"Nutritional standards are suspended for stakeouts and road trips. It's in the manual."
"Your imaginary manual has very specific rules." But she was smiling now, some of the manic energy settling into focus.
They hit Highway 95 as the drizzle finally stopped, leaving the desert washed clean and smelling of sage. The road stretched endlessly ahead.
"Driver picks the music," Cory said, reaching for the radio.
"Passenger has veto power." Izzy's hand intercepted his. "That's definitely in the manual."
"Since when?"
"Since I don't trust your musical taste." She tapped the screen, working her way through his music library. "What do you even listen to?"
"NPR, mostly. And K-LOVE on Sundays."
"Of course you do." She landed on one of his favorited stations just as "Reckless Love" started playing. "Oh, I like this one."
"Cory Asbury." He turned it up slightly. "Leaves the ninety-nine for the one."
They drove in companionable silence through Fallon, past the naval air station where fighter jets traced patterns against the gray sky. The landscape grew increasingly desolate—Joshua trees and scrub brush, distant mountains like broken teeth.
"There's a classic country station," Izzy said, already reaching for the dial as the song ended.
She landed on an oldies station playing "Stand By Me."
"Ben E. King," they said in unison.
"Classic," Cory added.
"Timeless." Izzy settled back. "This works."
They drove on, the miles rolling by with the soundtrack of Motown and soul classics filling the cab.
"What's your plan when we find him?" Izzy asked around a mouthful of jerky.
"Depends on the situation." Cory checked the mirror, a habit from years of patrol. "Ideally, catch him alone. Use the isolation."
"Make him think we know more than we do."
"Exactly." He glanced at her. "You've done this before."
"Different context." She stared out at the passing desert. "Usually involved more zip ties and fewer Miranda rights."
"We're not?—"
"I know." She waved a Red Vine at him. "Due process, rule of law, blah blah. I'm evolved now."
"Good to know."
"Mostly evolved." That sharp smile again. "If he runs, though..."
"He won't run." Cory's hands tightened on the wheel. "We won't give him the chance."
The miles rolled by. Tonopah appeared and disappeared, a brief oasis of civilization. The GPS led them onto increasingly narrow roads, asphalt giving way to graded dirt that sent plumes of dust behind them.
"There." Izzy pointed to a faded sign: Desert Sky Aviation - Private Aircraft Only.
The airstrip was exactly what Cory expected—one runway, a few decrepit hangars, the kind of place where people went whenthey didn't want to be found. Reed's white government sedan sat outside the office, looking as out of place as a tuxedo at a rodeo.
