“Maybe I just want them to know who we’re after. And why.”

“Runs the risk of them shutting us down if they think it’s too dangerous.”

“Maybe. Or maybe Graydon will step in and take down the dogs for us if they can tell he’s got someone alive in that house.”

“Good point, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Might I suggest a backup plan?”

“I’m listening.”

“Have Bailey ready to dump all the documents he found from the Bryant Center hack. That way if Graydon does shut us down, Pemberton and his rich friend won’t be able to hide behind that warrant anymore. Or lack thereof.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

She’s getting ready to text Bailey when one of the trackers starts moving.

“Well, that was a quick shower,” she says.

“It’s the Cadillac.”

A few seconds later, she sees it leave the entry gate and turn inland.

Luke eases his foot off the brake and follows.

By the time they’ve followed Pemberton onto the toll road, she’s got the lenses in, and she’s used the passcode key to open the feed. The hall of mirrors effect when she looks directly at the receiving tablet turns her stomach.

“Which way’s he headed?” she asks.

“South—5 freeway.”

“Temecula?”

“Possible.”

And though she doesn’t say it, it’s also possible what they’re seeing now actually is the behavior of someone with a living captive who needs tending to.

By the time they’re skirting Camp Pendleton, she and Luke agree there’s a 75 percent chance they’re headed for the Temecula house, which is cause enough to call Marty.

When she asks him to head back to the surveillance point, Marty doesn’t complain, but the request still gives her a twinge of guilt. It’s his first break of the day, and she figures he was up there for hours already. But even though Marty vouches for all of them, she doesn’t know any of the guys currently on watch; she needs someone she can trust with eyes on the property.

Worse, after studying the map earlier that day, Luke’s assured her there’s no way in hell they can follow Pemberton up the twisty mountain road to his place without being detected. The road leads to only one place—Pemberton’s. They’ll need to fall back at the entrance to the narrow valley that contains his house, stay in phone contact with Marty, and hope the signal from the tracker doesn’t drop out.

If they’re given cause to approach the house on foot, the best plan will be to meet up with Marty at the surveillance point and strike out from there. It’s a downhill walk most of the way, and the brush is thin. The downside of this plan? If Pemberton leaves by car quickly, catching up with him from the surveillance point won’t be easy. Again, it will all depend on the strength of the tracker. Thank God they bought the priciest model.

They’re silent now. Suppressing nervous tics. Doing mental battle with worst-case scenarios. And, she’s sure, wondering what comes next if it seems Pemberton’s got a live captive.

To their right, the Pacific, glittering in the moonlight. To their left, the long, dark expanse of the Marine Corps base and its rear fortification of dark mountains. When they reach Oceanside, a small town right at the base’s southern border, Pemberton’s Cadillac takes a right onto Highway 76, and Luke says, “Seventy-five percent just went up to ninety.”

Low, rolling hills plated in night darkness. The occasional terrace of lights from a subdivision. Then, suddenly, Interstate 15, a blazing ribbon of red and white twisting through the night’s darkness, past the hill-nestled town of Fallbrook. By day it must be beautiful countryside. At night it’s like they’re driving in between frozen ocean waves.

They cross I-15, head into even darker and more rugged countryside.

“Valley entrance or surveillance point?” Luke asks.

“Valley entrance, until we’re sure he’s staying.”

The taillights of Pemberton’s Cadillac vanish onto the side road up ahead. Luke keeps driving, toward the Pala Indian Reservation and the blaze of lights from the casino resort up ahead. When he pulls over onto the gravel shoulder, she calls Marty, tells him how far up Pala Temecula Road Pemberton’s tracker is.

“Got him in sight,” Marty says. “He’s coming up the road. Opening the gate, dogs are going nuts.”

The fact that she can’t hear their barking through the phone tells her how far the surveillance post is from the house. Not good if they’re actually going to have to approach the place.

“Pulling into the garage,” Marty says.

“How big?”

“The garage? You could fit about four cars, I guess.”

“And it’s behind the gate?”

