True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(53)

“That’s fascinating,” he said. “How do you know that?”

“I’m an actress,” she said. “We instinctively find the emotional truth in a character.”

“Does that work with real people, too?”

“Do you mean am I in tune with my own emotional truth?”

“No, I mean can you find mine?”

She smiled and stole a glance at his barely there Speedo and everything it strained to contain. “Definitely.”



Bethesda, Maryland. July 21. 3:11 p.m. Eastern Standard Time.

“We got this from the Henderson Executive Airport parking lot,” Seth said. “It shows the unknown subjects acquiring the Blackthorn vehicle that was left behind by Pessel and Bowers.”

Cross watched pixelated video on the media wall of an old Ford station wagon pulling up beside the Suburban. Two men and a woman got out of the car but their faces weren’t visible because the surveillance camera was crappy, it was too dark outside, and the people were too far away. But Cross didn’t need to see their faces to know who they were. It was Ludlow, French, and one more civilian they’d have to kill.

“This gives us no useful intel,” Cross said.

“Not by itself,” Seth said. “But an identical 1974 Ford Country Squire station wagon was parked in the Main Street Station Casino parking lot, in direct line of sight of our Las Vegas office, at the time of the blast.”

A video appeared on the media wall showing a rocket-propelled grenade being fired from the casino parking lot by someone obscured by the station wagon.

“That gave us a vehicle to search for,” Seth said. “That same station wagon drove through the California agricultural checkpoint on I-15 at Yermo, a hundred and forty miles southwest of Las Vegas, at seven thirty-five a.m. Pacific Standard Time. It wasn’t stopped for inspection but all the vehicles that go through are automatically photographed and the license plates are captured.”

Seth put the two photos up on the media wall. One was a close-up of the rear license plate, which Cross didn’t need or care to see. The second was a close-up of the front of the vehicle, heading toward the camera. It clearly showed Ian Ludlow sitting in the passenger seat and Margo French at the wheel.

Cross wanted to break Seth’s neck. Seth should have immediately shown him the goddamn photo of Ian and Margo the instant he stepped into the room and scrapped the whole tedious story leading up to it. But no, Seth wanted to show off his work and build up suspense like he was putting on a fucking stage show. He’d wasted Cross’ time and that was unacceptable. Cross would deal with that later. Maybe transfer the smug prick to Tasmania. For now, he took a deep breath to calm himself.

“Show me a map of the I-15 heading southwest,” Cross said.

One appeared immediately on the media wall. The I-15 went straight into Southern California. The only fork beforehand was near Barstow, California, where the I-15 met the I-40 eastbound toward Arizona, New Mexico, and the lower third of the country. But if any of those places was their destination, there were much shorter routes out of Las Vegas to get there. So Cross was sure they’d stay on the I-15. Once they hit Victorville, they could take Highway 18 west, and from there hit several other routes heading to Central or Northern California. Or they could stay on the I-15 and connect to a number of southbound freeways toward San Diego and Mexico. Or they could take it straight into Los Angeles, Ian Ludlow’s home.

“He’s going back to Los Angeles,” Cross said. He was sure of it, though it was just a gut feeling.

“He can’t be,” Victoria said. “That would be insane.”

“More insane than breaking into our office in Las Vegas?” Seth said.

Victoria didn’t reply. Seth had a point, Cross thought, and might even have the motive. Did Ludlow intend to strike their Beverly Hills office? Cross didn’t think so. Ludlow wouldn’t take the risk of returning to LA, his home and the place where he was most likely to be spotted by his pursuers, unless he absolutely had to for a crucial strategic or operational purpose.

“The real question is what’s in Los Angeles that he needs?” Cross said, putting the question to the room.

“Money,” Victoria said.

Cross nodded. That was a real possibility. But Ludlow wouldn’t be dumb enough to walk into a bank or go to an ATM for a withdrawal. That would announce his location almost instantly. So that meant he had either money stashed away somewhere or someone he could approach for cash.

“Freeze his bank accounts and stake out his house, or what’s left of it,” Cross said. “Maybe he had a floor safe or something. Doesn’t he have family in Southern California?”

“His mother is in Palm Springs,” Victoria said.

“Put a team on her,” Cross said. “I want her watched twenty-four/seven and all of her e-mail, phone, and other communications monitored. What did you get from the license plates on the station wagon?”

“It’s owned by the same shell companies as the compound in Nevada,” Seth said. “We’re digging into it. We have our people sorting through records in Delaware, Panama, Bermuda, and the Cayman Islands. We’re hours away from an answer.”

“Make it minutes,” Cross said.

And if Seth strung out the answer when he got it, Cross might actually break the man’s neck.