A block later, I spot another one, a Valero, but it’s also doing brisk business.

Once I cross Felicity, I think I’ve found the place: An old, shabby Gasco.

It looks closed, but whether for the day or for good, I can’t tell. Two cars are parked sloppily in front of it. One is a maroon Jeep Cherokee that has a badly dented bumper. Maybe the vehicle that rammed Vanessa, forcing her off the road?

Then I remember: a maroon Jeep Cherokee drove into that scrapyard last week, to that sleeper cell meeting, when I was tailing Farzat.

I hate coincidences.

And then I see it: Vanessa’s Lexus, turned sideways half a block from the Gasco—that must be where they rammed her, and she escaped on foot.

Jesus Christ.

As I drive closer, four shady-looking guys are at the shabby-looking gas station. Two of them are keeping lookout by the Jeep. Two others are at the restroom door, angrily pounding on it.

None seem dumb enough to have drawn a weapon in broad daylight … but I do see some telltale bulges on their hips.

My own 9mm is still at my side—but this is not the time or place to use it. If I get into a four-on-one, close-range shootout with these guys, I’ll be pumped full of lead in seconds.

I scan the gas station, wracking my brain for possible options, desperate to come up with something to scare these assholes off and free Vanessa.

What can I do?

Then, I get an idea. A risky one.

No, a crazy one.

But it could work. If it doesn’t burn me alive first.

CHAPTER 59

Swallowing my fear before I choke on it, I turn into the gas station and pull up to a pump. I choose one close to the action.

Before I even shut off my engine, I see the near two men, standing guard, tense up and exchange words. I assume they’re debating how to handle my unexpected arrival.

I rummage through the junk in my center console—paper clips, napkins, sugar packets, a pen, a Bic lighter, loose change, old receipts—and take what I need.

Then I casually exit and turn to the pump. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the men approaching.

My palms are starting to get clammy, but I keep my cool. I remove my wallet and dip a credit card into the slot. I lift and squeeze the nozzle’s handle, starting the flow of fuel, then I flip the little latch that locks it in place.

“Hey,” the man grunts. “Y’all can’t be here. We’re closed.”

“What was that?” I ask with a friendly nonchalance.