I tried to will the sheriff to go faster. It didn’t work. I tried poofing, like Boone. No good.
“Do you suppose all this is true, what the president told me, about terrorists and all that?” the sheriff asked. He was still using the “ask a question to try to get ’em talking” technique. Sheriff Hackett had yet to figure out he was no match for Angela.
“I don’t know why the president would lie about something like that,” Angela said. “After all, Sheriff, they were holding Q, weren’t they? And by the way, do you think we could pick up the pace?” she said. As if to emphasize the urgency, Croc barked from the backseat where he sat on his haunches between us. The sheriff gave the car more gas.
“I reckon they are what the president says they are. Still, this just sounds like something out of a Hollywood movie,” he muttered.
“Believe me, Sheriff,” Angela muttered. “Movies don’t even come close.”
“I suppose. You seem to know a lot about this stuff, miss. How is that, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“My mother is … was … a U.S. Secret Service agent,” Angela said quietly.
“Was?” the sheriff asked, looking at us in the rearview mirror. Angela stared out the window into the dark.
“She died in the line of duty,” I said. Even though the president had recruited the sheriff, I’d learned that Boone believed in the need-to-know doctrine. And the fewer people who knew that Malak Tucker was really alive, the better.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t … I had …” the sheriff was at a loss for words.
But not for long.
“What do you suppose is the story with this Dirk fella?” he asked. “The president said he—”
Without warning the interior of the car was filled with blinding light. A huge SUV had emerged from the darkness and then hit the brights from only a few yards behind us.
“Gun it, Sheriff!” Angela shouted.
The rear window exploded in a hail of automatic-weapons fire.