Point A. It was Luke’s code name for the main entrance.

Earlier that day, she and Luke met Marty and two guys he introduced as his best dudes at a gas station fifteen minutes from the hotel: Trev Rucker, a wiry former marine sniper who seemed to have no use for blinking, and whose new and starchy-looking long-sleeved shirt hid ornate tattoos, and Dave Brasher, a towering, bald-headed wall of muscle who’d apparently learned a mix of patience and perceptiveness doing things Marty didn’t want to mention aside from the fact that they’d earned him a stint in Lompoc. Both men had what Marty called long-term sobriety, and both seemed willing to do anything Marty told them to. Charley cared more about the latter.

The departure of Brasher and Rucker from Temecula has left a crew of three at the surveillance point above the vineyard; one of whom rotates down to the RV at Pala Casino for a five-hour nap before returning to relieve the next in line.

Here at the airport, Brasher’s on Point A, the Westin entrance; Rucker’s on Point B, the hotel’s service entrance connecting to a sidewalk that travels most of the way to the long-term parking lot; and Marty’s at Point C, halfway between the hotel and long-term lot.

Luke’s at Ground Zero, casing the lot on foot, keeping eyes on the brown Camry. As soon as the shuttle she’s about to board gets within striking distance, she’ll text him, and he’ll head back to his Jeep, which is parked inside the lot, and monitor the feed from her contact lenses.

But for now the shuttle is taking its sweet time to show up.

Marty says definitely headed for the lot, comes Luke’s text. All three guys tailing.

Tell them not to get too close.

They know.

Tell them anyway.

K.

She waits, bouncing on her heels, running through everything she doesn’t know.

What’s the Camry’s fate once the abduction’s done? Bailey’s figured out the plates are registered to a woman who died of a stroke at the age of eighty-one last year in Santa Clarita, a woman with no evident connection to Pemberton aside from the license plate. Will Pemberton ditch the car, torch it? Has he used a different car each time? If so, how’s he planning to get back to the hotel for the cocktail reception if he’s got no wheels and his car’s still at the Westin? What a relief it was to have him back in his Cadillac for the drive up from Newport Beach that afternoon. Once again they could follow from a safe distance and use the tracker as a guide. Luke had placed a fresh one under the bumper just before dawn.

In the week since the Camry stash, while Charley and Luke were changing motels to avoid suspicion and Marty was rotating out the guys on his watch crew with actual jobs they had to show up for back in Altamira, Bailey’s tried to fill in the holes in what they know of the doctor’s plan by searching the man’s web history. But he hasn’t turned up anything useful. Charley was hoping he’d find searches for shuttle routes or bus services between potential dump sites for the Camry and the Westin, but as Bailey put it, the guy’s as good at cleaning out his cache as he is at switching cars and abducting women.

That doesn’t mean he hasn’t done the research, though.

But why should she care? If everything goes to plan, Pemberton won’t make it back to the Westin.

Luke texts, Stupid question but you took it, right?

Right when his talk ended. Yeah.

K. How many left?

Six. But I’m sure they’ll give me more if I keep working.

They’re reading these right now. Aren’t they?

Yep. Hi . . . whoever the hell you are.

A few seconds later: Eyes on him. He’s headed for the Camry.

The shuttle’s stuck in traffic two baggage claim entrances away.

Doc’s at the Camry. Pulled some stuff from trunk, got in car. Think it was a jacket. Something else. Just heard from Marty and crew. All lot foot exits covered.

Great, but that asshole’s not leaving that lot on foot, she thinks.

The bus pulls up. The door opens with a hiss. She smiles at the driver as she boards, but he ignores her; already looking for an opening in traffic he can pull in to.

The shuttle’s mostly empty.

They start forward, two more stops before they’re free of the terminal and bound for the long-term lot, and the traffic’s getting thinner the farther they get from the international terminal.

Bus showed up, Luke says.

Not mine. Just got on. Still in terminal.

I know.

