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concrete against my bare feet. The back doors to three restaurants were propped open. Resisting the urge to hurry, I deliberately slowed my breathing and ignored the prickly pins and needles piercing the balls of my feet.
    At the second restaurant, I found what I needed. Lockers. I waited until the bell over the front door jangled, listening to the two employees chatter as they moved toward the front, and then I slipped inside. I lifted the latch on the locker and pulled out a black sweatshirt and an extra pair of black and white checked chef pants. No luck on shoes.
    After closing the locker quietly, I slipped out the back. I tugged on the pants, found a spare twenty in the pocket, and zipped the black sweatshirt all the way up then flipped the hood over my hair. The elastic of the waistband dug into my belly button, hugged my back, and I registered the syringe was gone.
    Shit.
    I reviewed the last few minutes and realized it had fallen when Lucas grabbed the boxers. I’d have to worry about the syringe later. My immediate goal was shoes.
    At the third restaurant, I picked up a pair of clogs. Someone had taken them off right inside the back door, probably a leftover habit from home.
    I made tracks out of the alley, back the way I came, just in case Lucas waited at the opposite end. When I exited the alley, I was in the clear. No Lucas, no car.
    I hustled down the sidewalk wanting to get to the bus station to pick up the identification and money I had stashed there.
    The sidewalks were nearly deserted as I approached the bus terminal. Rather than head right in, I walked around the block once taking note of the people and cars along the way.
    I hadn’t had any followers for awhile, but I didn’t want to assume anything. Hidden in the shadows of the underpass, a scruffy homeless man glared at me the second time around, spreading out his blanket in a territorial move.
    “No worries. I’ve got a place,” I said softly, wanting to reassure him and not draw any undue attention.
    I hurried inside, secure no one watched the exits. Keeping my head down, I quartered the room surreptitiously, feeling as if something was off.
    First, I found the payphone, made the collect call, and waited for Carson to pick up. But he didn’t answer, which was very, very strange.
    I left a brief, “We need to talk,” and hung up.
    I’d get my bag and try Carson again.
    I went to the bathroom where I’d stashed the locker key and found it attached to the underneath of a baby changing station, right where I’d left it.
    As I headed toward the lockers, tension rose within me. Something wasn’t right. I slowed, needing a moment to assess.
    The station was crowded. There must be several buses getting ready to leave. I couldn’t have timed it better if I’d tried. I stood at the information board pretending to look at arrival and departure times while checking out the reflection of people in the plexiglass booth on my right.
    That was when I saw them.
    Two guys in suits were positioned at either end of the locker section, their gazes constantly roving. In a restaurant, bar, office building they’d have blended right in. But in the Greyhound station, they stood out.
    Shit.
    With the certainty of years in the field, I knew. They were waiting for me . I had several options.
    One. Go for the locker, hope I was wrong, and get my stuff.
    Two. Get the heck out, and come back later to retrieve my stuff.
    Three. Forget my stuff and get out.
    I had just hung up the phone, so there was no way they’d traced the call and gotten here that fast. If those men were waiting for me, someone had access to a hell of a lot more than my beacon. NSA field training stressed having bolt holes in bus stations. Prior to 9/11 we’d used airports, but because of security issues, we’d switched to bus terminals.
    The fact that there was a team here was even more disturbing. So far, I’d been tagged in three cities. That took manpower and, more importantly, money.
    What