Chapter Twelve

T HE CROWD AROUND the Pump House ebbed and flowed in size. The sheer police presence was a guarantee that there would both be a crowd, and that people would quickly be shooed away.

Those who worked in the Pump House were sequestered in the NYPD mobile command station. Dulce sat just outside, waiting for the NYPD to give her an official liaison so she could finally conduct a few interviews.

Brittany, on the other hand, was sitting on a stone bench soaking up the winter sun. For the most part, Brittany's job was waiting around for something to do. Between the two women who made up Team One for the BEA, Dulce was definitely smarter. She'd gone to Harvard, after all. Not that Brittany skipped out on higher education — she just hadn't really focused her energies on smarts. She'd had a full-ride athletic scholarship, and for the most part, considered her life's work accomplished when she won her first gold medal. The other medals were just icing on the cake. But standing on that platform the first time, listening to the Star-Spangled Banner play, smiling and laughing and feeling a pride she'd never thought possible — well, at that moment, she wasn't even 18.

Her life was complete. Or so she thought.

So college was almost an afterthought. If she'd had richer parents, she'd probably have just found a party school and truly done it up. Instead, she'd gotten the invite to UCLA. She could have also gone to Stanford, but she figured it would be too much homework, or Alabama, but she didn't really care for humidity. So she went to Los Angeles, studied sometimes, played hard, joined a sorority, and didn't focus quite as much on gymnastics.

And then, on a trip to the high desert, she had a little adventure and wound up meeting Joseph Goldman, head of the BEA. And she was recruited. Trained. Steeped in a weird new world. Learned Aramaic and Ancient Greek. All to sit in the sun and watch other people work.

She sighed, closing her eyes for a second.

Just a second. She still had a job: lookout.

Bo came out of the side entrance, rolling a mop bucket. He set it under a tap, pulled out a water key, and got it flowing. Then he leaned against the wall and started rolling a cigarette.

Britt idly watched him.

A backup beep from some truck echoed off the stone walls.

Brittany hopped onto her stone bench to try and get a better view. Something didn't sound right. There shouldn't be anything moving around the area that required a beeper — definitely not anything that sounded so loud.

But there it was: a black NYPD tow truck maneuvering around to get its pickup underneath the BEA ambulance.

Brittany had her gun out before she even thought about it, and pointed it to the cab of the truck. The hooded figure driving the rig noticed, hunkered down, then sped up a bit.

"HEY!" Brittany shouted.

The truck made no attempt to stop or slow.

"You," Brittany shouted, "in the truck. Stop!"

The hooded figure ignored Brittany.

She fired a shot into the air, more to get attention than do anything in particular.

Still nothing.

She slid to a stop and focused, ready to fire.