minivan five hundred yards behind the white Honda Accord being driven by Adam Montgomery. He had another unit following closely behind in an alternating tail. After having driven around the outer beltline of the Twin Cities on Interstate 494 and 694, Montgomery was now moving back up into the cities and was traveling east on Interstate 94, now crossing over the Mississippi River from Minneapolis and into the western edge of St. Paul.
They knew where he was going.
The two professionals shared a look and a nod and Kristoff radioed to the other tailing unit, “We are going ahead. Stay on him and let me know if he changes course.”
“Copy.”
At the Huron Boulevard Exit sign, Kristoff accelerated and pulled past Montgomery within five seconds. The political blogger was carefully following the posted speed limit of sixty. Kristoff was able to get ahead of Montgomery and reach the Cretin-Vandalia exit a minute before he would. Kristoff turned south on Cretin and proceeded nearly two miles to the intersection of Cretin and St. Clair where he stopped at a red light. On green, he turned left onto St. Clair and drove one block east and took a right on South Finn Avenue. On Finn, he drove three quarters of the block down and pulled to the right curb to park, fifty feet back from the intersection of Finn and Berkeley. He parked just past the front of the house on the corner so that he could see the front of the second house, which belonged to McCormick.
Kristoff looked over to Foche and said, “We need to move quickly.”
Foche pulled out his Walther PPK/E, pulled out the clip, checked it and slid it back in. “I agree.”
Kristoff’s partner put his earbud into his ear and the two of them did a quick com check. “I will let you know when I’m at the back door,” Foche said as he pushed himself out of the passenger seat and onto the sidewalk. Kristoff watched him quickly walk back up the sidewalk and turn left into the dark back alley.
* * *
The Judge finished his third bourbon as the wheels touched down at Holman Field in St. Paul, the small commuter airport just southeast of downtown St. Paul. For the small jets the campaign used, Holman was a better option. It allowed for quicker departures and arrivals as you didn’t need to fight through the crowds at Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport.
The jostling of the landing also caused Wire to spring awake.
“I thought you couldn’t sleep on planes,” the Judge joked.
Wire rubbed her eyes, “I usually can’t.”
“Sometimes when you’ve been going non-stop for days on end, your body just shuts down,” the Judge noted as he pulled his cell phone out. “That’s why I gave the kids the night off tonight. I need them rested and sharp for the last three days.” He looked at the display and snorted. “Jeez, I give Sebastian a night off and he still leaves me three messages.”
“He really can’t shut it off, Judge,” Wire answered as she looked at her phone. “Hmpf.”
“What?”
“I have two messages from him as well.”
They both dialed their voice mails.
They both listened.
Both became very worried.
“Judge, I’ve got a bad feeling.”
* * *
Montgomery turned left onto Berkeley from Cretin and drove slowly down the block, looking to his left for the house numbers and finally seeing the numbers for McCormick’s house under the porch light to the left of the front door. The front of the political operative’s home was lit up brightly, the porch light on, lights on in the front of the house as well as the sunroom on the side.
He pulled the car over to the right curb and parked. Two days on the run made him cautious and he sat in the car and observed his surroundings. Nobody had turned to follow him down Berkeley and he didn’t notice any vehicles approaching the area. Vehicles dotted the sides of the street in both directions as well as the cross street Finn in front of him. It was quiet and he checked his watch, 10:21 p.m.
After another two minutes, he reached behind his seat and grabbed his backpack and pushed himself out of the car.
* * *
“Damn it,” the Judge growled.
“Not answering, right?” Wire replied.
“No.”
Wire expertly weaved her Acadia through the four lanes of traffic on Interstate 94, traveling just west of downtown, approaching Snelling Avenue, less than two miles from the Cretin exit. “Something is up, Judge. It is unlike him to not answer. Try