Frank accelerated, and finally, we saw the truck and U-Haul, ahead of us by eight or ten car lengths.
We moved up 27, through south-central Florida.
The leapfrog process was one that experienced agents had been trained on. From a well-concealed position, we’d watch Bayard Hemmings from the rear while O’Reilly drove in front of him. Then, at the right time, we’d pass the F-150, and O’Reilly would get off at an exit. He’d get back on the highway without drawing attention to himself, placing his car at the rear, behind the truck and U-Haul.
This would keep up, with us alternating every forty-five minutes, until we heard that the truck was marked by satellite, after which we could drop off entirely.
The only drawback to the plan was the one I’d mentioned toKemp: that the strategy was best performed on larger highways with two lanes or more on each side. Three or four, preferably.
After an hour and ten minutes, the road became a two-lane, and we could no longer play leapfrog. It would be another ninety minutes before we had satellite tracking.
I texted O’Reilly.
Just maintain your speed. He’s a half mile behind you.
The area we passed through was originally swampland, but the swamps had been drained decades ago. All around us were rows of tufty plants, with tiny red dots peering through the variegated green.
“What is that?” Frank asked, making nervous small talk.
“Tomatoes,” I said. “This whole area.”
We crossed another river, and the road turned northeast. The area became more rural, the houses and structures farther away from each other.
A redbrick church with a white steeple sat in a clearing. A large sign above the building readOUR DEEPEST NEEDS ARE SPIRITUAL, NOT POLITICAL.
We were behind the U-Haul again, and the sportfishing picture on the side gleamed in the morning sun.
“We’ve been back here too long,” I said. “Make a move.”
Frank pushed his speed over seventy, and I texted O’Reilly to pull off and get right back on.
The road got wider, and we passed the U-Haul to take the lead spot. Began to head through farm country.
I texted the ATF agent.
You got him?
No response.
“What the hell?” Cassie said, seeing my phone.
“Give him a beat,” I said.
I typed the same question again.
Now a message came back.
I lost him. Sorry. Looking everywhere.
“Son of a bitch,” Cassie said.
I called the ATF agent up. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t see the truck anymore. Don’t see the U-Haul. I sped up a lot. I can actually see you guys. But he’s not in between us.”
I glanced in my side mirror, and there was O’Reilly’s Honda, about ten car lengths behind us.
“I’ll call you back,” I said, hanging up and turning to Cassie. “Your tracker.”
