“What do you suppose she’s saying to him?” Lindale muttered, half to himself. The dash lights cast a green, otherworldly glow on his face.
“I don’t really give a shit,” Maloney said. “I just wish she’d go home and take another shower.”
“You got that right,” Lindale said, watching through binoculars now. “She paid at the pump. Wonder why she’s going inside.”
Lindale panned the binoculars, watching Garcia through the window as she browsed up and down the aisles. The shop was well lit and the shelving was low, so it was easy to keep track of her. She paused at the magazine rack long enough to flip through a couple. Instead of buying anything, she made her way to the counter, where she waved at the clerk like she knew her, then picked up a key chained to a toilet plunger, presumably to the restroom, before walking out of view toward the back of the store. A moment later, the kid with the bike went inside as well. Like Garcia, he loitered up and down the aisles until he apparently found what he was looking for.
“That’s no coincidence,” Lindale said. “That kid just went for the same magazine. She just passed him something.” He looked at his watch. “And anyway, where the hell is she at? How long does it take a girl to take a piss?”
Maloney cracked open his door. “I’ll go around and check to make sure she didn’t slip out the back.”
“You do that,” Lindale said, his voice muffled by his hands holding the binoculars. “Watch yourself. Big-ass girls like that can fight. Take my word for it.”
Five minutes later, Lindale began to worry. Maloney was MIA and Garcia had yet to show her face. The stupid kid was still inside the store, buying cigarettes and killing time talking to the clerk, who was old enough to be his grandma.
Lindale tried to shake off the worry. Maloney was probably taking a leak himself. But even if that was the case, he should have been back by now. Something just wasn’t right. Lindale unbuckled his seat belt, deciding to go inside and talk to the kid — and if Garcia came out and saw him, so be it. It would be a lot better to get burned than to lose her. Lindale pitched the binoculars on the passenger seat and opened his door. His left shoe had just touched the pavement when he heard a faint scrape of gravel in the darkness behind him.
Ronnie padded up, quickly reaching the driver of the green Expedition before he had time to turn around. Putting her full weight against the door, she slammed it hard against his exposed shin, letting it bounce before she slammed it again. She heard the satisfying crunch of bone a millisecond before his scream rose from the space between the door and the SUV’s interior. In the middle of turning when she’d come up behind him, the man fell toward the vehicle. Ronnie helped him along, using the heel of her hand to slam his head sideways, bouncing it hard against the doorpost. She leaned in, lifting the sidearm from his belt as he slid to the ground, writhing in pain from the shattered leg.
Squatting beside him, she snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Cell phone!”
Eyes clenched, he threw his head back, wailing, “You broke my leg, you bit—”
In his agony, he’d forgotten he was still clammed between the open door and the Expedition. She gave it another slam to get his attention, catching him across the ribs and pinching his right arm above the elbow. He retched. Spittle dangled from his chin as if he might throw up.
“You need to talk nice, postalita,” Garcia spat. “Now, where’s your cell phone?”
He shoved it to her, his head lolling in the direction of the stop-and-rob. “Maloney?”
“Is that your little girlfriend’s name?” Garcia said. She leaned inside the Expedition and yanked the wires out of the radio. “He’ll live… but he’ll be singing with the soprano section of the choir for a while.” She looked down at the laptop on the center console. “I assume this is what you were using to spy on me.” She shook her head in disgust. Standing, she snatched the man’s credential case from his jacket and flipped it open. “Seriously, Agent Gene Lindale, what’s with all this following me around shit? I’m a federal agent too, you know. Sneaking around like this is a good way to get yourself killed.”
“I… I’m with ID,” he groaned.
“Yes.” She nodded. “I can smell that.”
He retched again, head hanging toward the pavement. “You got no idea how much trouble you’re in now…”
“Oh, I know.” Ronnie gave him the sweetest smile she could muster. “I’m royally screwed.” Garcia squatted low on her haunches so she could look Lindale square in the face. “But you know what, Gene? I got no patience for guys who hide a camera in a girl’s bathroom. I mean seriously, my computer, my phone, even my kitchen table. I do a lot of work there so that I can understand. But what kind of valuable intelligence did you think you were going to get from spying on my toilet?”
She threw his keys over the privacy fence and crushed his cell phone under her heel. Spitting in disgust, she gave the door one last slam for good measure. At this point, breaking another bone or two wouldn’t dig her in any deeper.
Back at her Impala, she grabbed the duffel and two bungee cords from inside and dropped the keys in the front seat, leaving them for the kid. She’d left an envelope inside the store with the signed title to the car and ten one-hundred-dollar bills in exchange for the keys to the Kawasaki. Using the bungees to fasten the duffel to the back of the bike, she threw a long leg over the seat and hit the ignition.
The green Ninja gave off a bright metallic glow under the stark lights of the fuel bay. It felt incredibly powerful beneath her, just a little bit out of control — which, under the circumstances, was just what she wanted.
Chapter 32
Garcia peeled out of the parking lot, half from nerves, half from jubilation at doing something that made her feel closer to Jericho. She took the bike around the block, cutting behind the stop-and-rob to get back to the highway. The ID agents wouldn’t be able to do much but lick their own wounds for the moment, but it wouldn’t be wise to take any chances and let them see which way she’d gone. She’d not only hurt them physically, but she’d damaged their pride. The sort of men who would put cameras in her bathroom would take that personally — and she’d seen firsthand how the emotions associated with revenge could give a man strength to stand on a broken limb as surely as any crutch. There was no doubt that she’d made a couple of enemies for life. Get in line, she thought. Seemed like that list grew longer every day.
Ronnie hadn’t ridden without a helmet in years, preferring to keep her head more or less round and brains in place. It couldn’t be helped for now. And, whatever the ID agents’ endgame had been, it was likely just as bad as — or worse than — getting her face smeared on the asphalt. Virginia didn’t require a helmet, but they did require eye protection and the kid had given her a pair of Wiley X goggles to go with the bike. Unfortunately for Garcia, the state of Maryland had strict helmet laws and she wouldn’t hit Virginia until she crossed the Potomac.
Wind whipped at her hair, taking her breath away and buffeting her chest as she hit the southbound entrance ramp back onto I-270. Leaning forward, she tucked herself in behind a semitruck, far enough back to avoid most of the turbulence that would flip the bike around like a toy. She prayed she wouldn’t run into any state troopers until she hit Virginia. Any officer who stopped her would call in the stop and Lindale had surely dragged himself inside the store to call in the cavalry by now. The IDTF would cast a wide net enlisting every sworn officer and informant to help them find the dangerous Hispanic woman riding a green motorcycle.