Pike said, "Coming your way." Pike gunned his Jeep out of the Shell station, and turned onto the highway at the first intersection. He lost sight of the van when he slowed for oncoming cars, but slalomed between traffic and quickly caught up. "Eight lengths back. I'm by a yellow eighteen-wheeler." "Looking." Pike was still settling into a groove when the van's right-turn indicator flashed. They had gone less than a mile. "Blinker." "Shit, I don't have you." "Las Palmas. West side." "I'm looking." Pike slowed to put distance between himself and the van. A horn blew behind him, then another, but Pike braked even harder, hanging back as the van turned onto a street between large, undeveloped lots. It stopped in plain sight of the highway. Pike left the highway, but turned in the opposite direction, watching the van in his sideview mirror. A hundred yards later he turned into a parking lot surrounding a home furnishings outlet. "They stopped at an empty lot." "I
( Robert Crais )
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