Mac was right, dammit. In another month, it would be all she could do to waddle down the hall.

Now she pressed her hand against her side and promised Baby McCormack a pony if she’d just hang in there five more minutes. Baby McCormack kicked her, so apparently the child already had Mac’s sense of humor.

She made it to Sal’s car. Did not throw up. Slid into the driver’s seat, then floundered with the ignition, the seat belt, the unfamiliar setup. She was still shaky and panting, not at all like her normal cool, calm self. Pulling out, she cut off another vehicle and earned a blare from a horn and a loud screw you!

She careened north, driving with one hand, working her cell phone with the other. Sal gave her an intersection, but when she peeled over to pick him up, Delilah was no longer in sight.

“Where?” Kimberly started.

“Just headed for the highway,” Sal gasped. “North. Quick. Find the gas.”

She found the gas and Sal went flying back into the passenger seat. He grabbed his seat belt and they resumed the hunt.

Hitting the GA 400, Kimberly shot into the middle lane and floored it. Sal glued his eyes to the right, Kimberly to the left.

Which is why they almost ran over Delilah’s blue Mazda coming up the middle. At the last minute Kimberly saw her, hit the brakes, and dropped way back. She ducked into the right-hand lane, whipping into the exit lane like the normal run-of-the-mill asshole who didn’t know where she was going. At the last minute, she jerked back into northbound traffic but with two other cars between them and Delilah’s vehicle.

“Where do you think she’s going?” Sal wanted to know.

“No idea. Did you ever get her address from Sandy Springs PD?”

“Yeah. Apartment complex, but when I rang the unit number, the fat Hispanic guy who answered the door had never heard of anyone named Delilah Rose. I’m gonna go out on a limb, and say the hooker lied.”

“What about her prints?”

“Nothing in AFIS.”

“Huh,” Kimberly grunted. “In other words, we still don’t know jackshit about her. Clever girl.”

Sal held up his notepad. “Ahh, but now I can run her plates.”

“Good work, Sal. Good work.”

Delilah had her turn signal on. Whatever else Kimberly thought of Delilah, she was a conscientious driver. Didn’t speed, followed the rules. Made it very easy to follow her. It helped that Kimberly knew GA 400 like the back of her hand. Atlanta, Sandy Springs, Roswell, and Alpharetta all formed a line heading up the central thoroughfare. There were times Kimberly felt she spent her entire day driving up and down the 400. Her and the rest of Atlanta.

Delilah exited and a minute later Kimberly followed suit.

The little blue Mazda headed through an office park, into a residential area. It all looked vaguely familiar to Kimberly, but she couldn’t place it. The road was wide, double lanes separated by a divider. Delilah stayed to the right. So did Kimberly.

Traffic was thinning out now, the hour nearing midnight. Half a dozen cars became four, then three, then finally just Sal and Kimberly, twenty yards behind Delilah.

“Shit,” Sal murmured.

“Shhh,” Kimberly told him. “It’s dark. She can only see our headlights. As long as we don’t do anything stupid, we should be able to get away with it.”

Delilah was slowing down. Kimberly dropped back, too. She was looking out her window, frowning. She would swear she should know where she was. The line of overgrown bushes, the skeletal trees.

And then all of a sudden, she knew. She was coming at it from the opposite direction, but there was no doubt in her mind.

Just as Delilah Rose made the hard turn onto the dirt road where Tommy Mark Evans had died.

Kimberly drove past the lane, then killed her lights and pulled over. “Get out of the car,” she whispered urgently. “Time to walk.”

Sal had his glove compartment opened, was rifling through the depths until he found a flashlight. “We can’t take the car?”

“It’s a dirt road. No traffic. No way she won’t notice us. But I think it’s the end of the line for her as well. Only thing down this country lane is a crime scene.”

Sal’s eyes widened as he connected the dots. “This is the road where Tommy Mark Evans was shot? But why would Delilah…”

“Yeah. Exactly. Why would Delilah? If we move fast enough, hopefully we’ll find out.”

They both tucked their flashlights into their sleeves, pointing them straight down, where a narrow beam of light could discreetly illuminate the ground without giving away their position. Sal had already started running. Kimberly rubbed her side and grimly followed suit.

The road was deeply rutted, washed out in places from the deluge of rain they’d had in the fall, dotted with small rocks and clumps of dirt. They had to weave their way around, trying to move silent and sure even as Sal twisted his ankle and Kimberly tripped over a downed tree limb.

Kimberly could see a faint glow straight ahead. Headlights from a running car. One car, two cars, she couldn’t be sure. It occurred to her that Delilah might be meeting someone at this spot, and the most likely person would be the subject who had shot Tommy Mark Evans. If that was the case, they should assume the UNSUB was armed and dangerous, the type of person who wouldn’t take the unexpected arrival of two special agents particularly well.

What had she told Mac just last night? She wasn’t throwing herself into any shoot-outs, she had voluntarily removed herself from serving high-risk warrants. He should trust her to keep herself safe as she’d done for the past four years.

It came to her, the way the truth liked to come to people when it was ill-timed and unappreciated: She shouldn’t be doing this. She was an ass.

Her footsteps faltered but it was already too late. Sal was flying down the dirt road, trusting her to have his back.

Kimberly pulled out her gun and prayed for the best.

Fifty yards. Forty. Thirty. This close it became apparent it was only one car, twin headlights forming a singular spotlight on the white cross, much as Kimberly’s car had done last night.

Slowing to a half-jog, flashlights off, they slid along the edge of the road, moving nearly shoulder to shoulder so they could communicate by touch, feel.

Twenty yards. Ten.

Delilah Rose finally came into view, her back illuminated by the headlights. She was standing in front of the cross. Her hands appeared to be clutched in front of her. Her shoulders were heaving.

Sal’s touch on Kimberly’s arm. Pointing to the other side of the road. She nodded, then dashed across the open road to the relative cover of the bush-shrouded side. Keeping even with Sal as they homed in, closer, closer. Two bird dogs on the scent.

At the last minute, Kimberly looked up. Nothing.

Gazed side to side. All was clear.

A last glance behind her.

The road formed a long black tunnel of night, swallowing up civilization, a lonely place to die.

Sal counted down on his fingers. Five, four, three, two, one.

He stepped into the puddle of light, gun still down at his side, but finger on the trigger.

Delilah gasped, turned. Her hands flew to her tear-stained face.

“Delilah,” Sal said evenly.

The girl started crying. And in those heartfelt sobs, Kimberly finally understood.

“Hey, Sal,” she said. “Meet Ginny Jones.”

“You don’t understand,” the girl was saying. “You can’t call me by that name. I’m Delilah Rose. It’s the only reason I’m still alive.”

Sal and Kimberly had loaded Delilah back into her car, this time with Kimberly at the wheel. They had returned to the main road, where Sal picked up his vehicle, then continued on to a late-night pharmacy where they could easily blend in with other parked cars. Now they had Delilah sitting in the backseat of Sal’s Crown Vic, while both of them homed in on her from the front. The cramped quarters were even tighter than the usual interrogation room, and much more effective.