Several seats away, a woman frees her pug from its carrier. The dog scans the bus, eyes glassy from whatever drug kept it docile at thirty thousand feet. The question from the man across the aisle about when the dog ate last is too familiar to be chitchat from a stranger; he’s her husband or boyfriend. A few rows up, a mother argues cheerfully with her two young sons about whether or not Xbox is on the agenda when they get home. Apparently the boys didn’t get a lot of rest on the flight from Chicago.

She’s the only single woman on the bus.

But another bus has just pulled into the lot. And she’s not on it.

He’s on the move, Luke writes. Added a jacket and a baseball cap.

Where he’s going?

Lurking. Checking out ppl coming off shuttle.

Can you see the passengers?

Some.

Women alone?

One.

Then a few seconds later:

He’s going for her.

She feels dread tinged with a disappointment that feels noxiously selfish.

They knew this might happen. They’ve discussed what to do. No way can they stand back and let him abduct another woman. Luke will have to intervene; he’s got his service revolver just in case. He’ll wait till the woman’s in the trunk, draw the gun. Then they’ll have Pemberton on something real; something other than a creepy snatch and grab or attempted assault. It’s not the way they want him, and it’s probably not the show Graydon wants to see. But they’ll stop another murder, and another mask, and maybe that will make this all worth it.

Until it’s time to look for another bad man.

He walked right past her.

Details? she types.

Didn’t come up behind her. Walked toward her. Watching her. She said hi. Very cheerful. He said hi back. That was it. Now he’s headed back to the Camry.

Size?

Tiny. And her car’s in the middle of the lot. Close to his. Sara Pratt, 5’ 6”. Kelley Sumter, 5’ 2”. Why not take her?

Her shuttle lurches toward the second and final terminal stop.

Nobody else gets on.

In terms of arrivals, this is in the in-between zone.

Right now most of the airport’s traffic is international checkins. In another hour, baggage claim in all the terminals will get swamped with people arriving from points east, folks who took advantage of the time change to enjoy another full day at their destinations before catching the last flight west.

If he’s as smart as she thinks he is, if he’s researched the arrivals schedule like she has, he’ll know this is his golden hour. Another hour and too many passengers will start pouring off the shuttles at once for him to make a quick, clean grab. An hour after that and arrivals traffic goes down to a trickle. Hunting will be poor, and any wrong move could draw the attention of the bored graveyard shift. And this guy doesn’t call attention to himself—not until it’s time to leave one of his creations in public. So far he’s been about balance, precision, a true surgeon in all his affairs.

Why reject her? Luke writes. Is he just scoping?

Thinking . . . she writes.

She’s imagining the steps Luke described.

Woman emerges from bus.

He starts for her.

Approaches her from the front, not the back.

And then she says hi, and he says hi, and he keeps walking.

Another one, Luke types.

Her shuttle’s left the terminal. They’re cresting Aviation Boulevard, angling for the canyon of airport hotels—bus bouncing, passengers chatting excitedly now that they’re picking up speed.

Another shuttle? she asks.

No. Another woman. She just parked. Alone. Heading for the shuttle stop. He’s seen her.

A few seats away, the pug yips, obviously regaining strength after its drug-induced nap.

Same deal, he writes. Coming up on her from the front.

The shuttle turns a corner; she figures they’ve got about another ten minutes until she reaches the lot.

Luke. What’s happening?

They’re talking.

What???

She’s asking him where the shuttle goes, and he’s answering.

Watch them. And draw your weapon.

Can’t text with a gun in my hand : )

This isn’t fucking funny, she wants to say, but she also needs to trust him. If he’s joking, it’s because he doesn’t see or sense danger.

She’s headed off now. He’s not following. WTF? Two easy targets. Doesn’t go for either. I don’t get it.

Charlotte takes a deep breath. Tries to clear her head. Runs through his script again in his head.

Approaches from the front, not the back.

First one smiles, says hi. He says hi back; lets her go.

Another one approaches him, asking questions.

Letting him know she doesn’t know where she’s going. Letting him know she’s vulnerable. A target of opportunity if there ever was one.

And he doesn’t take her.