Eighty

Toss your phone in the trunk.

That’d been the direction as soon as she hung up with Graciella Lopez. Rental cars came equipped with GPS. It’d take about thirty seconds to tap into the rental company’s database and locate the car. But if she ditched her phone, there’d be no way for Church to find her beyond this point.

That’s the idea, darlin’. You’re wasting time Ellie don’t have.

She tossed the phone on top of the duffle inside the trunk and slammed the lid. “Now what?” she said, aiming her gaze into the desert.

Start walkin’.

She struck out at a light jog, pushing herself deeper and deeper into the desert terrain that hugged the base of the Tank Mountains. About fifteen miles to the west of her, the Colorado River flowed and churned, winding its way through the dark. She wanted to move faster, needed to move faster, but the ground beneath her feet was unpredictable and thanks to an old injury, she wasn’t as nimble as she once was.

The beam of her flashlight caught on something, the shine of it bouncing back to her, nearly blinding her. It was a reflective sign, wired to the chain-link fence that had to be at least ten feet high. She tilted the light downward, aiming it at the dirt, letting the glow of it illuminate the sign.

YUMA PROVING GROUND
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED

“What now?”

Up and over, darlin’, and don’t get caught.

She hesitated again, this time not because of her leg or the terrain that stretched in front of her. If she was caught trespassing on a military installation, she’d be arrested. Her FBI credentials wouldn’t protect her here. They’d run her through facial recognition software. With his military connections, Livingston Shaw would know the second her picture was scanned into the system. And then he’d come for her.

Like I said, don’t get caught.

She clicked the flashlight off, tucking it into the long pocket of her cargos before digging the toe of her boot into a diamond-shaped hole in the chain link. Cresting the top of the fence, she swung over. Letting go, she dropped to the ground, landing in a crouch, the impact pulling at her damaged thigh.

How is that leg of yours holding up, darlin’?

Her leg. Wade had been the one to shoot her, sending bullet fragments scattering through her thigh. It’d taken years to rehab it and it still ached from time to time. Her days of running a five-minute mile were long gone but she could hold her own when she had to.

“Better than your face, asshole.”

He laughed at her, the sound of it ringing in her ears.

That’s only because you shot me in it.

She stood slowly, half expecting a swarm of camo-painted Humvees to descend, soldiers piling out, barking orders, waving guns. Nothing happened.

“Now what?” she said quietly, still half believing she was on the verge of getting caught.

Start walkin’. And you better hurry, darlin’. Little Ellie’s ’bout out of time.