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She nodded at Cordell’s back. “Let me know.”
    â€œWon’t be any problem,” Glass said.
    â€œThen I’ll see you there,” she said.
    *   *   *
    It was a VW Jetta this time, at least ten years old, parked on a one-way street in a block of warehouses. The Armada was already in place, a block behind on the opposite side. Wipers thumping, she drove past, knew the men inside would be watching her. Passing the Jetta, she saw the Tigers cap on the back deck.
    No other vehicles around. The warehouse windows were dark. Two blocks up, she made a left. Shuttered businesses lined both sides of the street here, auto body shops, tire stores. She went another block and pulled into a service alley, out of sight from the street.
    The clouds were lower now, the rain steady. She pulled the tac bag up onto the console, got out the phone, fit in the earpiece, pressed 1.
    When Glass answered, she said, “I’m here. It’s right where it’s supposed to be. Blue VW, Michigan plates.”
    â€œGood. The Armada?”
    â€œSame setup as last time. One-way street. They’re a block down on the left-hand side.”
    â€œAnyone else around?”
    â€œNot that I’ve seen.”
    â€œWe’re parked about a mile away, ready to roll.”
    â€œCall when you’re close.”
    She hit END , took a breath. The Silverado chugged around her. She’d left the engine on, didn’t want to risk a problem starting it again, fumbling with wires. Beneath the vest, her T-shirt was damp with sweat.
    She watched the alley entrance in the rearview. It was unlikely the men in the Armada would get suspicious, follow her, leave the Jetta unattended. But if they did, she didn’t want to be boxed in.
    She took the Glock from her belt, ejected the magazine, pushed down on the shells to test the spring pressure. Then she palmed the magazine home again, heard it click. She eased back the slide to check the round in the chamber.
    The phone buzzed. Glass.
    â€œThree blocks away,” he said. “We’re stopped. Waiting on you.”
    â€œGoing now.”
    The phone and earpiece went back into the tac bag, the Glock into her belt. She took a deep breath, held it in, felt the tightness in her stomach. All the planning, the waiting, had led to this.
    She reversed down the alley, out onto the empty street, swung the Silverado around to face the way she’d come. She waited there, watching the intersection two blocks ahead, half-expecting the Armada to come after her. For the second driver to appear. For the whole thing to fall apart.
    She opened the package, fit the mouthguard over her teeth and bit down. It tasted like rubber. She pulled on the ski mask, adjusted the eyeholes, checked the seat belt and shoulder harness to make sure they were tight.
    Ahead of her, the blacktop glistened. Two blocks and a right turn. They wouldn’t expect a vehicle to come at them like that, down a one-way in the wrong direction. It might cut into their reaction time, give her the edge she needed. But she’d have to be careful on the wet road, not lose control when she made the turn, go into a skid.
    She clamped down on the mouthguard, gave the Silverado gas. It surged forward, gaining speed, and then the intersection was looming up, the STOP and NO RIGHT TURN signs. She worked the brake and gas, the truck fishtailing as it swung around the corner, tires squealing.
    Watch your speed, she thought. Watch the road. She passed the Jetta, headed toward the Armada, saw the white van beyond it, coming in her direction, still a block away. She twisted the wheel, lined up the Silverado’s pushbar with the Armada’s grille. At the last moment, she took her foot off the gas, floored the brake.
    The Silverado was still doing thirty, tires screeching, when its pushbar smashed into the Armada’s front end. The impact drove the Armada back, flung her forward against the harness, and