Hunter

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Today she would finally nail the bastard.

Annie Woods watched the traitor’s cab thread through the jam of courtesy vans and pull to the curb. The right rear door opened and he emerged. She slowed her own tailing car to a crawl.

Looking edgy, the man scanned the vehicles around him. Masked only by her sunglasses, she held her breath as his gaze slid right past her. Then he leaned back inside the cab, pulled out a rolling carry-on suitcase, and slammed the door shut. He wheeled it behind him, heading into the terminal. Through the building’s soaring windows she saw him make his way to the rear of a long line of passengers snaking toward the ticket counter.

She squeezed the Agency’s Taurus in behind a departing vehicle and leaped out. She flipped open her CIA credentials and held them in her outstretched hand as she approached a young state trooper directing traffic.

“Sir, we’ve got a national-security situation here,” she said. “I’m Ann Woods, with a federal task force following a criminal suspect. He’s just entered the terminal.”

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