The reason Cheney kept checking his rearview mirror was because of Kathryn Golden’s phone call at six-thirty that morning. “I had another vision, Agent Stone. It was him, the man who wants to kill Julia. He’s been to Pacific Heights, he managed to break into Julia’s house, I saw him, and then he came out again because she wasn’t there, and he was angry. He knows about you, Agent Stone, I think he’s found out where you live. He doesn’t know if Julia’s there, but he’s coming. He’s in a car, driving. He looks calm, but he isn’t, not really—it’s like a layer of snow covering up a fire. He’s coming. Please be careful.”
And he’d thanked her, hung up, and sneered. Another safe guess on her part. The only thing that had surprised him about her “vision” yesterday was her guess about the assassin’s name. Maybe she knew someone in the SFPD and that person had leaked it to her. Yeah, that was possible, even Julia had mentioned that. And now she’d called him to tell him something else equally obvious. It wasn’t such a stretch to realize he was keeping Julia safe at his place. Of course Makepeace was out there. But on the road? Could be. He sneered again.
But as he negotiated the heavy morning city traffic, he kept chewing on it, and checked his rearview mirror more often than he would have if Kathryn Golden hadn’t called with her damned vision.
Julia sat quietly beside him, a lot calmer than he was, even though he’d told her about Kathryn Golden’s call. She’d said only, “It can’t hurt to listen.”
Now he worried that Makepeace had come around and seen the cops guarding his condo and decided to wait for them to leave. Maybe he was now following them. He thought about calling Frank Paulette, asking for backup. But what would he tell him? A whacked-out psychic had a vision?
He looked back again. The San Francisco morning rush-hour traffic was thick, but he didn’t see anyone acting suspicious, no one moving up through the tangle of cars to get closer. Maybe he was hanging back, biding his time.
Cheney was freaking himself out. He had to calm down. He wasn’t about to scare Julia any more than she had to be. He looked over at her. She was still quiet, starting at nothing in particular that he could see. What was she thinking?
He checked the rearview mirror again.
Julia said, “Do you see him?”
“No, I don’t. The chances are he’s nowhere close.”
“If Kathryn’s right and he’s already been to my house, maybe it would be safe to go home for at least a shower and some clothes. Maybe we call Soldan Meissen after that?”
She still sounded more calm than he felt. He said, “First I’d like to introduce you to some FBI friends of mine who just got into town last night—”
He had subconsciously registered a white Dodge Charger and now his brain zeroed in on it. The Charger was moving up, not going all that fast, not all that obvious. But the Charger was passing a black Ford SUV, weaving easily back and forth in the lanes on Geary, efficient and smooth, as if out for an easy drive. Cheney couldn’t see the driver, couldn’t even tell how many people were in the car, but he knew it was Makepeace, felt it in his gut.
The Charger was only four cars back now.
Cheney turned to her. “Julia, I want you to hold on, okay?”
“What? Oh, he’s here? Kathryn was right?”
“Whatever. Yes, I think Xavier is behind us, coming up now. He must really be pissed to come after you in full daylight, in damned rush hour, in the middle of San Francisco. I want to get out of all this traffic. If he starts firing we have to be able to move out fast. I’d just as soon avoid any civilians getting hurt too.”
She looked back. “The white Dodge Charger?”
“Yep.”
“He’s three cars back. Where are we going?”
“Hold on,” he said again, whipped the Audi around a station wagon, and floored the gas. She was thrown back, felt her seat belt tighten against her chest. Oddly, she wasn’t scared, not particularly, more excited really, and wasn’t that screwed up? She grabbed the chicken strap, jerked around to look back—
A bullet exploded the back window, spewing spears of glass everywhere, embedding itself in the back of Julia’s seat.
“Get down, all the way! Keep your head covered,” Cheney yelled.
Julia popped her seat belt and squeezed down as far as she could into the small space in front of the passenger seat.
Cheney tossed her his cell. “Punch four—it’s Captain Paulette’s personal number.”
Another bullet came through the jagged-edged mess of glass and slammed again into the back of the passenger seat. With no glass window to slow it down, the bullet tore through and drilled into the Audi’s glove compartment, not an inch above Julia’s bowed head. He nearly stroked out. “Try to scrunch down more! Lower!”
Cheney looked in the rearview and finally saw Makepeace, in his sunglasses. It would take some time before they heard any cop sirens, before the sound of approaching cops might force Makepeace to peel away. What could he do in the meantime? The truth was, he really didn’t want Makepeace to peel away. He wanted to bring him down, but first he had to protect Julia, he had— He said aloud, “The thing is, Julia, I know San Francisco very well and Xavier Makepeace doesn’t.”
He pressed down on the gas again and soon the Audi’s speedometer passed seventy miles an hour in the middle of San Francisco. The hit of it all was more powerful than a Turkish double espresso.
And then he knew exactly what he was going to do.
“Julia, tell Captain Paulette we’re heading west to Ocean Beach, just south of Cliff House.”
The chances were good no one would be on the beach this early in the morning. It was cold and windy and the
