As I finish my sandwich, licking the sweet gravy off my fingers, I notice some movement. Not from the house. Behind me. A black SUV with tinted windows is cruising along, coming this way, headlights off. It slows ever so slightly as it passes Farzat’s home.

Holy shit.

I can’t see the plates, but I’d bet they’re government-issued. Could the FBI be out here tonight, too? Chasing Farzat just like I am?

I don’t have much time to think on that, because all of a sudden, I see more movement.

This time, from inside the house.

Then the outside light over the front door flicks on.

I snatch my Nikon D3400 camera from the console. I hurriedly focus its high-powered lens and hold my breath.

The bungalow’s front door slowly opens … and there they are, where they’ve been in that tiny home for as long as I’ve been sitting out here. Farzat and his wife, Rima. Both stepping out onto the porch. He’s carrying a large, lumpy black duffel bag. She’s berating him about something, dabbing her eyes, clearly upset.

I hold down the shutter button and take a flurry of digital pictures of the unhappy couple. I’d kill to have a long-range shotgun mic right about now—or the foresight to have hidden a tiny wireless bug somewhere on the Farzats’ porch.

Eventually, Rima gives up her pleading. She goes back into the house and slams the door. Farzat heads to one of the old rust buckets parked on the street. Bingo. He unlocks the trunk and places his duffel bag inside.

I pull out a tiny voice recorder—smaller than a pack of gum—that’s been resting in my shirt pocket. I press the little red button, slip it back inside my pocket, and speak: “White Ford Taurus, late nineties. License plate: Sierra Victor Hotel eight five two.”

If I had a partner with me, she’d be scribbling down these details while I kept watch. But tonight, I’ve got to do double duty. I’ve seen a lot of cops use the built-in voice memo function on their phones for stuff like this, but my trusty digital voice recorder has never let me down.

I keep snapping photos as Farzat gets behind the wheel. He looks different from the last time I saw him. His beard is longer. His curly hair is flecked with gray. He looks quite a bit older than his thirty years. And haggard. Haunted.

I can only imagine why.

When he starts his engine and drives off down the street, I start my own engine, but keep my headlights off.

As I put my car into gear and get ready to follow, I look up the road for that FBI vehicle that passed, but I don’t see it. Interesting. Maybe it wasn’t the feds after all, then.

Maybe—no, probably—it’s just me out here.

All alone.