I took off across the street. As I got to the van, a Honda Accord pulled in behind it with its lights off. I crept over to the passenger side and opened the door. A man in his thirties sat in the driver’s seat.
“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me,” he said.
“Camden.” I put out my hand.
“O’Reilly.”
The agent was white and fit with a round face and a trimmed reddish beard. “Where the hell’d you come from?”
My pulse still raced. “We’re close,” I said to him, motioning at the tan house down the street. “Lights just went on. You got a full tank?”
O’Reilly glanced at his dash and then back at me. “Half,” he said. “What do I need to know?”
“We’re just following this guy,” I replied, keeping the job simple. “Playing leapfrog. Head to the Marathon station near the freeway on-ramp and fill up. I’ll text you when the F-150 leaves the house.”
“Do you know when we’ll have sat support?” he asked.
“Seven-ish,” I said.
This meant that for the next three hours, we’d have to follow the F-150 without being noticed. “You’ll be up front first,” I said. “Aim to be ahead of him by ten car lengths. We’ll hang back by the same.”
As I got back in the van, Cassie hit my arm.
I looked over. The front door to the house swung open.
Cassie and I scooched down in our seats, but we could still see Hemmings. He moved two feet out of the door and kicked at the wire. A small burst of light came to life in the dark, and he turned, satisfied. Grabbed a coffee cup from inside and locked the door.
“Unbelievable,” Cassie said.
I shook my head, wondering where Frank was hiding.
Hemmings got in the truck and took off, and I texted O’Reilly.
Target’s on the move.
A minute later, Frank jogged over and got in the driver’s seat.
“Holy cow almighty,” he said. Which for Frank was like cursing.
We got underway being the chase car, and Frank called Poulton on speaker, relaying what had happened the night before with our C.I. at the storage place.
“But you still got this guy with the ammo in your sights?” Poulton asked.
“We do,” Frank said, leaving out the misadventures of the last two hours.
“Well, this goes right, and you don’t lose him… we’re all heroes,”Poulton said. “It goes wrong and none of us are working here next week.”
Which I took to understand—weweren’t working here next week.
Poulton explained that a command post would be set up in D.C. once we knew the exact address of the home in Foggy Bottom. Our charge was to get to the Jacksonville office after the vehicle was marked by satellite, leave the van there, and fly to Washington. Check in with Poulton once we landed.
“I’d be a lot happier if we knew where this guy was going,” Poulton said. “If we have to set up a command post after the truck arrives, it’s too easy for someone to spot us.”
He hung up, and we drove in silence, looking for the U-Haul.
“Shooter’s headed there,” Cassie said. When I glanced back, she clarified, “To Jacksonville, not D.C. She’s getting wired for Pecos’s funeral.”
I registered this note, remembering that Jo was attending Freddie’s funeral to dig for information.
