He eased away—it was dangerous to linger in the garage.
He led her to the car he’d selected.
“Get in the back—and lie on the seat—so it looks like there’s just one person in the car.”
“Okay.”
When she was settled, he reached into the carry bag he’d brought, took out a baseball cap and pulled it low over his face before heading for the automatic garage door. The gears ground, and he waited an eternity for the door to open. Finally, he drove into the night, a fugitive from the law. Or would the two security men report what had happened to the cops?
He drove for about twenty minutes before he looked over his shoulder to see Grace lying on her side on the backseat, hugging her knees against her middle.
“I think it’s safe for you to get in the front now.”
“Thanks.”
He pulled onto a side street and stopped. As she climbed into the front seat, she asked, “Do you think those men are really from the Ridgeway Consortium?” “Why do you ask?”
“They don’t seem much like the guards I’ve seen there. What if they work for someone else?” “Who?”
She shrugged, but he wondered if she might have an idea about their identity. “No idea?” he pressed.
“No.”
“What happened in the bedroom before I got there?” he asked, changing the subject abruptly.
She swallowed hard. “That guy came in and started looking around. I was in the closet. I knew he was going to find me there, so I waited until his back was turned and jumped him.” “Risky.”
“What would you have done?” “The same.”
She laughed. “At least I feel better about my decision.” “Don’t use me as a shining example of anything.” “Don’t run yourself down,” she shot back.
When he didn’t come back with a rejoinder, she looked out the window into the darkness. “Where are we going?” “Hell if I know. I haven’t gotten that far yet.” “Can I make a suggestion?”
“I thought you didn’t have any plans when you escaped from your apartment.”
“I didn’t have a car. But now that we do, I know of an unoccupied cabin in the Catoctin Mountains.”
“Up by Camp David?”
She nodded.
“Perfect. There’s a lot of security up there.” “A good reason to assume you won’t go in that direction.”
“Who owns the cabin?”
“Friends,” she answered quickly. “But they don’t use it at this time of year.”
“Some of your young DC professionals?”
Again she paused. “Yes.”
“Are you leading me into a trap? ”
“No.”
He waited a beat before bringing up another touchy subject. “You realize we can’t just leave two wounded men in my apartment.”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
IT WAS EARLY in the morning, but Washington was a city where traffic never stopped.
Phil Yarborough sat in the passenger seat of the unmarked white van as it traveled along the toll road to Reston, Virginia. When he felt the driver’s foot bounce on the accelerator, he looked over inquiringly.
“What?”
“Two patrol cars are closing in on us with their lights flashing. What do I do now?”
“You’re not exceeding the speed limit?”
“Of course not!” the driver snapped.
“And you don’t think you have a taillight out—or anything like that?”
“This vehicle was checked before we left the Ridgeway Consortium.”
“Better pull over.”
The van slowed, then swung onto the shoulder. One patrol car stopped in back of the vehicle. The other boxed them in front.
Yarborough watched as two uniformed officers got out of each vehicle. Lord, now what?
As they walked toward the driver’s door, he rolled down his window.
One of the officers pulled some papers from his jacket pocket. “This is authorization to transfer your prisoner.”
“What authorization?” Yarborough snapped. Reaching across the driver, he held out his hand.
The officer gave him the papers and he found he was reading a federal court order transferring custody of Karen Hilliard to the Justice Department.
“The orders comes from the Department of Homeland Security, under the Patriot Act,” the officer clarified.
Yarborough cursed under his breath. Somehow that Middle Eastern terrorist story had gotten out.
“Why wasn’t I informed of this?” he asked.
“I guess the authorization just came through.”
“I need to call my boss.” Yarborough wasn’t happy.
The officer gave Yarborough a look that he himself had used on many occasions. It said that the cop held all the cards in this game.
“You can talk to him later. Right now, we want the prisoner,” he said, his hand on his hip, dangling inches from his sidearm.
The voice and the gesture weren’t lost on Yarborough. “Why is the Justice Department using local cops?” “We were in the area.”
Yarborough didn’t like it. But he didn’t see himself getting into a gun battle on the highway shoulder—with the cops. That would be a little tough to explain.
He climbed out, then walked around to the back of the van and unlocked the door. Karen Hilliard sat on a bench seat, her hands cuffed to a ring on the metal bar beside her seat, her legs shackled to keep her steps slow and labored.
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