"You'll have to check with Washington on that."

She got to know a couple of marshals, nice guys, they didn't take themselves as seriously as the Bureau guys she met. So Karen went with the Marshals Service and her dad told her she was crazy, have to put up with all that bureaucratic bullshit.

Karen was five-nine in the medium heels she wore with her black Chanel suit. Her marshal's star and ID were in her handbag, on the seat with the court papers. Her pistol, a Sig Sauer.38, was in the trunk with her ballistic vest, her marshal's jacket, several pairs of handcuffs, leg irons with chains, an expandable baton, Mace, and a Remington pump-action shotgun. She had locked the pistol in the trunk so she wouldn't have to check it inside the prison. The Sig Sauer was her favorite, her evening-wear piece; she didn't want to have to worry about some guard fooling with it.

Okay, she was ready. Karen took a final draw on the cigarette and dropped it out the window. She straightened the rearview mirror to look at herself and right away turned her face from the glare: the headlights of the car behind her still on high beam.

THREE

Buddy saw the mirror flash and blond hair in his headlights, a woman in the blue Chevy Caprice parked right in front of him, Florida plate.

He didn't see anyone in the other cars in the first row. Good.

Cons were coming in from the athletic field, but he didn't see any hacks running around like crazy or hear any whistles blowing.

That was even better. He was on time. After busting his tail to get out here he wouldn't mind relaxing for a few minutes. He still couldn't believe his luck, getting hold of Glenn with just a few hours to spare, tell him it was on. Not Sunday, today, now.

Glenn wanting to know how come. Buddy said, "We don't have time to chat, okay? Pick up a car and be waiting where I showed you. Sometime after six. Glenn? A white car."