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Lila didn’t bother searching for bugs before climbing inside. She slammed the door behind her, the echo bouncing off the trees. Dixon did the same, pulling out immediately to sped down Max’s drive. He barely kept the truck under the speed limit as they raced to Bullstow.
Dixon pushed the truck as quickly as it would go, as quickly as they could go and not get pulled over for speeding. Few people drove around them. It was too late for dinner and too early to party and dance downtown. Dixon threaded through as many as he dared.
The brakes squealed softly as they stopped at the Bullstow gate. A blackcoat ambled toward them, his palm in his hand, waiting to take down their information.
Dixon rolled down his window.
Lila leaned over him. “I’m Elizabeth Randolph, and I’m here to see my father.”
The blackcoat turned to the gatehouse. “The prime minister’s daughter wants inside.”
Lila’s heart sank. Even the militia knew her father was unavailable.
A burly man inside the booth grabbed a radio and murmured into it, but neither she nor Dixon was close enough to understand him or the reply.
Lila knew from his face what the answer would be.
The sergeant slipped from the gatehouse and shuffled over, his boots echoing on the street. “Your father is in a meeting right now, madam. Come back tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll wait in his suite.”
“Madam, the meeting is expected to run quite late. I’ve been instructed to tell you to come back tomorrow.”
“I want to see Chief Shaw.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Mr. Shaw?”
“Yes. He’s no longer your chief, but he’s not a prisoner. Surely he can accept a visitor.”
The man scratched at his beard. “Madam, Mr. Shaw is attending the same meeting. You’ll just have to come back tomorrow.” He turned away and returned to the gatehouse.
The gates did not open.
Lila turned away, her eyes straying toward the protest. She noticed a woman far removed from the crowd, sitting in a nondescript Cruz sedan, very similar to the one Lila owned.
But Lila’s car had not come with a telephoto lens.
The mole had followed her again.
Her frustration passed from the guard to the Cruz sedan and its driver.
Lila tapped Dixon on the leg and jutted her chin toward the car.
She slipped out of the truck and marched down Leclerc Street, walking away from the protestors, their signs chewed up, bent, and covered in footprints so late in the evening.
As expected, the woman in the car pulled out and followed after Lila.
Dixon parked his truck on the street and followed behind, keeping to the shadows while Lila stopped outside a law office. When she peered into the windows, the car stopped. A street lamp reflected off the lens of the woman’s camera.
Lila heard a puff of air nearby.
Someone whistled.
Lila turned around. Dixon had climbed into the passenger seat of the woman’s car, sliding it into park.
The engine died.
Lila slipped into the back, eyeing the well-placed tranq in the woman’s neck. The pair searched the car, digging through every bag and compartment they came to. “I don’t have my DNA wand. Do you see anything with a name?”
