I could tell he was close to giving me something. I put a hand on his shoulder and ratcheted down my tone a little. “I'm not asking for any deep agency secrets. I'm talking about existing police business. In my own jurisdiction. At least for now.”

Tunney looked down at the floor tile for a few seconds, then over at my escort, then back at the floor. Without looking up, he said, “There's been some talk about a deal going down. We got this from the FBI. Service Plaza in Virginia. Chantilly, Virginia. Might be your guy. You'd be within your rights to intercept.”

“What kind of deal?”

Tunney didn't answer. He put out his hand, with a smile broad enough for the escort to see. His voice rose just a notch. “It was good seeing you again, Alex. And say hello to Bree for me. Like I said, I know this case by heart. It is horrific. Boy shot your friend. And please remember this, we're still the good guys, Alex. No matter what you might read or see in the movies.”

Chapter 15

BY EIGHT O'CLOCK that night, I had gathered together a half dozen handpicked officers from Major Case Squad, plus Bree, Sampson, and myself. We wore Kevlar vests under plain clothes and were heavily armed and wired, waiting at the service plaza in Chantilly, Virginia, where something might be going down involving my killer.

We were scheduled for a twelve-hour shift, eight to eight if we needed it. The team was already spread out over five sectors: front car park, restaurant, gas station, and both sides of the big truck lot in back. Sampson had a hip problem, so he was on the roof observing for us. Bree and I traded off roaming and covering the communications van parked near the entrance, with another good view of the service plaza.

There was no sign of the CIA. Had they not shown up yet?

For the first five hours, there was nothing but radio silence and lots of bad coffee.

Then just after one in the morning, the silence broke.

“Twenty-two-oh-one. Over.”

“Go ahead, twenty-two-oh-one.”

I looked over from the communications van toward the far corner of the truck lot, where a detective named Jamal McDonald was stationed.

“I got two Land Cruisers. Just pulled up to a tanker in the back. Northeast corner.”

“How long has the tanker been there?” I asked McDonald.

“Hard to say, Alex. At least half an hour. Most of these tankers been pulling in and out.”

We hadn't known what to expect tonight, but stolen gas or crude would make sense, especially if Nigerians were involved. I was already out of the van and walking quickly in Jamal's direction. Two dozen or more semis, lined up in rows, were temporarily blocking my view of the corner.

“Nicolo, Redman, pull in tighter. Bree, where are you right now?”

“I'm behind the buildings. Headed east.”