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“Well, shit,” Ronan muttered. “It’s Voss. Never seen the woman.”
The new arrivals walked past the van, up the steps, and into the house.
Felicity lowered the camera and flicked through the images, zooming in as far as the small viewfinder would allow.
She drew in a breath.
“What is it?”
“The woman…” She angled the camera toward him. “Sofía Velasco. Daughter of Ignacio Velasco.”
“The Colombian drug lord?”
“Yep.” The p pinged in the quiet.
A moment later, Voss and the woman reappeared — another woman between them, half-walking, half-stumbling, Voss’s hand gripping her arm.
Felicity lifted the camera and started shooting again.
Voss shoved the woman into the back seat. The doors slammed. The engine turned over. They pulled away.
Felicity handed Ronan the camera. “Seat belt,” she ordered, already starting the car. She checked the mirrors and eased out, turning into the street after them. The BMW was a flashy car. Easy to spot.
“Keep your distance,” he said.
“I know how to follow someone.”
“Still. He’s interacted with both of us. And he’ll be alert.”
Felicity didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed on the deep maroon vehicle as it turned onto Route 6, heading southwest.
The sun hung low, flattening the landscape into long shadows and glare. She dropped back another car length, letting a pickup slide in ahead of her. A semi eased between them a mile later, tall and slow, its trailer swallowing the BMW whole. She eased off the accelerator, watching for brake lights ahead of the truck, for any flicker of that maroon through gaps in traffic.
The semi signaled, drifting right.
There—
The BMW reappeared, two cars and a truck up, steady and unhurried.
Felicity exhaled softly and held back, resisting the urge to close the gap.
They followed it all the way toward Lincoln, traffic thinning as the light bled out of the sky. Fewer cars. Fewer places to hide.
Voss turned off toward an industrial stretch — low buildings, chain-link fences, the faint outline of rail lines cutting through the distance.
Felicity slowed. “Nope,” she murmured, and drove past the turnoff without signaling, eyes forward. “Not enough traffic,” she said. “And not enough light.”
Ronan blew out a breath. “Good call.”
She felt the disappointment anyway. Everything in her wanted to push their luck. But discipline took over. They had a few more pieces to add to the puzzle — the woman, the car, the destination.
“You wanna wait?” Ronan asked.
“No. We head back.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Time to call in reinforcements. Voss’s connection to Velasco … that’s big.”
*
“You’re saying the Velasco cartel is operating in my county?” Sheriff Stirling’s voice carried a steely edge.
