The Darkness of Evil (Karen Vail #7)(20)

“US Marshals have mobilized,” Gifford said. “Call Deputy Lewis Hurdle. DiCarlo’s texting you his contact info.”

Vail swallowed and looked across the lecture hall at Jonathan. “Yes sir.”

“Leave now. I’ll have Lenka call the professor and reschedule you.”

“Okay sir. Yes sir. On my way.” She slipped the phone back in her pocket, adrenaline hitting her bloodstream with the abandon of a broken dam. “I’m uhh … I’m very sorry. I must sound like an idiot, but I’ve been ordered to—I’ve got a—there’s a situation I have to deal with and—we’ll have to reschedule.” She grabbed her flash drive and the screen behind her went blank.

“My office will be in touch,” she said to Winfield, avoiding Jonathan’s gaze, as she bolted for the door.

◆◆◆

VAIL DID NOT HAVE TO CALL DEPUTY HURDLE. He phoned her by the time she reached her car.

“On my way,” Vail said as she chirped her car remote.

“No need,” Hurdle said. “We got this.”

“What do you mean, ‘We got this.’ I was ordered to get with you, help the task force find Roscoe Lee Marcks.”

“I know what our job is. All I’m saying is you don’t need to do it. We got this. We’re good.”

Vail turned over the engine and pulled out of the parking spot, trying to restrain her building anger. “Who’s we?”

“Capital Area Regional Fugitive Task Force. This is all we do, Vail. We catch *s like Marcks. And we do it better without anyone meddling in our business.”

“Good to know. What address am I driving to?”

Hurdle slowed his speech and lowered his voice. “Am I not making myself clear?”

“Crystal. I’m ignoring you. Now, you can give me the address of the command center, or I can have the FBI director talk with the attorney general and have him get the address for me. I’ve got the director on speed dial.”

I love saying that.

There was a pause.

So predictable.

“Check your phone.” The line went dead.

And the info hit her cell seconds later.

VAIL PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT of the Mason District Station of the Fairfax County Police Department, where a black RV sat, gold lettering proclaiming “U.S. Marshals Service Mobile Command Center,” along with the five-pointed silver star that dated back to the agency’s origin in 1789.

A conspicuous satellite dish and corkscrew communications array projected from the top of the vehicle.

As she started to get out of her car, Curtis’s Ford glided into the spot next to her.

She had called Curtis and told him to divert there, if possible. He said he could, as his partner was already on scene at Jasmine’s house.

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Figured you’d want to be looped in from the start.”

“You figured right. Gotta watch these marshals. They think they know everything there is to know about catching bad guys.”

“They do.” She noticed Curtis’s look, so she added, “Hey, I give credit where it’s due. The marshals on the fugitive squads know their shit. They’ve got fugitive tracking in their blood.”

“You admit that?”

“Before we walk in that trailer?” she said, gesturing at the RV. “Hell yes. But they’ll also piss you off because they don’t pass up any opportunity to let you know that they’re the best.”

“This isn’t your first rodeo with them.”

“I’ve heard stories.”

Curtis gave her a dubious look. “I could tell those stories. Did a couple years on the task force a while back.”

“We’ll just make this a meet ’n greet so we can get over to Jasmine’s place. I know you’ve got a guy there now, but—hey, who’d they give you?” Vail knew that Curtis’s former partner died of leukemia. “Anyone I know?”

“She’s new. Out-of-state hire. Checkered history, what I’m told. Lucky me.”

Vail locked her car door and started toward the marshals’ command post. “You ask her about it? You’ve gotta know who’s covering your back.”

“I will. We only met yesterday. They had me with some burned-out train wreck after Lonny died. He finally retired—actually, he’d checked out a year ago, but I convinced him to make it official before he got us both killed.”

They ascended the wooden steps and pulled the trailer door open. It was well outfitted, with built-in workstations and LCD screens lining the periphery. She had seen one of these mobile command centers before, on a larger scale, in New York City.

Several people were there, including a man in his early forties dressed in tactical pants—her favorite 5.11s, by the look of them—with a two-day beard and a rumpled button-down concealed carry shirt … the professional’s way to pack a weapon without anyone noticing while keeping it instantly accessible. “Lemme guess. Vail. Right?”

“What was your first clue? The red hair? Or the breasts?”

His eyes gave her the once over. “FBI badge on your belt.”

Good save, buddy. “The badge does attract attention.”

“Just like you people.”