"We've parted ways, at least for now. They asked me to help them with something that would have undoubtedly worsened my legal situation in California. I told them I'd reconsider after I got my family to safety, you and Mom included."

"They just let you go? Odd move, after going to so much trouble rescuing you."

"I know. There's not much we can do if they're tracking us. We'll ditch the car when it's feasible."

"They gave you a vehicle? You need to ditch it sooner than later. I guarantee it's being tracked."

"They gave us a bullet-resistant SUV with enough supplies and fuel to reach Las Vegas. This beats whatever we can buy or steal on our own. It is what it is for now."

"Sorry to get excited, Nate. This whole thing is crazy. I just want you guys to get back in one piece," said Jon. "CLM, huh?"

"They've been running part of their California operation out of Mexicali."

"Right under the cartel's nose?"

"They've been paying the cartel rent. Like I said, it's complicated," said Nathan. "You want to say hi to Owen and Keira?"

"You bet your a.s.s I do," said Jon. "Put the big guy on the line."

He wished Leah could be here for this. Her stoic Marine-spouse face had been on the verge of crumbling for the past twenty-four hours, wanting nothing more than to talk to her son and grandson. He'd have to call Scott's phone and leave a quick message to let her know they were alive and well. Not out of danger by any stretch of the imagination, but making progress.

"Grandpa?" he heard.

The hardened sh.e.l.l Jon had built over a thirty-year Marine Corps career crumbled at the sound of the tired child's voice. His eleven-year-old grandson was driving in an armored SUV through the back roads of Mexico, with any number of lunatics looking to kill him. It took him a few moments to muster a response.

"Grandpa?" repeated Owen.

"How's my big guy doing? Keeping your mom and dad out of trouble?"

"I don't know about that," said Owen. "We're driving somewhere in Mexico. It's really dark out. I can't wait to see you and Grandma."

Jon paused to wipe the tears running down his cheeks. "I can't wait to see you either. We'll find a quiet, safe place where we can hide out for a while. Grandma sends her love, too. She's been talking about seeing you all day."

"Is she there? Can I talk to her?"

"She's staying in a supersecret compound, kind of like the place I'm going to find for all of us. I'll tell her you asked for her, buddy. That'll make her whole week. How does that sound?"

"Good. Are you coming down to help us? We're on our own now," said Owen, sounding sad.

"I'm meeting with David's father and another very capable man tomorrow morning, and we'll drive as fast as possible in your direction-without stopping."

"David's dad? This David, with us?"

"That's right. Everyone's parents are getting involved in this. That's what families do, and if my calculations are correct, this entire family will be back together sometime tomorrow night. Somewhere in Utah."

"I wish Mom's parents could be there, too," said Owen.

Jon could imagine his daughter-in-law squirming in her seat at the boy's dark, out-of-the-blue statement. He'd never known Keira's parents, who'd died in a freak skiing accident in Whistler, British Columbia, before she'd met Nathan.

"Buddy, I guarantee you her mom and dad are pulling some serious strings with the big guy upstairs for you. Think about all of the close calls you've had. Someone is watching out for you."

"I think you're right," said Owen. "Mom says she wants to talk to you."

"Well, put her on," said Jon. "Hey. We'll pick out a place where you can go swimming. I mean it."

"Really? Warm or cold water?" said Owen.

"Warm. Though I might have to pee in it," he said, getting a laugh from his grandson.

"That's gross, Grandpa."

"I know. Don't tell your mom. Love you, Owen."

"Love you, too. Here's Mom."

Jon wasn't sure what to expect from Keira. They hadn't enjoyed the best relationship, due to the differences in their political opinions, though he'd done his best to keep it civil. Nathan might not agree that he had always succeeded.

"I heard what you said," said Keira.

"I promise I won't pee in the water."

Her voice changed. Quieter and hesitant. "No. The other part, about my folks. Thank you for saying that. He-we both needed to hear that."

