“I THINK,” CHIN SAID, “that they’ve turned off. You’d better slow down, get in the right lane.” Chin switched on the flashlight, shone it on the map spread across his knees. For the last hour, the scanner’s digital readout had held steady at 45 degrees. But now the scanner read 117 degrees. Conclusion: As expected, Bernhardt had turned off the freeway and was now traveling southeast on Route 12, the secondary road that led to Rio Vista and the San Joaquin delta region that lay south of Sacramento.
As, yes, the upcoming sign overhanging the freeway showed the Route 12 turnoff three-quarters of a mile ahead.
“There,” Chin said, pointing. “Route Twelve.”
As Fabrese slowed the car and switched on the turn indicators, Chin clicked off the flashlight. Bernhardt’s Honda, he estimated, was about a mile ahead, traveling at reduced speed. So far, driving first in the city, then on the Bay Bridge, finally on the eight-lane freeway, it had been impossible to determine which of the drivers following Bernhardt was the one called C.B., probable last name Tate. But on Route 12, at night, the backup car would be revealed.
“Go east,” Chin ordered as, into the freeway exit, one arrow pointed to 12 West, the other to 12 East. As they made the turn and swung onto the road to the east, Chin glanced at a wrist compass. Yes, they were traveling on a magnetic heading of 120 degrees, almost a dead match to the 122 degrees that now showed on the scanner’s LCD display.
“Don’t go too fast,” Chin said. Ahead, the road narrowed to two lanes. As it began a gentle curve to the east, he could count taillights ahead: four cars, one of them Bernhardt’s—
—and one of them C.B. Tate’s, the backup man Bernhardt had called a samurai. ISLETON, a sign read. 27 MILES.
“Is that where we’re going?” Fabrese asked. “Isleton?”
“I have no idea.”
Fabrese flung a hostile glance at the other man as he said, “Is that like you’ve got no idea who the tall man is? Is it like that? Bullshit, in other words?”
Chin made no response, concentrating instead on the scanner. Beneath the LCD display the scanner featured five small lights that showed the intensity of the homing device’s signal. Three lights lit, the manual instructed, would translate to about a mile separation. Five lights suggested a half mile or less. One light meant that the signal was almost lost.
A million dollars in jewels and gold coin, the prize for interpreting these numerals and lights correctly. But make a mistake, one mistake, and the game changed, all bets canceled. Unless Fabrese believed that the treasure was within grasp, everything came tumbling down.
No, not everything. Because, back in the city, Charles Ng was about to actuate the second phase of a plan that, almost exactly twenty-four hours ago, had been nonexistent.
Simplicity …
Always, simplicity was the key.
And, yes, silence—the patience to listen, and the wisdom to analyze and make plans.
Followed, most essentially, by courage—the remorseless courage required to kill without hesitation, without mercy, without remorse.
All that the plan lacked was the exquisite taste of revenge. For all the indignities Fabrese had forced him to endure, there would be no payback, no final words, no parting smile.