The steering wheel was cold, but she gripped it hard to keep her hands from shaking as she joined the afternoon traffic pouring out of the nearby business parks and heading toward the freeway onramp. She checked her mirrors obsessively, but no one appeared to be following her. Not that she was an expert in counter surveillance.
Not anymore. Papá had taught her a few things, but she was rusty.
Separating from the congestion, she continued another mile down the wide road that led to one of Fairfax County’s mega strip malls. She had to ditch the car. If the cops weren’t looking for her already, they would be soon.
No one in the massive, car-logged parking lot took any notice of her as she parked and used baby wipes she kept in her glove box to rid her face and hands of blood. Still trembling, she turned her sweatshirt inside out to hide the stains and popped the trunk. She scavenged a granola bar, gloves, fleece cap, and a bottle of water she kept for blizzards and other emergencies. If this didn’t qualify, nothing did. She shoved the snack and water into her tote bag, tucked her hair up into the beanie, and donned the gloves.
She dropped her keys onto the driver’s seat, shut the car door, and let her palms linger on the Prius. Her first new car, bought to celebrate a big jump in income when she took the job at Aggressor. God, how had things gone so wrong?
Scanning for threats, she wiped tears from her cheeks and walked away from the car, hugging herself against the biting wind that cut through her inadequate sweatshirt.
Within minutes she was just another pajama-wearing patron at Walmart.
CHAPTER FOUR
Zachari, CA
Two weeks later, Sunday, 4:40 p.m.
SCOTT HAD BEEN FOLLOWING VALERIE since she left Virginia two weeks ago, and she still hadn’t led him to her co-conspirator, who Hollowell now believed was Suresh. Seeing as how the guy had gone dark the same day Valerie split, it wasn’t a stretch. Hollowell probably had to pull his own teeth to get himself to admit it, though. He’d been so fucking sure she was working alone.
But the old man’s suspicions of Valerie appeared valid. Everything pointed to her guilt. In addition to the offshore account, someone had been willing to kill to help her escape the feds, and she’d immediately taken off for Zachari, California—about sixty miles north of Los Angeles—with a destination in mind. No hesitation, despite no obvious link to the town.
And yet, after trailing her for two weeks, he still had a hard time believing she was guilty.
The turncoat was too fucking nice. She tipped delivery drivers well. She drove too fast in the beat-up Accord she’d purchased in West Virginia, but she didn’t tailgate or cut people off or honk at stupid drivers. She held the door for people and thanked them for doing the same. It wasn’t forced with her either, it was clearly unconscious habit.
Or maybe she was too fucking hot, and he was the dumbass who turned stupid around a pretty face.
Which made him laugh. Up until he glimpsed her spark on that last day in Virginia, she’d been the quiet girl in baggy clothes hiding behind a large computer monitor, a messy ponytail, and a foreign language of proxy servers, backdoors, sniffers, and other geek-speak.
But computer nerd or not, the woman helping her elderly landlady unload groceries—keeping up the ruse?—had been transformed. She’d carved out side-swept bangs that balanced her oval face, and her dark brown hair fell in a shiny sheet past her shoulder blades, reflecting red and blond highlights in the setting sun. She was sexy as hell in slim jeans that hid lean, athletic legs, and a sweater the wind had molded to her killer rack.
Christ, she was guilty of espionage, and he couldn’t stop thinking about her tits.
But he also couldn’t stop thinking about the fear and confusion on her face when the sniper started shooting, and again when he told her to run. Scott would bet good money that she hadn’t been in on that day’s massacre.
Which didn’t make her innocent. Getting involved with the criminal underworld made her culpable. Given her history, he’d expected her to be smarter.
Scott adjusted his position in the recently purchased beater of a cargo van. Across the street, she gave the older woman a gentle hug before striding to the detached-garage-turned-guest-house. The small rental exactly matched the main house, right down to its white trim, green wood siding, and stone porch.
Valerie—now going by Victoria Reynoso—had done a nice job of covering her tracks but she clearly didn’t realize her efforts were useless. Scott didn’t have much to offer the world, but he knew how to be invisible.
And how to wait.
Down the street, the feds were watching too, operating out of a two-story motel called The Dolphin, which had probably been built in the fifties and never refurbished. Since he wasn’t in contact with them, he’d made up his own names for the agents to amuse himself as he watched them spy on Valerie.
He’d noticed Hurley first. Later, he’d added Roxy, Billy, Van, Rip, and Oakley, though they did a pretty good job of staying covert. He supposed they had some experience.
They wanted Valerie to lead them to Suresh—and possibly her buyer—before bringing her in, and Hollowell wanted Scott to stay on as backup and to keep him in the loop. Fine with him. Better they capture both traitors.
Assuming she was meeting up with Suresh at all. A smart woman would cut ties and start fresh.
Scott scratched the beard he’d been growing since they took to the road. After so many years in the Marines, shaving was a habit, but his scruffy face changed his look completely. Combine that with the blond highlights the sun had given his overlong hair, sunglasses, and board shorts, and Valerie hadn’t looked at him twice. He was just another transient surfer parked at the beach across from her cottage.
The surfers figured he was just another guy living out of his van. Which, basically, he was.
He’d been readingMeditationsby Marcus Aurelius for nearly an hour when Valerie emerged from her tiny house. She wore a green V-neck shirt and white jeans with sparkly flip-flops.
