"Fifty yards," Gabe said, now consumed by a sense of foreboding. "Jim, is there anything else you can tell me about the man? Anything at all?"

"I only saw him in the tunnel—not in the house. And it's pretty gloomy down there. But there was one thing—he was southern. No doubt about that. Heavy accent. Georgia maybe, maybe Alabama. I'm not good at those things."

Trouble. The same man had gone after both Ferendelli and Blackthorn.

At that instant, from somewhere far behind them came a soft, almost inaudible, crunch of glass.

A homing device! Gabe thought suddenly. The killer had to have fixed some sort of homing device to his car.

"Jim," he whispered urgently, "he's here—somewhere behind us. Get ready to run toward my car. It's way to the left, near that streetlight."

"But—"

Gabe could wait no longer. He grabbed Ferendelli by the arm and pulled him out into the field.

"There they are!" a southern voice behind them called out loudly. "Over there! Right over there!"

CHAPTER 48

There they are. Over there! Right over there!"

There were at least two of them, Gabe thought as he half-guided, half-dragged Ferendelli across the field of the Anacostia River Basin. A homing device on the Buick! That had to be it. That explained how the killer had found Blackthorn's hotel. And if the shooter on the trail by Lily's stables didn't directly tail him to Flint Hill, he could have easily followed Gabe using some sort of GPS device.

Gabe couldn't clear the notion from his mind of the mess he had made of things by not being more vigilant.

Although Ferendelli was just a few years older than Gabe was, his weeks of hiding seemed to have broken him physically. His reaction time was delayed, and he was gasping for air after just a few strides.

"I see them!" the southern voice from behind them yelled. "They're headed across the field toward you."

"Toward you!"

Gabe peered ahead to where the Buick was parked. Coming around the rear end of the car was a man, a gun in his right hand—or maybe, Gabe realized, it was the ultrasonic transmitter Ferendelli had told him about, the transmitter that could end either or both of their lives. He glanced over his shoulder. Just emerging from the darkness beneath the bridge was the professional killer Ferendelli had told him about, also holding up something in his right hand.

"Oh, God," Gabe muttered. "Jim, let's head this way, toward the river. It's our best chance."

"Can't."

"Come on, you can! You've got to!"

Ferendelli was staggering now, almost deadweight, grunting and lurching from side to side. Gabe risked another check of their pursuers. Both men were gaining on them. He could feel himself beginning to flag and to panic. A severe stitch in his right side had materialized and with every breath began slicing into him like dagger thrusts.

"Go!" Ferendelli gasped. "I . . . can't . . . do . . . this."