When the bus reached the specified intersection, they got off and jogged across the street. They had to wait five agonizing minutes for the next bus to arrive, during which time the Caddy slid into a metered parking space nearby. The Humvee carrying the StingRay was too big to park curbside, so it was forced to circle the block. Cameron was relieved when it vanished from sight.
The second bus ride felt far longer. All the seats were taken, so they had to stand. Cameron scanned the faces of their fellow passengers and saw Yancey doing the same. She didn’t recognize any of them, though, and apparently, neither did he.
Rush-hour traffic congealed around them. Passengers slammed into one another with every tap of gas or brake. Nerves jangled. Tempers flared. The breaking news of heightened threat levels had people on edge. Cameron spotted blurry pictures of Hendricks on every smartphone screen and tablet.
Half a block ahead, a Prius jetted through a red light and got clipped by a delivery van. The gunshot crack as their fenders met made pedestrians shriek and sent ripples of unease through the bus. Even Yancey, who’d sown the current unrest, seemed affected by the crowd’s mood. He grew more agitated by the minute and hissed a steady stream of orders at his men.
When Hendricks called back, he told them to get off at North Point and Mason, and he stayed on the line while they complied. Cameron-who could see the Humvee’s cabin peeking out over the traffic a few blocks away, the StingRay’s oversize antenna bobbing atop it-wanted to shout at him to hang up, but she didn’t dare. This time, the Caddy was nowhere to be seen.
“Okay, fucko. We’re off the bus. What next?”
“There’s a shopping center to your right. Enter the parking garage and head south. Remain on the first level and move quickly.”
Hendricks hung up, and Yancey and Cameron headed for the parking garage. Yancey led her by the arm. The zip-tie bit into her wrists beneath the plastic poncho.
“Do you goddamn have him yet?” Yancey barked into his earpiece. “I don’t want your fucking excuses, what I want is his location!” His face was blotchy, his eyes manic. As he shoved Cameron through the open door of the garage, her emotions teetered queasily between anxiety and hope.
A man in workout gear spotted them on their way through the garage and cocked his head. Late thirties or early forties. Well muscled and damp with sweat. When they neared, he stepped into their path to block their way.
“Excuse me, miss, are you all right?”
“She’s fine,” Yancey replied.
“Sorry, Tex, but I was asking her, not you.”
Yancey tightened his grip on Cameron’s arm. “Tell the man you’re fine, darlin’.”
Cameron winced. “I-I’m fine.”
“Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t look fine.”
“Relax, asshole,” Yancey said, his temper flaring. “I’m a cop.”
“Good,” the man replied. “Then you won’t mind me calling 911 to confirm that.” He took his cell phone from his pocket and began to dial.
“You know what?” Yancey said, tapping the button on his Bluetooth earpiece to terminate the link to his men. “We don’t have time for this shit.”
He drew his gun and pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed through the concrete structure. The man dropped, his chest a bloody mess. Cameron wailed, and her knees buckled, but Yancey’s grip kept her from falling.
Yancey’s phone rang. He answered it. “Weirdest fucking thing,” he said. “My signal dropped out for a second. Seems fine now, though.” Then he dragged Cameron-sobbing, hysterical-through the parking structure.
Hendricks called again. Cameron could barely speak. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Pinpricks of light danced at the edges of her vision. He asked her what was wrong, but Yancey yanked the phone away before she could reply. “Maybe she just misses you,” he said.
Hendricks told them to take a right onto Bay Street. They passed a darkened sushi joint, a Starbucks, a Trader Joe’s. Yancey peered suspiciously at all the passersby, but Cameron, terrified though she was, knew the city well and grew less convinced by the moment that Hendricks might be hiding around some corner. In her mind’s eye, she could see him peering intently at the BART app she’d installed on his phone, trying to yank the two of them around hard enough to shake their tail. The thought calmed her. She had a feeling she knew where he was directing them next.
Her phone rang. “Can you see Taylor Street yet?”
“Yes,” Cameron managed. “We’re right on top of it.”
“Good. Take a left, and be quick about it. There should be a cable car waiting.” The line went dead once more.
The trolley car was empty. The city was somber and fearful, and its streets uncharacteristically devoid of sightseers. They rode until the track ran out. Yancey spent most of the trip shouting at his men.
“What do you mean, where am I? Shouldn’t you know?” A pause. “Oh, good. We’re out of range now too. That’s just fucking perfect.”
He hung up. Threw his earpiece in a rage. Sat fuming as the trolley car clattered down the hill.
When they reached the end of Powell Street, they disembarked. Usually, looky-loos would crowd around three-deep to watch the rickety old turntable turn the trolley car around, but today the only people on the sidewalk hurried nervously past, eager to get where they were going. Yancey’s head swiveled like a nervous bird’s as he tried to take in everything at once. A blood vessel throbbed in the center of his forehead. Their Bellum escorts were nowhere to be seen.
Cameron’s burner phone trilled. Yancey answered it. “Listen, motherfucker, I’m getting sick and tired of being jerked around. You keep this up much longer, I might just put a bullet in this bitch and hunt you down at my leisure.”
“Relax,” Hendricks said. “You’re almost done. There’s an escalator across Market Street. Take it.”
They did as Hendricks instructed, Yancey’s left hand holding Cameron’s right triceps in a death grip. Once they stepped onto the escalator, Yancey thumbed the button to put the phone on speaker. “Where are you, asshole? I’m running out of patience.”
The line crackled, the signal weakening. Two bars dwindled to one as they descended. Cameron worried the call would get dropped. Hendricks drew the moment out by taking forever to respond.
“I’m in Oakland. Take the Richmond/Daly City line. And if I were you, I’d hurry. The train leaves in ninety seconds.”
Hope fluttered in Cameron’s chest. So that’s why the StingRay couldn’t get close enough to track his call. He wasn’t in San Francisco anymore-he was across the bay.
Yancey balked. “That’s not enough time!”
“If you want Segreti, it had better be,” Hendricks replied.
“But-” Yancey began. They’d reached the bottom of the escalator.
The signal vanished.
The call was dropped.
Yancey stuffed Cameron’s phone into his pocket. Checked his own phone for a signal and swore. Then he pushed her toward the ticketing machines.
Cameron realized this must have been Hendricks’s plan all along. Even if Yancey could tip his buddies to their destination, it’d take them forever to get there. And if his fancy-pants encrypted phone didn’t have a signal here, it was a safe bet it wouldn’t have one on the train: it remained underground until it hit the Transbay Tube, three-odd miles of track that ran forty meters beneath the churning surface of San Francisco Bay.
40.
HENDRICKS, FEVERISH AND edgy from adrenaline, bounced lightly on the balls of his feet at the center of the busy platform as the train from San Francisco pulled into the station. Brakes squealed. Warm air buffeted his cheeks. Loudspeaker announcements echoed off the tiles.