She reached the car, slung her backpack off her shoulder into the passenger seat, and shoved her rifle in beside it. She started the car and drove ahead with the headlights off. In a moment she reached Highway 36, turned onto it, and drove to the east, away from Ortega’s ranch with her lights still off. No other cars were on this stretch of the highway at this hour, so she straddled the centerline and concentrated on keeping the SUV on the pavement. She had gone along for about ten minutes before she switched on the headlights.

She turned onto Interstate 385, and when she reached Honey Lake, she pulled up to the cabin she had rented and changed her clothes in the car. She had selected a summer dress and some comfortable flat shoes, which was the least warlike costume she had with her. She bundled up her incriminating camouflage clothes and stuffed them in another trash bag. She unloaded her weapons and placed them with their ammunition behind the back seat under the carpeted layer that covered the spare tire.

She drove on, staring out to the limit of the high-beam headlights ahead of her and into the darkness beyond. When she reached the realty office in Susanville, she pushed through the mail slot an envelope containing a thank-you note and the key to the cabin. She drove to Reno on Route 395. She made it as far as Elko before she threw away the trash bags from Honey Lake, the camouflage uniform, and the boots. She was still on a nocturnal schedule, so she drove on through the dark hours. She kept going into the dawn and through the day.

When she stopped the next evening in Salt Lake City, she sat on the bed in her hotel room and used her laptop to read an email sent by Sergeant Art Sprague in Weldonville, Colorado.

“One hour ago, the Weldonville Police Department got an FBI notification that the bodies of five men were identified in a fire outside Susanville, California. They were Jesus Castillo, Manuel Soto, Martin Ortega, Matthew Bysantski, and Paul Duquesne.”

Leah turned off the computer, lay back on the bed, and stared up at the ceiling. She had gotten Weiss in Florida, Panko in Buffalo, Becker in New York, and now Ortega, Bysantski, and Duquesne all at once in Susanville. She had gotten six of the twelve, plus a few of their friends and relatives. She had no more leads to follow.

Three days later, Leah Hawkins drove the rented SUV up to the parking lot door of the Weldonville Public Safety Building and parked. She went inside and found Sergeant Art Sprague in the front office of the Police Department behind the counter. “Leah!” he said. “Welcome home.”

She said, “Thanks, Art. Can you unlock the safe room so I can unload some stuff into it? I’ve got a car out there in back.”