16

Teddy came out the side door of Centurion Studios and headed for his car. He had his own parking space, one of the few perks of being a producer that he actually valued. When movies were filming at Centurion, parking spaces were at a premium, as a hundred-plus crew members flooded the lot. Only the producer, the director, and the head of the studio had their own personal spaces.

Teddy’s Porsche Speedster gleamed in the afternoon sun. Climbing into the car always cheered him up, making him feel like a kid again and not just a man driving home from his job. Teddy slipped into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and pulled out of the lot.

A black sedan, parked half a block down the street from the studio entrance, pulled out behind the Speedster and followed.

Teddy spotted him at once. The driver was good; he had pulled out casually and blended into traffic. The average driver wouldn’t have noticed the tail at all. But a man who had spent twenty years at CIA intelligence, outfitting and training agents for missions, wasn’t about to miss a trick. There were no second chances in the secret service, and no getting rusty. Your training wouldn’t allow it. Alertness became routine. Routine became instinct.

Teddy’s finely honed senses picked up the car in the rearview mirror and immediately began to classify it. Most behavior he would usually dismiss as ordinary. Not this time. The sedan was crowding the car in front of him too closely in case he had to speed around it, and hogging the crown of the road so no one could pass him, both behaviors were associated with a car on a tail. Teddy could tell this was the real deal.

Teddy hung a right at the next intersection and headed up into the hills. He lived on Mulholland Drive, but he had no intention of leading the black sedan into his own neighborhood. He had in mind someplace more remote.

The black sedan was clearly following him. The driver had made every turn and given up the pretense of keeping cars between them. As the roads became narrower and winding, the black sedan shortened the distance, and plastered himself right on Teddy’s tail.

Teddy sighed. That was the problem with the vintage sports car. It was built for speed on the open road, but practically useless when you wanted to run some son of a bitch off the road.

As soon as he had the thought, the black sedan pulled alongside and began crowding him.

A hairpin turn was coming up. Teddy could easily be pushed over the edge.

In anticipation, the black sedan inched closer, nicking his fender.

The curve was rushing at them. There would be no room to turn.

Teddy downshifted and popped the clutch. The sports car, grinding in the lower gear, dropped back. Just before he fell behind the black car entirely, Teddy swung the wheel and clipped the tail end of the sedan with his fender. Then he was clear of it, and the black car vaulted ahead, fishtailing from the impact as the driver fought to steer back in the direction of the skid.

The sedan was going way too fast. The driver had anticipated pushing the sports car off the road, but with nothing to push against and his own back end out of control, the driver fought desperately to make the turn. He almost did, screeching in a wide arc before mounting the shoulder, jumping the guardrail, and cascading down the mountain in a fiery heap.