She pulled out her cell and opened her browser. Brent and his colleagues would have access to much more detailed intel on Olivia than she could pull up by surfing the net—but a search would keep her occupied.

And while she was browsing, it wouldn’t hurt to say a few prayers that Brent’s team would get a warrant fast and find answers before the Antifa crowd waiting nearby got impatient with the delay in the afternoon program and decided to forge ahead with its mission.

Whatever that was.

25

IF THIS WAS SUPPOSED to be a joke, he wasn’t laughing.

Steve clamped his lips together, surveyed the desolate area around the abandoned railway bridge, and glowered at the digital clock on the dashboard of his rental car.

One-ten.

Apparently he’d been lured here under false pretenses.

Given that the anonymous caller who’d promised to meet him with helpful evidence had threatened to leave if he wasn’t here precisely at one, the odds were no one was going to come forward with a silver bullet to help him beat the rap hanging over his head.

As the truth hollowed out his stomach, he watched a vulture circle above the corroded bridge and let out a slow breath.

Could Meg have done this, out of spite?

No. Much as she might hate him, it wasn’t in her nature to be mean to anyone.

So who had called him, dangling a carrot he couldn’t resist?

The answer eluded him.

But whoever had devised this prank could be concealed nearby, watching him. Laughing at the desperate man who’d fallen for a mean-spirited trick.

Anger began to churn in his gut, and he squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened. No one made a fool of Steve Jackson.

No one.

Muttering a curse, he twisted the key in the ignition. Put the car in gear. Executed a quick U-turn, spewing gravel into the tall weeds rimming the deserted road. He was out of here.

And if he ever found out who had orchestrated this waste-of-time Saturday outing, they’d find out why his ex had nicknamed him Steve the Smasher.

Something was wrong.

Beads of sweat that had nothing to do with the rising air temperature broke out on Buzz’s forehead. Swiping them away with the sleeve of his hoodie, he gave the parking lot another once-over.

More police had shown up, cars attempting to enter were being turned away—and the Antifa demonstration was getting further and further behind schedule.

He checked his watch again. One-twelve.

At this moment, the black bloc groups should be marching and chanting and infiltrating the Republican gathering as they approached the stage where Eve Reilly was speaking. His finger should be on the trigger, ready to dispatch the bullets that would take her out.

Instead, the Antifa crowd was milling around—and becoming restless.