Guarding Grace. Rebecca York
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“Up by Camp David?”
She nodded.
“Perfect. There’s a lot of security up there.” “A good reason to assume you won’t go in that direction.”
“Who owns the cabin?”
“Friends,” she answered quickly. “But they don’t use it at this time of year.”
“Some of your young DC professionals?”
Again she paused. “Yes.”
“Are you leading me into a trap? ”
“No.”
He waited a beat before bringing up another touchy subject. “You realize we can’t just leave two wounded men in my apartment.”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
IT WAS EARLY in the morning, but Washington was a city where traffic never stopped.
Phil Yarborough sat in the passenger seat of the unmarked white van as it traveled along the toll road to Reston, Virginia. When he felt the driver’s foot bounce on the accelerator, he looked over inquiringly.
“What?”
“Two patrol cars are closing in on us with their lights flashing. What do I do now?”
“You’re not exceeding the speed limit?”
“Of course not!” the driver snapped.
“And you don’t think you have a taillight out—or anything like that?”
“This vehicle was checked before we left the Ridgeway Consortium.”
“Better pull over.”
The van slowed, then swung onto the shoulder. One patrol car stopped in back of the vehicle. The other boxed them in front.
Yarborough watched as two uniformed officers got out of each vehicle. Lord, now what?
As they walked toward the driver’s door, he rolled down his window.
One of the officers pulled some papers from his jacket pocket. “This is authorization to transfer your prisoner.”
“What authorization?” Yarborough snapped. Reaching across the driver, he held out his hand.
The officer gave him the papers and he found he was reading a federal court order transferring custody of Karen Hilliard to the Justice Department.
“The orders comes from the Department of Homeland Security, under the Patriot Act,” the officer clarified.
Yarborough cursed under his breath. Somehow that Middle Eastern terrorist story had gotten out.
“Why wasn’t I informed of this?” he asked.
“I guess the authorization just came through.”
“I need to call my boss.” Yarborough wasn’t happy.
The officer gave Yarborough a look that he himself had used on many occasions. It said that the cop held all the cards in this game.
“You can talk to him later. Right now, we want the prisoner,” he said, his hand on his hip, dangling inches from his sidearm.
The voice and the gesture weren’t lost on Yarborough. “Why is the Justice Department using local cops?” “We were in the area.”
Yarborough didn’t like it. But he didn’t see himself getting into a gun battle on the highway shoulder—with the cops. That would be a little tough to explain.
He climbed out, then walked around to the back of the van and unlocked the door. Karen Hilliard sat on a bench seat, her hands cuffed to a ring on the metal bar beside her seat, her legs shackled to keep her steps slow and labored.
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