“Down the road from Yosemite.”
“It totally has to be her.”
“That’s in my county.”
“Which is why you get to come.”
Wen’s sigh pissed him off, but he ended the call without letting her know how much.
Before leaving the station, he had told only Beto where he was going, worried the mole might tip off Silverman, who would beat him to the scene. Jordan hated thinking or acting like a politician, but that’s what he was, and if this was Silverman’s number one campaign issue, Jordan had to win it.
Andmake sure there was a picture.
Fifteen minutes later, as the midmorning sun finally topped the mountain peaks, Jordan pulled up a block away from the address Wen had given him. A half-dozen vehicles were already on the scene, a few blacked-out SUVs along with a CHP cruiser and a marked CDCR car.
As he parked and opened his door, Wen climbed out of an Explorer that had seen hard miles since their last encounter.
“No APC this time?” Jordan asked.
“My men will, like, back you up, but I want you to knock on the door. Just the local sheriff, not an army.”
“So you realize you fucked up with Fisk. Is this how a fed apologizes?”
Despite the fact she had to look up at him, her fuck-you stare was impressive. “Just do it.”
There was nothing to gain from needling her. He didn’t fear Campbell, and he believed Fisk was too smart to shoot him. And being first through the door was exactly what he wanted.
“And you don’t have any BLM guys with you this time,” he said.
“You’re safe. The one who shot at you is on desk duty.”
Jordan tightened the Velcro on his ballistic vest and pulled on a windbreaker withMADERA SHERIFFprinted on the back in yellow letters. As the federal agents fanned out behind him—some of them already in position with sniper rifles—he walked around the corner toward the house.
The dusty cul-de-sac was a classic rural California mix of new construction and third-generation shacks. A brand-new house with a BMW in the driveway sat next to a shingled shack with an owner-operated semi-truck in need of a wash.
The address was a squat cinderblock box with green shutters and a weedy front yard decorated with folk-art sculptures and large, unusual rocks that didn’t look local. Its sagging fence appeared to have been climbed by every kid in the neighborhood. The shutters were closed, but the place looked lived-in. He heard a softbaaand a snort from the backyard.
Jordan swung open the front gate and went up the front walk. He stepped onto the concrete-slab porch and rapped on a splintery front door.
There was no answer.
He knocked again, louder. “Madera County Sheriff!”
Sometimes he just had a gut feeling no one was home. But gut feelings could be wrong. Drawing his gun, he shielded himself behind the doorjamb and tried the doorknob. It turned easily.
He swung the door open and stepped inside.
THIRTY-EIGHT
CARA
Librarians are my heroes!
—@shawondacakes
Cara pulled down the passenger visor and checked the mirror. The woman who stared back had blackish-purple hair with short wispy ends and looked nothing like Cara Campbell of internet fame. She looked janky, but that was a good thing.
Rae had woken her up twenty minutes ago and hustled her into the garage and the passenger seat of an old, yellow Toyota truck. Fisk had left before dawn, Rae informed her, leaving instructions to get Cara out of there.
