He’d left his truck parked up against Smythe’s privacy fence with signs for a landscaping company prominently displayed, but he wasn’t really worried about his truck being reported. In the three days that he’d been there, none of Smythe’s neighbors had come outside. The closest house had the lights come on at the same time every night, clearly on a timer.

It was hotter than hell and it was Memorial Day weekend. Maybe the rich folks went to the mountains where it was cooler. It was what DJ would do when he became rich.

Eyes on the prize, he thought as he lined up the edges of the new magnetic signs on each of the truck’s doors. The license plates were next, and within minutes he was pulling onto the deserted street. He’d drive to the entrance to the neighborhood and wait there.

If the SUVs stuck to their pattern, the one that had been on its way to the Sokolovs’ house would soon be heading out again. Sure enough, within five minutes, the SUV passed by on its way out of the neighborhood.

DJ waited until the SUV had turned toward the interstate before following, keeping a safe distance. From the height of the truck’s cab, he could see over ninety-five percent of the vehicles on the road. He put five cars between himself and the SUV, then settled into a steady pace in the right lane. DJ made no move to get closer. It would only draw attention to him.

He followed for miles, hoping the SUV wasn’t going to take the exits into the city. It would be harder to follow them there. His wish was granted when the black vehicle exited onto I-5, toward the airport. DJ continued to follow, now directly behind the SUV, assuming the airport would be their final destination when the vehicle exited onto Airport Boulevard.

And then everything went to hell.

“Fuck,” he growled, his pulse shooting to the moon when a police cruiser came up on his left, lights flashing. He’d been made.

“Pull over,” came the command from the cruiser’s speaker.

“I don’t think so,” he muttered, glad that he had the truck. He swerved, forcing the cruiser off the road into the median. He then rammed into the back of the SUV in front of him, causing it to veer off the shoulder. He stomped the gas pedal to the floor, the truck accelerating so fast that it fishtailed, but he got it under control and thundered down the highway.

He made the most of his lead, knowing the cops wouldn’t give up. After a minute of the fastest driving he’d ever done, he slammed on the brakes and turned onto one of the roads that led to the river. There was no place to hide the truck, so he’d use it to buy more time. He parked the truck sideways so that it blocked the road, then grabbed his rifle out of its case and ran into the trees that lined the river.