Angela Hardesty considered her options. At the moment they appeared few and bleak, but that hadn't stopped her before. The car ahead of her slowed; Hardesty shoved the stick down and pulled to pass on the wrong side, blowing off the sudden storm of horns. She had a destination and a deadline, and the ratio of success she could expect depended directly on covering the distance under the time limit.
“Long way to go,” she muttered. “Short time to get there ...”
The black Suburban materialized – government plates and all – six car-lengths ahead. Hardesty grinned and shoved herself down in her seat as she toed the gas pedal floor-ward and listened to the back barrels open up in the big engine's carefully-orchestrated intake sequence. The Plymouth would, at this rate, suck down gasoline faster than a Streak Eagle absorbing humid air, but she'd have to think about how to answer for that later. The long low blue hood in front of her gave the impression of aiming at her prey. She pushed her way through the traffic, oblivious to the noise rippling out behind her passage.
Hardesty pulled even, nosed ahead, shot a look into the cab, and grinned in recognition. The next bit would be tricky, but her recent display of lane-changing ought to cover her intention here ...
She braked, wrenched her wheel to the left, counted a heartbeat's quarters out loud and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The transmission squalled and the engine bellowed and the Plymouth felt as though it leaped into the air under her. She caught the wheel against a thigh and cut through another narrow gap then slid down an offramp, but behind her she'd already seen the Suburban go up in the air, climbing the rear left quarter of a car the driver never saw. The huge black vehicle flipped onto its back and spun around once before another car clipped a corner, sending it into a merry-go-round motion that carried it into a guardrail. Hardesty wondered almost idly if it would go over. Should it, her job would be harder later; for now, the delay in Regent One's arrival at Bethesda seemed enough. She pulled into a corner filling station and sucked in a breath.
A check of her gauges and a fast walk-around showed her the Plymouth had taken no damage in the exchange. She wondered how many of the dash cameras on the freeway would have her image embedded now; no helicopter's overhead drumming threatened, at least for the moment. Hardesty blew out her breath and climbed back into the car; she took her bearings and drove away, not as though in flight. Pass under the freeway, turn along her earlier route, take the onramp; by the time official vehicles gathered around the turtled Suburban in sufficient force to think of pursuit, she ought to be long gone. That thought firmly uppermost in mind, she headed back to check on her charges.
The hotel parking lot scared her. Way too many official vehicles in way too small a space; Hardesty never even turned in. But from half a block down on the far side of the street, she munched a submarine sandwich and sucked down a soda while pretending not to watch the parking lot. The official vehicles remained gaggled together there, convincing her that the Bidwells and Wilson must be elsewhere.
Where and how to find them now became her problem.

“Where's Miss Angela?” Taylor asked, coming out of the back of the van to stand between his dad and the man who'd watched over his dad like a hawk since Taylor's earliest memories.
“I don't know, son,” Bidwell said. “I do think we need to get away from this vicinity. Mightn't be a bad idea to get away from this van. As soon as it's reported stolen it'll be a very big target.”
“Speaking of ...” Wilson nodded at the discount store anchoring the shopping center where they sat. “Let's see if we can find some inconspicuous duds in there.”
Taylor growled. “My glasses are broken.”
“That's okay,” his dad said. “I don't think you need them, now. That dark hair makes you look very different.” He took a moment to wrap the boy in his arms. Taylor wriggled briefly.
“I want Miss Angela back,” he said.
“So do we,” Wilson murmured.
“She doesn't know we've left,” Taylor pointed out.
“Well, by now she probably does. But what she doesn't know is how we left or where we are.”
The boy looked at his dad. “How do we find her?”
“We,” Bidwell said, “let her find us.”

Hardesty gave a moment's thought to communications, then grinned and flipped on the radio in the car. She turned it up, tuned in a hard-bass-beat station, and cruised down the access road past the hotel, then two more; she took a side street and counted three blocks before turning back along her original route. One, two, three ... there. The service entrance to the place they'd been staying swarmed with cops, and a distressed man in a linen-company coverall paced along the loading dock.
“Oh, boss,” Hardesty breathed. “You're a genius.”
Ten minutes later she sat in a branch library office, checking through local listings for linen services. A photo of the hotel's staff uniforms appeared as a feature ad in one company's quarter-page display, and she read the fine print and memorized the logo. Then she strolled over to an empty computer and used the internet as she checked maps in the area, using the street view to get a feel for the neighborhoods surrounding discount stores.
A few minutes later she strolled back out to the Plymouth. Whistling happily, she pulled onto a quiet street, drove three blocks down, turned left and began scanning the lot in front of her.
The linen company van didn't look out of place, really. The driver's silvering hair framed an open, handsome face – and the way his eyes lit up as she drove past made Hardesty grin.
“Bingo,” she said softly. She pulled the Plymouth up next to the truck and tapped the gas pedal once, raising the sound of the engine to a purr.
Seconds later Taylor piled out of the driver's door of the van and bounced around the back of the Plymouth, leaning in the open window to hug Hardesty around the neck. “You found us!”
“Yep,” she said, reaching over to open the door for the adults following him, “and if I can so can the bad guys, so it's better we don't hang around here too long, fellas.”
“Been quite a morning,” Wilson murmured.
Hardesty made a noncommittal noise and waited while Wilson slid into the back seat.
“Lie down, Tim,” Bidwell said. “I cleaned the key and door handles and wheel, but I might've left a print or two somewhere in that truck. I'd just as soon we leave here without being seen.” To that end he tucked Taylor's head down into his lap and slid his own bucket seat back, scrunching himself down below the window-ledge. “Angela, I suppose you know by now our hotel's crammed full of FBI.”
“Wasn't sure what kind of agents,” she answered laconically. “Any of y'all happen to snag my backpack on the way out of there?”
Wilson growled something, and Bidwell snapped his fingers. “It's in the hamper in the truck – I'll grab it.”
“No, you won't,” she answered. “Wilson left it. He can fetch it.” She turned and gave the agent a long look. “While you're in there, make sure there aren't any fingerprints left on anything. I'll pick you up down by the sub shop when you're finished. We're going up to see the President after that. I'll be danged if I'm leaving us unprotected.”