Finally, Farzat’s car slows and pulls into a hidden driveway, which is blocked off by a rusty iron gate. I brake a ways before and ease onto the gravelly shoulder, take out my binoculars again.

I watch as Farzat gets out of his Ford, unlocks the metal gate, then gets back in and drives inside. As he does, his headlights briefly illuminate a faded metal sign that reads: GUILLORY & SONS AUTO SALVAGE.

Like I said, Farzat could have a completely legitimate reason for being here at this hour. Maybe he’s the junkyard’s graveyard shift security guard. Maybe he’s friends with the owner. Or maybe … maybe …

Bullshit. Who am I kidding?

This looks pretty damn bad.

And yeah, there’s another advantage to doing a multi-unit surveillance.

Backup is just one radio message away.

You’re never out alone with the bad guys.

Like I am now.

CHAPTER 23

But what’s my next move?

Normally I’d have a whole team with me. Detectives on my flank, officers securing a perimeter, a chopper overhead, a SWAT team standing by.

But tonight, it’s just me.

I’m dying to know what’s happening on the other side of that gate. Who else is part of the meeting. Who’s in charge. What they’re saying. I consider getting the 9mm Smith & Wesson M&P out of my locked glove box, hopping the fence, and taking a look for myself. But realistically, without backup and support, that might be a one-way kamikaze mission.

Instead, I decide to sit tight. Even though Farzat stopped for a couple of Big Macs or whatever, I’m hoping he’s not the last one to arrive, and that more late-night attendees show up any minute. If I can grab their license plate numbers, that would go a long way in helping me map out Farzat’s contacts and associates.

Sure enough, barely five minutes later, a pair of headlights appear in my side-view mirror. I slink down in my seat as a beat-up, mud-splattered, maroon Jeep Cherokee passes by … and turns into the junkyard driveway.

I raise my binoculars again as I speak the license plate letters and numbers into my voice recorder.

Moments later, a third car appears and I repeat my action. This one is a shiny silver Audi, driven by a man in a jacket and tie. And as it disappears into the scrapyard, I spot the silhouette of a man in the backseat.

I feel my hands getting clammy with anticipation. Who could these people be? And what kind of terrorist gets driven by a chauffeur to a sleeper cell meeting?

With all these thoughts bouncing around my head, I pick up my camera and think about sneaking over the fence to see if I can grab some photos of the participants and—

Smash!

My driver’s-side window shatters.

I flinch and squeeze my eyes shut as glass shards pelt me like hail.