The big block V8 engine was a beautiful thing, one of the great contributions to the world from the United States. But it was thirsty. Walker had pulled into a gas station and was filling up a third time in twenty-four hours. He tried to work out the mileage but gave up. It wasn’t bad on the highway, but around the city it was like he could watch the gauge going down with every minute that passed.
Monica had gone to the restroom. It was the type of non-chain gas station that had a decent diner that catered to truckers and road users who didn’t have company cards. And, Walker figured, less of a chance of being plugged into a network of cameras available to the prying eyes of the NSA.
“Still filling up?” Monica said. She’d brought them both coffee in Styrofoam cups.
“Emptying a shale oil deposit all on my own.”
“They really should build that pipeline.”
“Or this car should just be driven around on Sundays.”
“It’s a nice ride,” Monica said, leaning on the front fender. “Yours?”
“What, you think I stole it?”
“It does look like something from Grand Theft Auto.”
“Well, look out hookers and pedestrians,” Walker said. The pump handle tapped out and he holstered it. He pulled out a wad of bills.
“You didn’t pre-pay?”
“They’ll track it,” Walker said, flicking through the cash and pausing as he saw Monica deliberating in some kind of internal reprimand. “You paid with a card?”
She nodded, then cringed. “It’s all I had on me when I left the house,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Then we have to get moving,” Walker said, heading into the gas station, where he paid for the fuel and a couple of trucker caps and a pair of sunglasses for Monica. Outside, she was in the car. She’d tossed her coffee, her distaste not at the drink but at her actions. His was on the roof of the Cuda. He took it, slung himself inside the car and started it up, checking his mirrors as he did up his belt.
Then he stopped. The silver Crown Vic with the middle-aged driver was on the shoulder of the freeway just before the gas station, doing its best to be hidden behind a road sign.
“Hang on,” Walker said. He drove out of the station and planted his foot entering the highway. The Crown Vic made a show of keeping up.
“What is it?”
“We’ve got company,” Walker said, checking his rearview mirror.
Monica looked over her shoulder.
“The guys from my house?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, but I saw him near our motel. Maybe he was out there all night, watching us—there was a Crown Vic in the lot.”
“Really?” Monica watched out the back window.
Walker eased off the accelerator and sat on sixty-five. Better to see what this was about, than lose the chance. The Crown Vic wasn’t government. It was ten years old and dinged up. The driver wasn’t schooled in making a tail that would go undetected, or maybe he had been once but now didn’t have the energy or inclination to do it right. And he was alone. So, whoever it was, he didn’t fit into this scenario with Jasper Brokaw. At least, not from the outset.
Walker signaled to turn off at the next town.