Natalie turned off the M2 onto A2 before Dunkirk, then some minutes later she turned left onto the narrow two-lane country road. Another ten minutes and she’d reach the small town of Blean, not ten miles from Canterbury, and George’s country home.

Her windshield wipers moved rhythmically, a steady metronome, the sound oddly comforting, and the Good Lord knew comfort was in short supply these days. There was no traffic on this pretty stretch, lots of tree-covered hills and patchwork fields and valleys, and some scary windy roads, several sharp curves above deep gullies, and few guardrails. She was only a few miles from Whitstable when she became aware of the big black sedan behind her, closing fast. Okay, so the idiot wanted to pass, on this road, in this weather, at this particular spot. It didn’t make much sense to her, but she slowed and pulled over since she was near the deep curve that gave onto a thirty-foot drop. There wasn’t a guardrail here, so she had to pay attention.

But the sedan didn’t pull out to pass, it pulled closer until it was maybe six feet from the Jag’s rear bumper. She couldn’t see the driver, the windows were dark-tinted, but she knew to her gut that someone in this car wanted to hurt her, maybe even send her over the cliff edge, down, down, to the bottom of the deep gully.

The big Mercedes slammed into her and she was thrown hard against her seat belt. Her Jaguar shuddered with the force of the hit, the wheel jerking her onto the gravel on the shoulder, the wheels spinning out, so close to the edge. The air bag deployed, blinding her, but she knew exactly where she was, and saw the cliff edge looming, saw herself going over, striking the huge boulders on the way down, tumbling over and over until she hit the bottom of that rock-strewn gully. She didn’t want to die, didn’t want her life to end like this, at the hands of someone who hated her, someone she didn’t know. She fought to straighten the wheel as the air bag collapsed and she could see again. She managed to ease the wheels off the deadly gravel and back onto the road. She saw the Mercedes coming up alongside her, waited, waited, then an instant before he struck her, she stomped hard on the accelerator. Her Jag shot forward, swerving to hug the centerline. She saw the Mercedes in her rearview mirror, accelerating to catch her. She waited, waited until he was ready to come alongside, then jerked her wheel inward, sending her vehicle straight toward the stretch of hillside. The Mercedes hit her rear bumper and went airborne, nearly flying off the cliff, but the driver somehow managed to pull the car back into the road.

He was better than she was. No choice now, she floored it. The Jaguar gave her its all, but still he came on, faster now, more determined, and she could smell the exhaust from the big engine. She saw her life, fleeting moments that held only deadening fear, and she knew she was going to die, braced herself for it, and whispered, Perry, I’m so sorry.

Davis’s town house
Washington, D.C.

Tuesday morning

When Davis’s cell sang out the awesome beginning of “Psycho Killer” at seven a.m., he was wet to his skivvies, sailing an America’s Cup catamaran, its huge sail spearing up into the blue sky, flapping loud overhead. They were heeling so far to port he feared they were going to capsize. Odd thing was, a huge custom yellow Harley was lashed to the low side of the boat, adding five hundred and something pounds. He jerked awake, let the Talking Heads clear out his mind. When he answered, his voice rough and deep from sleep, he supposed he really wasn’t surprised to hear Natalie Black’s voice. “Special Agent Sullivan. I know it’s Tuesday morning and your alarm will go off in precisely fifteen minutes, right?”

He stared at his cell. “No. Seven-thirty.”

“A lovely morning hour. It’s time to rise and shine and sally forth into this very fine day, but dress warmly or you’ll chilblain your toes. I let you sleep in since you enjoyed such a lovely fun-filled Monday night with a very pretty blonde, oddly enough, of Latin origin. You might want to call your boss, tell him you’ll be late again. I’ll expect you at my house for breakfast in an hour.” And she rang off.

He called Savich, who was eating Cheerios, and heard Sean in the background saying he wanted to play tight end for the Patriots like the Gronk, maybe in a couple years when he got big enough. Davis told him about Ms. Black’s call. All Savich said was “I hope there’s not another Jitterbug waiting for you, Davis.”

Thirty minutes later, as Davis drove his Jeep toward Chevy Chase, he wondered if Ms. Black Leather Biker Babe would be eating grapefruit with them. And how had Mrs. Black known about Elena from Treasury?

Natalie Black’s house
Chevy Chase, Maryland