“The hills are heavily wooded. You could easily hide the truck, yea, even an eighteen-wheeler, off-road. Only possible way to find it would be with a low-flying chopper. Not a good use of time or money right now because we don’t know who we’re dealing with. For all we know, Sanchez might be armed with Uzis. Send in a copter, Grease Pit might do some target practice with the pilot. Turn around and come home.”

Martinez swore silently. Webster took the phone. He said, “How ’bout this, Loo? We wait at the mouth of the canyon for Waterson. If he should hop on the freeway, we follow. Plain and simple and very, very visible.”

“Let me reiterate, Tom. Waterson isn’t going anywhere. What purpose would it serve to follow him into the city?”

“Bert and I are just a mite curious to see where he winds up after his clandestine meeting with Sanchez.”

There was a long pause over the line. Decker said, “Pinpoint where you want to wait.”

“The Placerita on-ramp to the 14 West,” Webster said. “It’s a stone’s throw from the Sierra Highway. Very well trafficked. Give us an hour, Loo. What could it hurt?”

Decker paused again. “The cell phone you’re on. Will it maintain contact up there?”

“Probably not,” Webster admitted.

Decker waited a beat, then said, “All right. Wait at the Placerita entrance. But I’m telling you right now. If Waterson doesn’t come down through Placerita, you have direct orders not to go looking for him in the canyon. Stay away from anything that even hints of ambush, you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

Decker said, “If I don’t hear from you after one hour, I send a posse out. If I send a posse out, you’re both in deep shit. Get it?”

“Got it. Over and out.” Webster smiled. “Now that wasn’t so hard.” He gunned the engine, edging the speedometer to ninety.

“Why don’t you just put wings on the sucker and get a pilot’s license.” Martinez crossed himself. “Next time, I drive.”

“I’m just hurrying things ’cause I don’t want to miss Waterson.”

“Be nice if we got there in one piece.”

“You worry too much.” Webster raced onto the 14.

“You got binoculars?” Martinez asked.

“In the trunk.”

Within minutes, the ’Cuda neared the Placerita exit. Just as Webster edged the car onto the eastbound off-ramp, Martinez spotted a midnight blue Lincoln entering the westbound on-ramp in the opposite direction.

“Shit!” he said. “The Lincoln just got on the freeway going back toward L.A.”

“Fuck!” Webster depressed the accelerator and the ’Cuda thrusted forward. The off-ramp led to a near-empty intersection. Webster shot a red light with a left turn, narrowly missing an oncoming Toyota. The shaken driver let go with a long honk and a series of lost curses. Webster floored the ’Cuda, catapulting it back onto the freeway. “See the Lincoln?”

“No.”

“Fuck!”