Germ

A cable ran from the computer to a box the size of a hardback book on the floor. Another cable connected the box to a device that looked like a mobile phone antenna with a flanged tip, which was suction-cupped to the outside of the passenger window. The box and antenna, along with custom software on the laptop's hard drive made up a unit called the Satellite-Assisted Tracking Device, or SATD Developed by a defense contractor under the joint supervision of the FBI and the CIA, it allowed agents to locate a transmitter the size of a fingernail to within several feet from halfway around the world.

"Here we go," Goody said under his breath. Another voice, breathy and raw: "Sweeney? Are you Sweeney?" Goody: "Are you all right? You don't look so good." The other voice: "Don't worry about it."

"Hold on. I am worried about it. Waitress, some water, please! Let me take you to the hospital. We can talk there."

"Look, I want to go to your office. Why did we have to meet—?" The transmitter conveyed the piercing sound of smashing glass Down! Down!" It was Goody. A volley of booming explosions followed—shotgun blasts, judging by their deep resonance. Six pistol shots rang out in quick succession: Goody's return fire

Julia simultaneously unbuckled her seat belt and opened the door She was about to leap out when she heard Goody address her: "Julia! Pull up—." More gunfire. "Pull up out front. I got Vero. We're coming out."

She started the car, cranked the wheel, and jammed her foot on the accelerator. Her half-opened door swung out, smashed into the corner of the car parked in front of her, and slammed shut. A car screeched to a halt inches from he, Her car vaulted across three lanes of downtown traffic toward the hotel's canopied entrance

"Get down! Get down! Everybody down!" Goody shouted through the wireless microphone.

Two shotgun blasts, close together—too close to have come from a single weapon.

Just as Julia's car bounded onto the sidewalk directly in front of the hotel doors, valets and pedestrians leaping aside, she heard Goody.

"Can't get there, Julia! Get out of here! We're heading for my car in the parking garage. You go! Go!"

She cranked the wheel left to shoot back into the street. She drove two blocks, turned two corners, and pulled to the curb. She was facing the hotel again on the street that ran past the rear entrance—and the parking garage exit. The wireless conveyed mostly static now. Then: "—Julia? .. . hear me? I'm on . . . McGill . . . west. . . right on my tail!"

McGill! She was on the same street. He was driving away from her. She made a squealing U-turn.

"Listen to me," Goody said. The reception was clearer now. "I recognized one of the shooters. James something. Satratori—something like that. Almost busted him a few years back. Serpico for DEA at the time, as far as I could figure. They got him out of my custody faster than—sit down!"

He berated Vero for getting in his way.

Julia bit her lip. Serpico meant he was a deep-undercover agent.

"Don't call in backup," Goody continued. "Not till we figure out why a fed's on the hit team. Got it?"

There was silence and the rustling of Goody's shirt over the microphone. He was probably maneuvering through traffic. She could hear Vero rambling in the background.

"As soon as I lose these guys, we'll meet and decide on a plan," Goody said. "But for now, it's just us, okay?" More silence, then: "Gettin' on the highway. Hear me? I-75 north."

That was only minutes ago, twenty at most. Now, as she barreled down I-75 somewhere behind Goody, only static filled her ear. Goody's frantic movements must have dislodged the transmitter's wires, or he had finally traveled out of range. She plucked out the ear-phone and glanced at the laptop. The glowing red dot indicated that her partner was about two miles ahead. Her foot muscles flexed harder against the accelerator.

Julia realized with sudden terror that the knot of cars in front of her was stopped. She slammed on the brakes. As the smell of burnt rubber washed over her, she saw the glass and bits of plastic that littered the roadway. Paint the color of Goody's car clung in long streaks to the crushed guardrail. On the SATD display, the red dot was moving away fast. She laid on the horn. From the car in front of her, a hand with an upraised finger shot out of the driver's window.

"Suit yourself," she said and stepped on the gas.

four