I snapped my head toward the rear bumper of the commercial van idling next to us.
The Florida license plate read: WASH-1.
“Oh, my God,” I gasped, grabbing Grandma Rose’s hand. “Grandma... that’s Daniel’s brother!”
“God doesn't make mistakes with airplane seats, Emily,” Grandma Rose said with a wink that practically illuminated the sedan. “Now, Victoria, honk your horn and get that boy’s attention.”
Victoria didn't hesitate. She hit the center of the steering wheel with her palm, sending three sharp blasts echoing across the pavement.
The driver of the laundry van turned his head, looking down from his high cab with an annoyed scowl. “Hey! Relax, lady! The whole state is parked! Honking ain't gonna make the Boat Show move!”
Grandma Rose leaned out of her open rear window, waving her embroidered linen handkerchief high in the air.
“David!” Rose called out, her voice remarkably loud and clear over the rumbling diesel engines. “David Mitchell! Your brother Daniel told me to tell you that you still owe him twenty dollars from the Thanksgiving football game!”
The driver froze. The cigar nearly fell out of his mouth.
He leaned both arms over his window sill, his jaw slack, staring down at the little silver-haired woman waving an embroidered handkerchief from the back of a luxury sedan. The resemblance between him and Daniel the flight attendant was uncanny—the same hazel eyes, the same sharp jawline, the same disarming, crooked grin.
“Who are you?” David shouted back, his eyes darting across the lanes.
“I am Rose Miller!” Grandma Rose shouted back proudly. “And your brother gave me warm macadamia nuts on Flight 412 from Philadelphia two hours ago! This is Emily, and this is Victoria! And we have an emergency that involves saving the Hollywood Beach dunes from a pack of corrupt swindlers at City Hall!”
David stared at Grandma Rose for three long seconds. Then, his face split into a wide, incredulous laugh.
He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out his smartphone, and held it up. “Wait a minute! Are you the lady who caught the snooty girl with the blackberry preserves under her seat? Daniel texted our entire family group chat before his plane even refueled! He said you were the coolest grandma on the planet!”
Victoria leaned out of her window, her corporate authority returning at full throttle. “David! I am Victoria Sterling, principal architect of Sterling Coastal Living! Those men broke into my estate last night to steal our historical survey documents! The City Zoning Commission is voting to demolish the historic dunes at nine o’clock! We have certified court affidavits in this car, but we’re stuck in this gridlock! If we don’t get to City Hall in thirty minutes, the entire beachfront is lost!”
David’s smile vanished, instantly replaced by the sharp, calculating focus of a man who spent eighteen hours a day navigating South Florida’s concrete labyrinth. He looked at the endless wall of brake lights on the highway ahead, then looked down at his high-clearance commercial delivery van.
“City Hall Commission Chambers,” David said, his voice dropping into serious business. “They’re meeting in the fourth-floor public auditorium on Broward Boulevard.”
“Yes!” Victoria yelled.
“The main roads are completely blocked by the maritime parade,” David shouted back, revving his van’s engine. “The police have the public ramps barricaded. But the Port Authority maintenance corridor along the railway tracks is open for utility and commercial delivery contractors with municipal service permits.”
He tapped the commercial electronic gate transponder mounted on his windshield.
“Pull your car right behind my bumper,” David commanded, pointing an authoritative finger toward the paved drainage shoulder. “Follow me within six inches. When I hit the transponder gate at the railroad spur, don't stop for the private security flaggers. Ride my tail right into the underground loading dock beneath City Hall! We’ll take the service freight elevator straight up to the fourth floor!”
“Can you get us there by nine?” Victoria asked, her voice electric with adrenaline.
David checked his commercial dispatch clock: 8:22 AM.
“Thirty-eight minutes?” David grinned, clamping his cigar back between his teeth. “Lady, I deliver dry-cleaned shirts to billionaire yacht owners on thirty-second deadlines. Follow my dust!”
David threw his massive van into gear, cut the wheel hard to the right, and launched the heavy vehicle over the concrete curb onto the elevated railway access path. Gravel exploded from beneath his rear tires as he accelerated down the parallel maintenance corridor.
“Hang on!” Victoria yelled, stomping on the accelerator.
The silver sedan leaped forward, following the commercial van onto the narrow, restricted path. We blasted past miles of stationary highway traffic, whipping alongside the railroad tracks at sixty miles an hour, kicking up plumes of dust and dry palm fronds. Behind us, stranded drivers honked in sheer bewilderment as our two-vehicle convoy bypassed the entire coastal bottleneck.
At 8:47 AM, David’s van approached a heavy steel security gate marked: RESTRICTED MUNICIPAL UTILITY ACCESS ONLY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE ARRESTED.
David tapped his transponder against the sensor pole. The green light flashed. The heavy hydraulic arm swung upward. David didn't even tap his brakes; he roared through the gate with Victoria’s sedan glued inches behind his bumper. A private security guard stepped out of the guard shack, blowing a whistle frantically, but before he could raise his hand, our convoy plunged into the dark, subterranean concrete cavern of the City Hall underground service tunnels.
Brakes squealed with a deafening screech as both vehicles came to an abrupt, violent halt inside the brightly lit loading dock beneath the municipal building.
The clock on the dashboard read: 8:52 AM.