Quantico by Greg Bear Page B

saying, ‘We ID that as belonging to a Constanza Valenzuela, registered guest worker from Honduras, no criminal record, nothing on VICAP.’
    William frowned intensely at Rowland. ‘I’m sure there’s more,’ he said. Both worked their keypads. William’s face brightened and he parted his lips.
    Al-Husam broke in before he could speak. ‘We have info that Ms. Valenzuela has gone missing in Wonka and that her car has not been located.’
    ‘What’s a stolen car from Wonka doing here in Virginia?’ William asked, muting his headset. ‘Highly suspicious.’
    ‘Confirm with a case number, Al-Husam,’ Farrow instructed. ‘Give the other teams all you have so they can log in and exercise their own judgment.’
    Now it was Al-Husam’s turn to be slow.
    Rowland butted in and read out an FBI Crime Index Case Number, issued to the Wonka Department of Public Safety. ‘VICAP not yet filed,’ she added.
    ‘Why no VICAP, Ms. Rowland?’ Farrow asked.
    ‘Recent missing person report,’ Rowland answered crisply. ‘Wonka authorities do not yet know whether a violent crime is involved, sir. That could be a car filled with buyers or partners. Or a mule’s car. It could lead us to the Impala.’
    ‘We’re on it, team three,’ said Matty. ‘Will follow.’
    ‘Team three will backup,’ Henson offered.
    ‘Negative,’ William said. ‘Team two is sufficient. Let’s head toward the Dogwood and see if we can find that Impala on our own.’
    ‘Roger that, team one,’ Henson said.
    Rowland nodded and turned the old Caprice around in the middle of the street, heading toward the Dogwood Motel.
    Team four reported they had bubble gum at the ready.
    ‘Just relax,’ William said. ‘We’re doing fine.’
    Rowland narrowed her eyes.
    If the Impala suspected it was being tracked, then eluded them and left Hogantown—which, of necessity, had few real escape routes—then Farrow would be very disappointed.
    A map of the area around the motel popped up on William’s display. His eyes were tearing up—the image in his gogs was too bright. The map began to wriggle. None of the students had been fitted—these were generics and his tended to slide down his nose. He blinked and looked far left, then back. The view cleared. He saw two red dots moving south on Rosa Parks street—team two and team three. A small video square in the upper right corner showed what the van was seeing: team two’s Ford Crown Victoria and the suspect blue Camaro with Wonka plates. Traffic was light in Hogantown today. It would almost certainly get worse once they made their stop. Farrow liked to keep up the pressure and the presence of too many civilians in the line of fire would certainly do that.
    Griffith dimmed the display in his gogs and concentrated on the street. ‘There,’ he said. The Impala was parked in front of the motel about a block and a half away. Two men were loading boxes into the open trunk. Rowland slowed. William touched his hand to his holstered pistol. It lightly buzzed approval—instantly recognizing the keycode in his Lynx. Some field agents resorted to surgery to hide their small cylindrical keycode units.
    Rowland kept one hand on the wheel and reached down to connect with her own gun.
    The men by the Impala glanced over their shoulders and spotted the Caprice. They slammed the trunk and rushed to the open car doors. William compared them to the mug shots. One matched the description: Geronimo del Torres, bulky, dark, denim jacket with cholo markings and baggy pants. The other was a younger male, ID unknown.
    ‘Team one here. We have Impala and suspect del Torres in sight,’ William said. ‘There’s two in the front seat, one’sa possible juvenile. I see no one in the back seat.’
    The doors of the Impala slammed and the car’s tires squealed.
    ‘They’re fleeing the scene!’
    The wide, heavy car peeled out from in front of the motel and took a sharp left down Ness Avenue, the longest street in