BY EIGHT O'CLOCK that night, I had gathered together a half dozen handpicked officers from Major Case Squad, plus Bree, Sampson, and myself. We wore Kevlar vests under plain clothes and were heavily armed and wired, waiting at the service plaza in Chantilly, Virginia, where something might be going down involving my killer.

    We were scheduled for a twelve-hour shift, eight to eight if we needed it. The team was already spread out over five sectors: front car park, restaurant, gas station, and both sides of the big truck lot in back. Sampson had a hip problem, so he was on the roof observing for us. Bree and I traded off roaming and covering the communications van parked near the entrance, with another good view of the service plaza.

    There was no sign of the CIA. Had they not shown up yet?

    For the first five hours, there was nothing but radio silence and lots of bad coffee.

    Then just after one in the morning, the silence broke.

    “Twenty-two-oh-one. Over.”

    “Go ahead, twenty-two-oh-one.”

    I looked over from the communications van toward the far corner of the truck lot, where a detective named Jamal McDonald was stationed.

    “I got two Land Cruisers. Just pulled up to a tanker in the back. Northeast corner.”

    “How long has the tanker been there?” I asked McDonald.

    “Hard to say, Alex. At least half an hour. Most of these tankers been pulling in and out.”

    We hadn't known what to expect tonight, but stolen gas or crude would make sense, especially if Nigerians were involved. I was already out of the van and walking quickly in Jamal's direction. Two dozen or more semis, lined up in rows, were temporarily blocking my view of the corner.