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On the road to Savich’s house

Washington, D.C.

Thursday evening

He said, his voice matter of fact, “Don’t look back, but we’re being followed.”

Rome took a right turn, wound through a neighborhood of apartments, then another right. The SUV stayed two cars back. He saw two people in it, but couldn’t make out their faces.

“Can you describe them?”

“To the old warehouse district near Union Market. Less traffic there, more room to maneuver. There’s no time to call, this is going to go down right now. You okay?”

“I trained for this, Rome. Remember?”

Rome jerked his Glock from his waist clip, tossed it to Elizabeth. “There’s one in the chamber.”

“My jacket pocket!”

“Take the wheel! Give me my Glock!”

Rome climbed back into the driver’s seat and smacked his fist against the steering wheel. “I hate we ended on a low note.”

He grinned. “So Hurley didn’t teach you how to pay attention? Maybe he should add that to his curriculum.”

He studied her face. She still looked pumped, ready to run a hundred-yard dash. “You enjoyed that, did you?”

She stared at him. She felt the weirdest mix of feelings—elation and terror and determination. She said finally, “Upon reflection, and since I don’t feel like throwing up any longer, I’m inclined to say I did enjoy it. How much longer until my heart stops trying to burst out of my chest?”