Andrew gripped the wheel tighter as the SUV took a sudden turn down a side street. He followed, keeping just far enough behind to avoid drawing attention. His old hatchback rattled with every bump, and the check engine light blinked accusingly on the dash.
“They just turned onto Maple—approaching old motel row,” he said into the phone. “Still no visible plates, but it’s a black Chevy Suburban. I’m in a silver Civic, keeping distance.” “Copy that,” the dispatcher said. “Units are closing in from multiple directions. You’re doing great.”
Andrew barely heard her. His eyes were locked on the SUV as it slowed and pulled into the cracked lot of a run-down roadside motel. The neon sign buzzed overhead: Silver Pines Inn. The vehicle rolled into the farthest space—partially hidden from the road by an overgrown hedge.
The engine cut. No one got out. Andrew parked half a block away, across the street. His heart thundered in his chest. “They’ve stopped,” he whispered. “Motel. Room-side lot. They’re just… sitting there.”