Olivia said, “Besides, do you think I haven’t already tried to call Mike? Do you think he’s stupid enough to have his cell phone on? It would be traced and he’d be found—caught—and this something you want would be in CIA hands. I’ll bet you he’s smashed his phone, bought a burner that can’t be traced to him. Seems to me he’s calling the shots, and you people are blundering around trying to take me when I have no idea what’s going on or where he is. If I did, I’d tell my superior and he’d find him, arrest him.”

“Even if part of what you say is true, you may be in this with him.”

She gave him a quick look again in the rearview. “But you should call your boss, ask him what he wants you to do, right?”

A snort. “I do not need to speak to anyone until you tell me everything you know. Shut up, keep driving straight. We are leaving this ugly city.”

They were already several blocks down Wilton, and traffic was thinning out. They’d end up in Maryland unless they turned at some isolated place he had ready for her and Mike. Olivia said, “Your boss wants this something Mike Kingman has. Why don’t you tell me what it is?”

“Stop your ridiculous lies. You already know, you are playing the games with me. Be quiet and keep driving. I will tuck you away if I have to, make sure Kingman hears I have you. Then he will come to me, or I will wring your neck like the chicken.” He was leaning forward now, his breath on her cheek. “Turn right on Krager. It is what you call a shortcut.”

There was a red light coming up ahead, and a busy intersection. A chance. Olivia readied herself, studied the cars. She saw a big black Ford F350 driving fast toward the light on Krager, saw the driver was yelling at the person in the passenger seat, not paying much attention. She slowed a bit as if she was going to turn then suddenly floored it into the intersection. She saw a brief flash of the truck driver’s terrified face, felt the muzzle of the gun fall away, heard the man cursing in French as they slammed into the rear driver’s side of the truck. She was ready when the airbags exploded, but the Frenchman was leaning forward, thrown sideways. She pushed back hard against the airbag, reached down, and pulled her small Walther PP2 from its ankle holster. She flattened herself under the airbag and fired through the front seat, heard him yell in pain; she kept firing until the magazine was empty.

“Bitch! I could kill you now, but you are going to pay first.”