyes, wondering what in the hell could possibly be on it.
    What had Roger Heller stumbled onto? What enemies had Roger made? And how did they know Houser had the flash drive? Had they already gone to the Heller house and extracted the information from Liz? Had they harmed her family?
    Houser felt a stew of sick stirring in his gut.
    He had to check on Liz. But first, he had to find Jon and make sure he was safe. Houser glanced down at Ted D. Bear. “I bet you weren’t expecting this kinda action, eh, buddy?”
    He was about to key the engine back on when he saw a black sedan cruising along the connecting road with its headlights dimmed.
    The car turned onto the cul de sac.
    “Shit,” Houser said, leaving the key in the ignition and reaching over to the AR-15. His left hand wrapped around the mag well and his right