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Torres.
    “ ’Bout ninety minutes ago.”
    “And where’s Whitfield?”
    “Off the highway near the gate, like we planned. Why?” Torres lifted his binoculars and tried to zero in on what Jon was seeing.
    “Heat signature.”
    “Faint, but it’s there,” Jon agreed.
    “It’s not moving.”
    “I’m thinking it’s a vehicle. Engine hasn’t totally cooled down yet.”
    “Can’t believe I missed it.”
    A flash of movement caught Jon’s eye. He aimed the binocs west, where a much brighter green glow was now moving through the bushes.
    Torres tensed beside him. He saw it, too, and it was right on time. Jon checked his watch to make sure. After so many nights of nothing, he’d all but written off this meeting.
    The shape moved stealthily through the low scrub brush. The figure was small and hunched over but not sure-footed like many of the drug and human traffickers who slipped through the region. It progressed slowly up the incline and neared the clump of mesquite trees. Jon confirmed his first take that the fainter heat signature belonged to a vehicle.
    The rumble of an engine disrupted the quiet. But it wasn’t from the vehicle on the ridge. This noise came from the direction of the house.
    “Someone’s moving out.” Torres rested his binoculars on the ground and dug for his radio. He used a secure channel to make contact with the third member of their team, who was in an ICE van not far from the highway.
    “Yo, we got a pickup heading toward the gate,” Torres told Whitfield. “Looks like Hardin’s. And we’ve got a second vehicle parked up on the ridge.”
    The plan was for Whitfield to tail anyone leaving the property. The agent was almost as green as Torres, and Jon hoped he wouldn’t get burned.
    “Roger that.” Whitfield’s voice sounded staticky. “Just got a visual on the truck . . . exiting the southwest gate.”
    Jon looked at the ridge again. He adjusted his lenses. The stationary vehicle seemed to be waiting to leave until the pickup was gone.
    Torres climbed to his feet and silently collected his gear. Jon stayed prone, trying to get a view of the second subject.
    “You coming?”
    The pickup’s grumble continued to fade. Soon Whitfield would be on the tail, with Jon and Torres close behind, hoping to get into position in time to see something wherever this meeting went down.
    Torres was on the radio with Whitfield. “Repeat that. You said they’re turning west ?”
    “Affirmative.”
    “Why would they go west?”
    “No idea,” Whitfield said. “There’s nothing out there—at least, not on the map I’m looking at.”
    “Okay, we’re on our way.”
    Jon watched the ridge as the mystery vehicle eased out from behind the brush and moved slowly down the gentle slope. No headlights. It stopped near the dirt road leading to the highway, and Jon got his first unobstructed view of the car and the driver.
    He lowered his binoculars. Un-fucking-believable.
    Andrea Finch.
    Part of him wasn’t surprised at all.
    ♦
     
    They were leaving, Shay Hardin behind the wheel and a man Andrea didn’t recognize riding shotgun.
    She waited at the base of the ridge as Hardin’s taillights grew smaller. Why on earth were they going west? There was nothing in that direction. He’d have to drive a good twenty minutes just to pick up a highway.
    Not her problem. She had the information she’d come for, and it was time to get gone.
    Andrea kept the lights off as she moved cautiously down the road. Using only the moon for guidance was unnerving, but she couldn’t risk headlights yet, so her visibility was limited to about ten feet beyond her front bumper. She eased over the uneven terrain, careful to avoid trees and cacti and boulders as she neared the dirt road that bisected Lost Creek Ranch.
    The ride smoothed as her tires found hard-packed earth. She eased into the middle of the road and headed due east, toward the gate that linked the property with an adjacent ranch. She kept a