10:30 a.m.

Intuitively sensing something must be wrong, Levaughn called Lt. Holt and asked for a few days of down time. Through the years he’d banked more vacation time than he ever intended to use. Might as well take a paid vacation.

Flights from Logan Airport to Pittsburg International were all booked. The flights leaving from Manchester, New Hampshire were even more irregular. He couldn’t wait three days for the next available seat, not without knowing if Shawnee was in trouble. If only she’d answer her cell. Over the last twenty-four hours he’d called about six times. All of which went straight to voicemail, and his gut screamed in protest.

“Screw it,” he said, hustling to his car. It’d be an arduous nine-hour journey from Revere, Massachusetts to the Westin Convention Center, but what choice did he have? Something was wrong, evident by dread niggling at his side.

Behind the wheel, he got on to Interstate 84. Hopefully Shawnee would return his call before he left the state. If she didn’t, he’d soon have her back in his arms. Safe.

The highway miles flew by as he crossed into Connecticut. Not much of a view, with its commercial buildings that fringed the road and every fast food joint imaginable. Here and there, he caught glimpses of evergreen-laden mountains, but not often enough to arouse any peace of mind. All semblance of normalcy drained from his life the minute Shawnee’s phone call turned cryptic. It wasn’t unlike her to exaggerate a situation, but something about her tone implied urgency, panic.

Whatever her instructors asked her to do frightened her. Odd part was, in all the time they’d spent together, he’d only heard her rattled twice, and even then she tried to diminish the severity of the situation. Both times she had a valid reason for concern, too.

Perhaps she’d misconstrued what someone said at the conference. Otherwise, if Fords were in fact being targeted for some reason, he would’ve heard about it at work. Plus, within his own investigation into the mystery surrounding Caroline Humphrey’s collision with a telephone pole, Dr. Chavez ruled the manner of death accidental. The investigation ended there. Yet, due to pure curiosity, he inputted the details of the crash into CODIS, scanned the FBI database for similarities.

He found nothing to indicate someone targeted this specific automobile manufacturer. At least, not in the sense Shawnee intimated. Without her specifying why she believed all Fords were at risk, finding corroboration would take days if not weeks.

With each mile-marker that zipped by his window, Levaughn’s eyelids grew more and more weighted. Until finally, he blared the music to stay awake.

What a fool he’d be if this turned out to be a false alarm. Would Shawnee view his spontaneous arrival at the hotel as a jealous boyfriend stunt? Or, God forbid, a controlling prod to get her to reveal her assignment.

Yet, he kept driving.

If a scowl awaited him, so be it. Better to have a pissed off girlfriend than a dead one. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he couldn’t erase the doom coursing through his system. After all they’d been through as a couple, he owed it to her to do everything humanly possible to protect her, whether or not she asked for his help. She’d do the same for him. In fact, not long ago she risked her own life to save his.

Hours dragged on like days.

Countless miles sailed by before he took the exit for Interstate 376 faster than he should, tires screeching around the bend as the brilliant tangerine sun dipped its head in the pink-and-lavender dusk sky. Witnessing such beauty almost made the trip bearable. As he stifled a yawn, the area around him darkened.

“You will die today.” A mechanical voice interfered with Otis Redding’s Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay. “How long you suffer is your call.”

Seconds after the final word, the Crown Vic launched into high gear.