“Yep. Everything is except the old vineyard fields, and it doesn’t look like he’s using those.”

“All right. What’s he doing now?”

“No sign of him.”

“Is there enough light to see by? Maybe he walked to the main house and you—”

“Nope, nope. He’s backing out. Or someone else is. No, it’s him. But he’s in a brown Toyota Camry now.”

“Shit,” she whispers.

“What?” Luke asks.

“He switched cars.”

Luke curses under his breath, takes the Jeep out of park.

Charlotte asks, “Which way’s he headed?”

“North on Pala Temecula Road,” Marty says.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “Go. He’s headed in the other direction.”

Marty says, “License plate’s six, alpha, Juliet, bravo, three, nine, six.”

Luke spins out into a U-turn, races for the entrance to Pala Temecula Road. There’s no need to point out what they’re suddenly up against. New car. No tracker. Unknown direction.

“Careful,” Marty says.

She thanks him and hangs up. Suddenly they’re speeding through the dark valley, Luke taking hairpin turns faster than any driver should.

“I need to do something scary, but it’ll help,” he says.

Before she can answer, he kills the headlights. She grips the oh-shit handle, sinks her foot into a phantom brake pedal at her feet. They’re gaining slowly on a set of taillights now. As they get closer, she sees the plate number Marty just read to her. Luke keeps the headlights off. Then the city of Temecula appears up ahead; another circuit board of light amid the black, lumpy suggestions of hills.

“A Camry. Does that really seem like the doctor’s style?” she asks.

“Nope, but it is one of the most popular cars on the road.”

“Perfect for blending in.”

“Yep.”

They both sigh when he gets on the 15 North. No more twisting through mountain roads in the dark. For now at least. And he’s hanging out in the middle lane, obeying the speed limit, which allows them to fall back. They’re just past rush hour now, that magical California hour when the traffic starts to thin and the freeways make drivers feel unstoppable instead of trapped.

Murrieta, Wildomar, Lake Elsinore. He’s leaving them all in his wake.

“He just passed the Ortega Highway, so I doubt he’s headed home,” Luke says.

“Or maybe he’s taking the long way.”

“In that car? I doubt it.”

More silence. Pemberton doesn’t deviate. Luke manages to maintain a perfect, steady speed in response.

“Charley,” he finally says.

“Yeah?”

“You should probably take your medicine now.”

“You think?”

“I think he’s headed to points unknown in a car designed to blend in. A car he keeps hidden from the world. It’s your call. But that’s my honest assessment.”

And there’s no arguing with it, she feels.

By the time they reach Corona, she’s taken her pill, just like he suggested.

Bailey texts, asking for an update.

Question, she types back. If this all goes to shit, can you be ready to dump the Bryant Center hack docs?

Define “goes to shit,” he answers.

It’ll be when I text you and say, “It just went to shit.”

Feels like there’s a ghost in the room with us. Has been since we started. You want to tell me their name?

Safer if I don’t, she answers.

Safer for who? Thought you told me not to be afraid of people you’re afraid of. My patience for irony is wearing thin.

“That doesn’t sound like it’s going well,” Luke says.

“Don’t worry about it. I got it.”

Fine, she types. It’s your call. You did the hack. So I guess by your logic, you own the proceeds. But if someone stops us from doing what we’re doing out here, you can decide whether you want a serial killer to get away with more murders.

Luke starts shifting lanes. Seconds tick by without a response from Bailey.

Maybe I’m worried about you guys, he writes.

That’s sweet. But right now there’s only one thing to worry about.

?, he responds.

Pemberton getting away.

She looks up, sees the Camry leading them west onto 91, a different toll road. Orange County spreads out before them in a seemingly never-ending blanket of lights, too vast to be called the suburbs, too flat and diffuse to be considered urban sprawl.

Another turn north, this time onto Interstate 605, then, in what feels like an instant, a turn west again onto I-105. Never before has Charley had such a hatred of Southern California’s seemingly nonsensical network of freeways.

“I think I know where he’s going,” Luke says.