I knew what Barnes was doing and I knew it was brilliant. The smoke was hiding the transfer of the suitcases into some other vehicle, and the rockets were fired into the parking lot to create a diversion. All police forces live by the credo Protect and Serve, in that order. Protection of the public trumps apprehension, and assuming Bureau agents were at the scene, they had their hands full protecting the innocents from the flying missiles.

A pair of powerful hands jerked me to my feet. The same big guy moved in front of me, and an electronic wand was swiftly waved over the length of my body. Apparently I wasn't in broadcast mode, which was either really good or really bad news for me. He spun me around and began shoving me toward the shopping center. I had about ten feet and three seconds to consider my options.

Option one-whirl around, kick the big guy, and haul ass. He was, as I said, large and strong, but he wasn't expecting it, and I owed him a kick in the nuts at the very least. Also, once I got a few feet away, I would be obscured by smoke and it would take a remarkably lucky shot to put a bullet in my back. My day hadn't been lucky so far, but you never know.

Option two-remain with these people, hoping my tracking device wasn't in a pile of vomit, hoping they had some unfathomable reason to keep me alive, and hoping the Feds rose to a level of competence they hadn't yet shown.

Option one meant they would probably escape, but coincidentally, so would I. Option two contained the most hopes, and I had just sworn off optimism.

Through the smoke I observed two people shoving a rolling metal cargo cart loaded with gray suitcases into the shopping center's elevator.

In that instant, it struck me that they had outsmarted the cops; they were going to get away with it. The Feds would be rushing to block the escape routes accessible from the upper lot. Unobserved, Jason's crew would slip down the elevator to the lower level, making their escape out the other side of the shopping center, on different highways.

Either I was propelled by a noble impulse or I procrastinated too long, because suddenly I had no options. I was shoved with great force into the elevator, five more smoke grenades were tossed out, the doors slid closed, and we began our descent.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

There were three of them in the elevator. Nobody said a word. We were all winded, breathing heavily, and, for different reasons, consumed with our own thoughts and fears.

I used the descent to take stock of my new companions. They were dressed regularly-if shitkicker haberdashery can be termed regular-with black balaclava hoods over their heads, so I couldn't observe their fiendish faces, just their soulless eyes.

The one to my right, who maintained a vise grip on my arm, was square-shouldered, lanky, and extremely tall, perhaps six foot six or six foot seven. He smelled a little rank, or these days, I guess, "hygienically challenged."

The one to my left-specifically, the one holding the Glock pistol at my ear-had a feminine physique, slender where it counted, curvy where it counted, with a pair of huge rockets where it counted more. I assumed this was the same lady who had jerked me around on the phone.

The third member of their party had positioned himself in front of the elevator control panel. About my size, just shy of six feet, roughly 190 pounds, which coincided neatly with the descriptive data in Clyde Wizner's personnel files.

In fact, sexually, physically, and morally, these three were a cold match for Eric Tanner's hypothetical ring.

Not present in this gathering of murderers was the fourth party in their conspiracy, the brains of this outfit, Mr. Jason Barnes. Not really surprising, considering that his picture was in every newspaper in the country.

The elevator doors slid open. We were now on the ground level of the shopping center, and mirroring the upper level, there were no walls enclosing the shops; only a narrow covered walkway separated us from the lower parking lot. The cart and I were shoved out of the elevator, then straight toward the curb, where there were two Texas Cadillacs, i.e., beat-up Ford pickups, one red in color, one black, cabs empty, engines idling.

The guy who appeared to be Clyde Wizner said to the woman, "Get yers. Hurry" and off she loped, bouncing and jiggling.

He said to me, "You kin help load these cases, or you kin stand with yer thumb up yer butt and I'll blow yer brains out."

Time to be the perfect guest. I lifted the first suitcase and set it gently in the back of the black pickup.

Then the three of us were tossing suitcases into the beds of the red and black pickup trucks. There were no bags or luggage in any of the trucks, indicating, I thought, the possibility of a nearby hiding place. The license plates on both vehicles were Virginian, though presumably they were stolen, as was the fifty million, as was Sean Drummond.

In less than thirty seconds, the lady rolled up in her pickup, a yellow one, and the last four suitcases were thrown into the bed. The tall guy ran down the line and drew canvases over the cases, and there was their haul-fifty million in clean, untraceable cash divided not quite equally three ways, plus indivisible me.

The lady tossed me her keys and said, "Yer drivin' mine. Git in."

To clear up my apparent hesitation, she allowed me to examine how clean she kept the bore of her Glock pistol. She said, "I'd jus' as soon kill you. Move it, asshole."

And like that, I was in the mood for a drive.

The other two pickups sped off in different directions, as she and I climbed into the cab of her yellow Ford. Fastidiousness and nutritional fussiness were not among her faults; the floor was covered with crushed Bud cans and balled-up candy wrappers, and the lady appeared to own a bald dog, because tiny gray hairs were matted everywhere. Also, on the dash, directly in front of the steering wheel, was mounted a small video screen, presumably the one she had used to observe me inside the van.

Her right hand kept her pistol leveled at me, and with the other she removed her black balaclava hood and shook out her blond hair. As Chief Eric Tanner's witnesses attested, this was a lady who could spin a few heads; a little past thirty, cool blue eyes, tanned skin just turning wrinkly, pouty lips, and a firm chin. She was quite pretty, though a little slutty. Definitely not the type of girl Mom dreamed you'd bring home, but I think Pop would've enjoyed her. Except this lady had no heart and the black soul of a murderess.

Obeying perhaps her only law of the day, she buckled her seat belt. She said to me, "Don't buckle yers. Try crashin' this truck, yer goin' through the windshield, not me." She waved her pistol in front of my nose. "What'n the hell you lookin' at? Move it."

I pulled forward, and she directed me toward the far end of the parking lot. We sat on a long bench seat, and, showing sound survival skills, she scooted up against the passenger door and faced me. She said, "Don't speed, neither. Git back on Route 50, toward D.C."

After a moment, I commented, "You lied."

"I lie all the time. What's yer point?"

"There was no bomb."

"Oh… yeah." She looked around to see if any cops were in the vicinity. Unfortunately, they were all attending a convention on the other side of the mall, and it was smooth sailing. She looked at me and giggled. "Now, don't you feel like a stupid ass? Law degree and all that… still, I bullshitted you down to yer underpants. You were shittin' yer drawers."

"I never believed you in the first place."

"Liar." She laughed. "I saw yer face through the camera, and heard you tell the FBI. Like hell you din't believe me."

I laughed, too. "It did kind of suck."