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threadbare, their expressions tired, beaten down. Most people with even limited financial means would probably not choose to ride to New York City in the middle of the night on a dilapidated bus carrying their own pillows.
    The bus pulled into the parking lot in a wide arc and came to a stop near them with a screech of rusty brakes. They all lined up. That’s when Robie noticed her. He had already counted her as one of the thirty-five, but now his gaze came to rest fully on her.
    She was young. Maybe twelve, maybe barely a teenager. She was short, skinny, dressed in faded jeans with holes in the knees, a long-sleeved shirt, and a dark blue ski parka without arms. She had on dirty, scuffed tennis shoes and her dark, stringy hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. She carried a backpack in one hand and her gaze was set resolutely on the ground. She seemed to be breathing hard, and Robie noticed that both her hands and her knees had traces of dirt on them.
    Robie looked for but did not see the small rectangular shape in her jeans pockets, front or back. Every teenager had a cell phone, especially the girls. Yet unlike most teens, she might have kept it in her jacket pocket. In any event, it was none of his business.
    He looked around, but saw no one who could be her parents.
    He edged forward in the line. It was not out of the realm of possibility that they would find him here before the bus departed. He gripped his pistol in his pocket and kept his gaze down.
    On board the bus he shuffled toward the back. He was the last on, and most people had taken seats nearer the front. He sat in the last row, near the bathroom. There was no one else in this row. He sat next to the window. From here he could remain invisible while still seeing anyone coming, through the gap in the two seats in front of him. The windows were tinted. That would foul any attempted shot from outside.
    The teenage girl sat three rows up from him on the opposite side of the aisle.
    Robie looked up as a man hustled onto the bus right before thedriver shut the door. He showed his ticket and moved toward the back. As he neared the girl he looked the other way. This was passenger number thirty-six and the very last to board.
    Robie sank lower in his seat and pulled his hoodie closer around his face. He gripped his pistol in his pocket and edged the muzzle up and forward so that it was aimed at a spot the man had to cross if he continued to head Robie’s way. Robie had to assume that they somehow had found out about his contingency plan and had sent this man to finish the job.
    But the fellow stopped one row beyond the teenage girl and sat in the seat directly behind her. Robie’s hand relaxed slightly around his pistol but he continued to watch the man through the gap.
    The girl got up and put her bag in the overhead rack. As she stood on tiptoes to accomplish this her shirt edged up and Robie saw that her waist was tattooed.
    The bus pulled off with a grinding of gears and the driver headed out onto the surface street that he would take to the interstate and then on to New York. There were few cars at this hour. The buildings were dark. The city would awake in a few hours. D.C. was not like New York in that regard. It
did
sleep. But it rose early.
    Robie’s gaze settled back on the man. He was Robie’s size and age. He had no bag. He was dressed in black slacks, gray jacket. Robie’s gaze went to the man’s hands. They were gloved. Robie looked down at his own gloved hands and then gazed outside. It was not that cold. He saw the man engage the lever to slide his seat back a bit. He settled in.
    But Robie’s instincts told him it wouldn’t be for long.
    This man was not on the bus simply to travel to New York.

CHAPTER

14
    P ROFESSIONAL KILLERS were a unique lot.
    Robie thought this as the bus motored along. The vehicle’s suspension was for shit and thus the ride was too. They would have to endure two hundred miles of this, but Robie was not focused on