Rick glanced down at the map and saw that he had narrowed the gap to five hundred yards, albeit on different streets. “Air One, can you get a license plate?”
“Negative.”
“If I can get eyes on, can you run the plates?”
There was a pause. “Affirm. Subject turning east on Second Street.”
Rick felt a surge of excitement. If he could get eyes on and have Air One run the plates, there was a chance he could use the Vehicle Identification Number to access Mopar’s Electronic Vehicle Tracking System and receive real-time position updates. Barring that, he would have to maintain surveillance the old-school way, because once the Cessna returned to Long Beach, he would be on his own.
At the end of the block, Rick slammed on the brakes and brought the M5 to a complete stop before inching his nose out into the intersection. The Jeep Wrangler pulled out onto the main drag as he craned his neck in its direction. With a quick glance to his left to look for oncoming traffic, he made the right turn and quickly sped up to narrow the gap between them. Closing the distance to a subject under surveillance was counter to everything they had ever taught him, but there was no way around the mess he was in.
He passed Roe Seafood doing almost seventy miles an hour and cursed when the light in front of him turned yellow. But he pressed harder on the gas pedal and darted his head in both directions as he launched through the intersection and onto the bridge.
Up ahead, the light turned red, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the Wrangler’s brake lights illuminate. He took his foot off the gas, maneuvered into the right lane, and coasted to a stop as he squinted through the darkness and read off the license plate number to the pilot overhead. “California plates. Seven. Tango. Yankee. Papa. Two. Niner. Zero. How copy?”
“Good copy. Wait one.”
When the nose of his BMW was even with the spare tire on the back of the Jeep, the light turned green. He eased his foot off the brake and watched the Wrangler drive away with increasing anxiety as he waited for a response. After what seemed like an inordinate amount of time, he prodded the pilot. “Talk to me, Air One. I’m about to lose her.”
Silence followed for several more seconds before the pilot’s voice returned. “Okay, we’ve run the plates, but it’s not good.”
He felt his skin flush. “What?”
“They belong to a 1997 Chevrolet Camaro.”
He groaned, though it shouldn’t have been all that surprising
Chen took her time driving through the residential neighborhood of Belmont Shore, watching the yacht club retreat in the rearview mirror. She wouldn’t run a full surveillance detection route, but she still planned to follow protocol and use every opportunity to look for a tail. Nobody followed, and when she pulled out onto Second Street, she saw only the normal flow of traffic she had grown accustomed to at that late hour.
Crossing the bridge onto Naples, she spotted a European sedan behind her running a red light. Her skin prickled with nerves, and when the light in front of her turned red, she braked the Wrangler, thankful for the opportunity to draw the car closer for a better look. But as it slowed in the lane next to her, she couldn’t make out the driver’s face in the darkened interior.
When the light turned green, she lifted her foot off the brake and continued through the intersection. But the sedan appeared less eager than it had moments earlier, and as the distance between them grew, she dismissed it. The citizens of greater Los Angeles moved about like those in Shanghai or Beijing, but with less purpose. The sedan’s driver was just another example of one seeming only to exist for the sake of existence.
Chen scanned her mirrors every few minutes, noting the unique pairs of headlights behind her. Some were round or square, and others were narrow, but she never saw the pair belonging to the sedan again. She saw dim halogen bulbs and bright LEDs in various patterns, and she tracked them in her mind, noticing when they sped past or fell further behind. She spotted new ones joining the thickening flow of traffic and noticed when others exited.
But none were following her, of that she was certain.
She was clean.
Passing Los Angeles International, she bent over to look up through the windshield at the lights in the sky, making their approach to the parallel runways. Thousands of people were on board, oblivious to the conflict raging in the world around them. But that would soon change.
A war was coming — one America wasn’t prepared for.