"Well," Jon said, "I believe it. And I think about you and what happened to them a lot."

"You've just made up for every disagreement we've had," she said, sniffling.

Jon heard Owen's voice in the background, probably asking her what was wrong. He decided to change the subject. "Keira, what's the real situation there? I don't trust David or Nathan to give me the straight scoop."

"They haven't held much back. We're driving toward the border crossing at Nogales, which may or may not be open to us. Our CLM friends claim it's wide-open. We're not convinced."

"Customs would probably identify Nathan."

"They swear it's wide-open."

"Well, be careful," he said. "It would be silly to get detained there. You're better off hiding in Mexico if it looks shaky. We can come to you."

"If it looks like business as usual at the border, we'll turn back. You stay safe, too. We'll see you sometime tomorrow night if everything goes according to plan."

"Give Owen a hug for me, and save one for yourself," said Jon.

"Thanks, Jon. I'll pa.s.s you back to Nathan."

"Hey, Dad. We'll be careful at the border. After that, it's a matter of making our way north without attracting attention from Cerberus or the cartels. Our CLM contact gave us some tips for getting around Tucson."

"I wouldn't be so worried about the cartels in Arizona. The police might be a problem. You're a federal fugitive now."

"Don't remind me," said Nathan. "I don't think the police will be much of an issue, though. They say that most of Arizona is under cartel control."

"I don't know about that. Cartel influence definitely increased after the Southwest Exodus, but they mainly stick to the drug trade. You should be able to slip through."

"We'll be careful either way," said Nathan. "Dad, I need to focus on the road. I'm scanning long-range from David."

"Gotcha. I'll let you get back to work."

"When will David's dad arrive?"

"They think around seven or eight."

"All right. We'll call you at eight to check in. We should be working our way around Tucson by then. Can't wait to see you, Dad. Love you. Pa.s.s the same on to Mom."

"I will. Love you, too, Nate," he said, surprised how easily those rarely spoken words came out. "Be careful. Talk to you in the morning."

With the call finished, he turned off the water and returned to the kitchen. Now for the hardest part-falling asleep. Or course, he had a few things to take care of before he settled in for the night. He couldn't afford to let his guard down.

CHAPTER 24.

Chris Riggs stretched out in a deep leather couch facing the town house's gas fireplace and mantel, listening intently once again to the seriously problematic recording of Jon Fisher's side of the phone conversation in the unit across the street. The call had no doubt been important, as Fisher had rushed into the bathroom to m.u.f.fle the sound. And it had worked, running water dashing any hopes that Nissie's surveillance gear might capture something useful.

Riggs knew from the initial greeting that they had Nathan Fisher or David Quinn on the other end of the line. What a missed opportunity! Nearly five minutes of back-and-forth between Flagg's most wanted parties, possibly disclosing their location. This could have been his chance to make an impression on Flagg, maybe convince him to bring Riggs's team, or just him, into the Cerberus fold.

A dangerous idea crossed Riggs's mind. He shook his head. No. Flagg had been clear about what he expected tonight.

But what if he pulled it off?

"f.u.c.k," he muttered.

"What?" said Tex, sitting in the dark at the kitchen table.

"Never mind."

He needed to let it go. Flagg had changed the mission based on his last report. Surveillance of Gleason's town house strongly suggested that Mr. and Mrs. Fisher had gone separate ways. Flagg wanted Riggs to watch and wait. Jon Fisher would eventually lead them to the wife, and possibly Stuart Quinn, who had disappeared from the Washington, DC, area three days ago.

Three of the twenty-two vehicles registered to the cutout corporation a.s.sociated with Scott Gleason's Jeep had been flagged with moving violations, each driver's license pointing to a different address in Missoula. All owned by former or retired military personnel. Flagg suspected the owners belonged to some kind of survivalist enclave within easy driving distance of the city. Compounds like that had proliferated over the past few decades, especially in the upper Rocky Mountain states. A person could hide forever in a place like that-if they didn't have a Starbucks addiction. Or a lead foot.

