She’d left Interstate 5 at the outskirts of the city limits, then had taken the surface streets through the center of town. The time had been four P.M., the start of rush hour on a Friday afternoon, and traffic had been heavy.
At first, watching her rearview mirror, she had seen no one obviously tailing her. She’d allowed herself to believe that she was safe. She’d been misinformed. Her contact was paranoid, probably, like most of the people in his line of work. The ones who were still alive, anyway.
Pierce was still congratulating herself on her good fortune when she glimpsed a white van behind her. There were two occupants, and both appeared to be Caucasian males, a not uncommon profile for employees of the FBI. The van was sticking close, as was necessary for clandestine pursuit in dense urban traffic.
Damn, damn, damn.
It could be just an ordinary van, but she knew better. She’d seen it on I-5, a hundred miles north of Sacramento. The same two men inside.
So her contact wasn’t crazy, after all. The fucking feds really were on to her.
Briefly she considered aborting the mission. But of course it was too late. If they knew enough to shadow her, they knew enough to put her in a federal prison. And she could expect no leniency from any judge or jury-not when they learned what she was carrying in the suitcase on her Sunbird’s backseat.
They would put her away forever. Maximum security. Lesbian guards, dangerous showers, broom-handle rapes-shit, her life would be a goddamn made-for-cable movie.
The chilly feeling at the back of her neck was dread. She honestly hadn’t expected to be caught. She’d thought she was playing the game so adroitly, staying three steps ahead of any possible threat.
Now the threat was right behind her, in the form of a white van with two pale white men inside.
The van was the command vehicle, the one in direct visual contact with the target-the target, in this case, being Pierce herself. There would be other vehicles, most likely a total of four or five, all weaving a loose, flexible net around her, a formation known in mobile surveillance work as a 'floating box.' She had to identify them if she was to know what she was up against.
She guided the Sunbird through the grid of city streets. The second vehicle was easy to pinpoint. It was a station wagon puttering along ahead of her, the driver using his brakes too often. Standard surveillance technique- distract the target with intentionally poor driving. Anyway, she was fairly certain she had seen the station wagon on the interstate also.
She looked back, careful to use only the rearview mirror-the first rule in this game was never to look over one’s shoulder-and saw that the van was gone. An amateur would have taken comfort in that fact. Pierce knew it was only a standard signature shift, the characteristic leapfrogging pursuit of an A-B surveillance protocol.
The vehicle now in visual contact with her was a taxicab. It had changed places with the van to make the detection of either automobile less likely.
Three of them so far. There might be one or two more. Outriders on her left and right.
To find out, she executed a quick left turn at the next intersection, not using her turn signal. The taxi continued straight through, but a coupe in the left lane peeled off and followed her.
Now the coupe was in the command position, and the other vehicles were pacing her on parallel streets. If she could ditch the coupe, she might break out of the box altogether.
She eased into the right lane, behind a slow-moving bus, forcing the coupe to motor past her to avoid being conspicuous. When it was safely ahead, she checked her rearview mirror. Still no sign of the van, the taxi, or the station wagon.
Taking advantage of a momentary break in the traffic, she flipped a U-turn, cutting off a motorcyclist in the opposite lane, who threatened her with a gloved fist.
She ignored her rearview mirror now. The driver of the coupe would not be so foolish as to attempt a high- profile maneuver like a U-turn directly behind her. Instead she watched the oncoming traffic in the other lane.
There. A panel truck was making a left turn onto a side street. As she passed the street, the truck pulled out behind her.
This was the fifth vehicle, now in the command position.
She might yet have a chance to break out. Ahead of her, a stoplight was cycling from green to yellow. She gunned the Sunbird’s motor and flashed through the intersection just as the light turned red. The panel truck was stuck idling at the light. Redboarded.
Gotcha, Pierce thought with savage satisfaction.
Wait.
Ahead of her, parked at the curb-the white van. It pulled out in front of her.
And here came the taxi, cruising at her rear.
There was no way out of the box. The feds were all around her, hemming her in. And after her recent exhibition of evasive driving tactics, they now knew she was on to them. It would be harder than ever to break free.
She could not break out of the box. Not here.
Her best shot was to get back on the freeway and continue south. LA was a bigger city. It offered more possibilities for countersurveillance action. And she would have hours to sort out her options, reacquaint herself with her intel training, and determine her next move.
They hadn’t beaten her yet. They had her in a corner, but she could fight her way out of a corner if she had to.
And if they tried to take her down, she wouldn’t go alone.
That had been six hours and four hundred miles earlier. Now, rigid at the wheel, fatigued after the daylong drive and the 360 miles covered on Thursday, operating on no sleep and almost no food, Amanda Pierce drove into Los Angeles.
She took the 405 freeway when it branched off from I-5. It carried her through the San Fernando Valley, over the mountains toward West LA.
In the darkness she could no longer see the vehicles in pursuit, but she knew they were behind her and ahead of her and probably pacing her in other lanes. She’d made no effort to lose them after leaving Sacramento. By now, her friends from the FBI might have been lulled into thinking that her evasive actions had been merely a precautionary measure. They might believe that she actually had no idea she was being followed.
She hoped so. Their complacency might give her an edge. An edge she desperately needed, since soon she would have her last chance to break free.
The dashboard clock read 10:15. She was expected to be at the hotel by eleven. It would be tight. Would her contact wait for her if she was delayed?
'He’d better, God damn it,' Pierce muttered, her voice raw from the tension stiffening her vocal cords.
She had risked everything for this meeting. And now that she was exposed, her cover blown, she needed it more than ever.
The freeway crested the low range of the Santa Monica Mountains and descended. The basin of Los Angeles slid into view, a huge bowl of light cupped by the black fingers of hills and desert and sea.
Pierce thought she’d come a long way from Hermiston, Oregon.
And whatever happened tonight, however things worked out, she wasn’t going back.
4
The assistant director’s office was tidy and almost sterile, not unlike its occupant. His desk was uncluttered, the walls all but bare. There were none of the usual accoutrements of power-plaques and certificates, photos of the agent shaking hands with the president or receiving a commendation. In the bureau this sort of display was known cynically as an I-love-me wall. Nearly every office had one. But not this office.
'Evening, Tess,' Andrus said as she and Larkin entered. 'I suppose you heard some of that phone call.'
'The tail end,' Tess admitted, before Larkin could deny it.
'Typical bureau infighting. This guy flies in from outside the division and wants to do everything his own way. I have to ride him hard just to get him to check in with me. It’s just one of many hassles you’ll have to deal with when they make you an SAC one day.'
