Lucia, ever practical, unfolded the paper and read off the address. Manny reached over and pushed a recessed spot on the wood-grained dash; a section of it glided out, revealing a keyboard and a small plasma screen. “Put it in,” he said. “We have GPS navigation.”

Even Lucia paused at that, then nodded and began typing. The SUV felt smooth and comfortable, after the initial jerk; Jazz let herself relax a little. Enough to gulp in some air-conditioned breaths, and say, “‘Thank you for not hating me?’ Jesus, Manny, is that really the best you could do?”

The GPS navigator’s smooth female voice said, “Right turn at the next traffic signal.”

“Well,” Manny said, and glanced down at his speed, “I figure having a woman not actually hate me is a pretty big accomplishment. All things considered.”

He whipped the wheel. The SUV raced around the corner, straightened out, and smoothly avoided two lumbering trucks, a taxi, and two sedans before the navigator read off another turn.

Lucia had her eyes on the clock. “We’re not going to make it in time,” she said. “Dammit. Why didn’t we know about this? Why didn’t Simms tell you?”

“I don’t know,” Jazz admitted. “Maybe he thought we already knew.”

Lucia cursed under her breath, a steady stream of Spanish. The computer recited another fast set of directions. Jazz clung to the panic strap, swallowing, glad that they’d left Borden behind; she couldn’t imagine this kind of thrashing around could be good for a head injury. It wasn’t doing much for her sense of claustrophobic panic, either.

“Where’s Pansy?” she asked. Lucia checked the directions on the paper against what was appearing on screen, then tossed the paper aside and pulled the gun from its holster behind her back.

“Distracting the cops,” Lucia said. “Did you know she has a cousin in uniform? His name is Ryan. Kind of cute. We’re almost there. You good to go? No broken bones?”

Jazz nodded. “I’m fine.”

Lucia shot her a distrustful look. Jazz supposed, on balance, her croaky, damaged voice wasn’t exactly the traditional definition of fine.

Manny made the final turn onto a suburban street and cut his speed to something less than enough to break the sound barrier.

“There!” Lucia yelled, and pointed. A car was just pulling away from the curb ahead, an electric blue boat of a car with black-and-yellow plates. It was the same car. Jazz remembered it, remembered seeing it accelerate down a street just like this one, the day they’d done the surveillance on the woman loading boxes.

There had been kids playing, she remembered. Kids playing two yards down.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “They were wrong. They were wrong about who to watch.”

They’d managed to disrupt an abduction by accident, rather than design.

She threw a desperate look over at Lucia, then at the house where the car had been parked. The front gate was open, still swinging. A neon-pink backpack lay abandoned on the sidewalk, books spilling out of it.

“He’s got her,” Jazz shouted. “Manny, go! Follow him!”

He applied the gas, and they rocketed after the disappearing taillights of the Pontiac.

The idea that Manny Glickman, of all people, was some kind of stunt-car driver was so weird that Jazz couldn’t get her head around it.

Luckily, her belief—or lack thereof—didn’t seem to matter much. Manny drove like a maniac, keeping them within sight of the Pontiac as it dodged and danced in and out of traffic. Lucia got on the phone to the cops and fed them directions and information. Jazz just kept wishing she’d paid more attention to what Simms had been telling her in the prison. If everything we do makes a difference, is this right? Are we doing the right thing? Should Manny be here? Should I have left Borden back there?

You could make yourself crazy, thinking these things.

A turn slid Lucia down the bench seat to collide with her. Lucia muttered an apology and put one hand on the dashboard to anchor herself in place. Jazz belted herself in, not willing to risk it any further. Sure, maybe it was a matter of fate that they wouldn’t wreck and die, but there was no sense tempting it.

Manny rounded a corner with a squeal of rubber, and they all scanned the road ahead. “Not there,” Manny said, slowing. “I think he lost us.”

“Dammit, he turned.” Lucia scanned side streets on the left, while Jazz took the right. “Anything? See anything?”

“Nothing,” Manny said grimly. “There’s no sign of him up there. He must be down one of these side streets.”

It seemed to take forever.

“We’ve lost him,” Manny finally said. “He’s a ghost.”

“No, he’s here, he’s got to be here,” Lucia said. “Back up.”

Manny hit the brakes, shifted gears, and glided the giant SUV backward into shade. A narrow alley stretched on the left. At the end of it was a dilapidated tin shed, some forgotten warehouse that had clearly missed a demolition notice or two.

Jazz saw it first. “Paint.” She pointed to the corner of the alley. There was a fresh-looking scrape on the brick there, and a glitter of electric blue.

“I can’t fit the Hummer down there,” Manny said.

Jazz released her seat belt, popped the door and jumped down, drawing her gun before her feet hit the ground. “Stay here,” she said. Lucia slid out after her.

“Wait!” Manny looked scared out of his mind again, the cool, calm stunt driver entirely gone. “Look in the back. Get whatever you need.”

Lucia sent a questioning look at Jazz, who shrugged and led the way around to the rear of the vehicle. She swung open the gate, and…

Wow.

“Manny,” she said slowly, “someday, we’ve really got to talk about how that therapy thing is going.”

She reached over the racked shotgun, the assault rifle, and the assorted handguns to grab two flak vests, standard black. She handed one to Lucia, who looked it over, eyebrows climbing higher.

“FBI standard issue,” she said. “Only these don’t have insignia. I’m guessing Manny’s friends with the supplier.”

They got into the body armor quickly, sealing the Velcro as they went. Behind them, Jazz heard the snap of locks engaging on the SUV. Manny probably had some kind of stunning electrical field on the damn thing, too. She didn’t put much past him, at this point.

Lucia had taken the shotgun. Jazz stuck with her pistol. Together, they moved slowly down the alley, covering each other, keeping focused on the closed double doors on the tin shack at the end of the alley.

“Careful,” Lucia murmured.

“Screw careful. This guy knows he’s been popped, and he’ll kill her as soon as he has the chance.” Jazz moved faster, reached the end of the alley and paused, looking both ways around the corner.

It was deserted. If the cops were on the way, they’d be late. She remembered what Simms and the Society had said about Actors and Leads. Most of the cops clearly didn’t qualify. They wouldn’t affect events, whatever transpired.

It was up to the two of them, and the guy in the shed.

And just maybe, the little girl.

She ran across the open space, light-footed, and put her back against the tin wall, careful not to make any noise. Lucia followed and mimed walking around back. Jazz nodded.

She counted to ten, took a deep breath and used one foot to kick the sliding door on her right. It slid open easily, rattling like a tin can full of marbles; if he hadn’t heard that, he had to be deaf or dead. She waited for any gunfire, heard nothing, and ducked low and around the corner, darted immediately into shadow.

The inside of the place was dark, cool and apparently deserted. No sign of Lucia, either. Jazz held her breath, listening, moving silently across the open concrete floor and constantly checking the shadows for anything that might give her a warning.

She was starting to think that they’d been wrong when she caught a glint of chrome in the far shadows, and heard the ticking of a cooling engine.