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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."
    He said this without focusing his gaze on either of them in particular, but Tess felt sure the comment had been intended for her. Then again, maybe Larkin felt the same way, and maybe Andrus had meant to keep them guessing. He enjoyed little power plays of that sort.
    "Anyway," Andrus added, "I’m glad you’re here, Tess. I just hope this isn’t a false alarm."
    She felt her optimism fizzle just a little. "You think it is?"
    "It’s thin."
    "There must be something to it, if Agent Larkin called you in."
    "Actually I never left. Working late. If I’d been gone, I doubt Peter would have buzzed me."
    "Not on something this preliminary," Larkin said. Tess looked at him, and he pasted a smile on his face. "I’m sorry, Agent McCallum. Didn’t I make myself clear?"
    He’d been playing her, she realized. It had amused him to build up her hopes.
    "Have a seat," Andrus said, oblivious to the interplay.
    Tess felt too restless to sit, but in the long run it was always quicker to do things Andrus’s way. That was a lesson she had learned in Denver, when for three years Gerald Andrus had been the special agent in charge, supervising her on a daily basis, before moving on to bigger things.
    She sat across from the AD, hunching forward, while he leaned back behind his desk. Larkin settled into a chair in a corner.
    "So," Andrus said, "you want the long or short version?"
    "Just the basics."
    He nodded. For a moment he said nothing, and she knew he was organizing the relevant facts in order to present them with maximum efficiency. Everything about Andrus suggested a spare, abstemious discipline, from his gaunt physique and erect posture to the steel-framed glasses riding on his pinched nose. He was unmarried, a workaholic in his early forties, a man sketched in shades of gray—ash-gray eyes, silver-gray hair, and a pale, unlined