Riggs had postponed breaking into the town house across the street until most of the lights had gone out on the street. He hadn't wanted to risk detection by some nosy neighbor peeking out of a window before going to bed. It was still possible Leah Fisher was still around. The infrared laser microphones pointed at the townhome's front-facing windows didn't indicate a second person in the house, but a.n.a.lysis wasn't conclusive. She could've fallen asleep before they arrived. They couldn't know for sure without biometric detection technology.

It didn't matter. All they needed was one of the Fishers.

His dangerous idea just wouldn't go away.

"What if we grabbed Mr. Fisher now," Riggs said, "and extracted whatever information he acquired from that phone conversation? You know they discussed a game plan. Meet-up locations. Routes. They probably told the old man where they are right now. What if they're not even in Mexicali? We could save Flagg a ton of time and ha.s.sle."

"That's not our problem," said Tex.

"I didn't say it was our problem. I'm saying we have the chance to take the initiative and solve a problem."

"I don't see anything good coming out of it. We have our orders."

"What if Fisher ditches us tomorrow? Figures out we're tailing him? We got lucky with that license plate. If he disappears we're screwed, and the longer this drags out, the more complicated it's likely to get. We still have Stuart Quinn running around out there, doing G.o.d knows what. The quicker we get Fisher off the street the better."

"Sounds like a reasonable pitch to make-to Flagg," said Tex. "Wrap the request into a summary of the phone call Fisher just received."

"Flagg's not going to change his mind based on an unintelligible phone conversation. If I bring it up and he says no, then it's off the table."

"It's off the table now."

"Not if it looks like the phone call might have been a warning to Jon Fisher to get out of the town house," said Riggs.

"But it doesn't look-"

"We say it does. We say we see him moving."

"I don't like where this is headed."

"It's our story," said Riggs, "and it's a good one. We catch Mr. Fisher trying to sneak away."

"What if we can't make him talk? Fisher won't be an easy nut to crack. Not when it comes to family."

"Funny you should use the word nut. Reminds me of a few highly effective ways to extract information," said Riggs, pressing his collar-activated microphone.

"No, G.o.d d.a.m.n it!" said Tex.

Riggs slashed a finger across his throat, shutting Tex up. "Ross. Oz. Nissie," he said into the mic. "Change of plans."

CHAPTER 25.

The wireless earplug in Jon Fisher's left ear squelched, emitting a continuous, low-pitched chirping sound. The standalone pulse Doppler motion detector he'd concealed facing the backyard patio had registered movement. A higher-pitched chirp activated, creating a medley that alternated between the two pitches. The sensor covering the front of the town house had just been triggered.

Not a coincidence.

Jon peeled away the thick comforter, dropped it to the hardwood floor next to the bed, and swung his boots onto it. He'd lain down on the guest room bed dressed in the same gear he'd worn all afternoon, following the same procedure that had saved his skin a half-dozen times in Afghanistan. Never dress down in hostile territory, no matter how secure you think your perimeter might be. And right now-he was deep in enemy territory.

He removed the earplug and listened to the inside of the town house. Silence. He wondered how they would breach the unit. Quietly, if they had any sense. They couldn't afford to draw attention in a neighborhood this compact. He could a.s.sume they'd enter the front and back simultaneously, giving them full visual coverage of the ground level. Once they cleared the first floor, they'd work their way to the stairs, trapping him. If Jon hoped to survive whatever was coming his way, he had to take the initiative.

He grabbed the short-barreled rifle that had been lying next to him and flipped the selector switch to burst, nestling the carbine's stock into the soft body armor covering the front of his shoulder. He'd made the right call keeping Leah at the compound. The thought reminded him of something. He typed a quick message to Stuart Quinn on his satphone and pressed "Send," then silenced the phone. A reply arrived by the time he had crept to the bottom of the stairs.