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a rise and caught air, all four tires off the ground. Jon gripped the wheel, bracing himself as they crashed down and immediately hit a bump.
    The wheel jerked right. Jon fought for control as they skidded across the dirt.
    “Watch out!”
    He swerved, missing a boulder. He pulled the wheel, but the truck was listing left.
    “I hit something.” Jon slowed and felt the rhythmic limp of a flat tire. He glanced up at the red taillights receding into the darkness. He pressed the gas and heard a metallic screech.
    “Dude, you’re on the rim.”
    Jon rolled to a halt and pounded the steering wheel. He grabbed the radio.
    “Whitfield, we have a blowout. You copy?”
    Nothing.
    Torres muttered a curse.
    “Whitfield, you copy? You need to stay in pursuit. We need that license plate.”
    Static. Jon looked at Torres as a scratchy voice came over the radio.
    “I think they”—static—“them.”
    “You’re breaking up. Repeat?”
    “I said I’m on the highway.”
    “Where’s the Tahoe?”
    “Nowhere. I lost them.”

chapter four
     
    ANDREA WATCHED THE DOOR and waited, annoyed. She’d never been one for surveillance work—she was too impatient. She glanced around the parking lot to make sure she hadn’t attracted notice, but the car wash was busy. No one seemed to be paying attention to the woman leaning casually against the building, watching the truck stop across the street.
    She looked at the door as it whisked open and Hardin finally stepped out. She lifted her camera and framed the shot. He had a case of beer in one hand and he was looking the wrong direction, but when he veered toward his truck—
    Snap.
    Money shot.
    Snap, snap, snap.
    Three more, just to be sure. She lowered the camera and simply looked. He turned suddenly, as if sensing her gaze.
    She held her breath, didn’t move. He couldn’t see her—she was in shadows. And she had a ball cap pulled low over her face. His gaze darted away as he climbed into his truck and fired up the engine.
    He peeled out, and she waited a full three minutes before crossing the lot to her Jeep, where she scrolled through the shots. His face was clearly visible and she even got the tattoo on his neck. Mission accomplished.
    She motored across town and swung into the grocery to pick up a few things before returning to the Lazy Dayz Inn, which somehow managed to look worse in the light of morning.
    Pulling in, she surveyed the low adobe building. By any standard, the place was a dump. But it was within her budget, so she’d been willing to put up with gritty carpet and ice cubes that tasted like rust. She parked and shoved open the door. Reaching for her groceries, she felt a hot zing of pain.
    Son of a bitch .
    She took a moment to blink it away. Her rib was broken. Either that or severely bruised. Gingerly, she reached across the console and collected the bags.
    “Looks like you plan to stay awhile.”
    She turned to see Jon North standing there, backlit by the sun. The sight of him made her heart do a little jump.
    She told herself it was the thigh holster.
    “You always sneak up on people?” She yanked her keys from the ignition and slid out of the Jeep.
    He didn’t answer, just stood there blocking her way. He wore desert-brown A.T.A.C. boots, tactical pants, and a navy ICE shirt that stretched taut over his pecs. Except for the aviator shades, he looked nothing like the polished FBI agent who’d shown up at her apartment two days ago.
    “We need to talk,” he said.
    “About what?”
    “Not here.”
    She glanced at her motel room door.
    “Not there, either. Come on.”
    He crossed the lot to a dusty white pickup that had the Immigration and Customs Enforcement logo emblazoned on the door.
    Andrea sighed. She glanced down at her groceries. She hadn’t bought perishables because her room didn’t have a fridge. So she left everything on the seat, grabbed her coffee, and joined him at his truck, where he was already waiting with the engine running. He