If it worked at all.
The first thing that showed on the laptops were the broad lanes between the cars, stretching away to a vanishing point like rows of corn. Finn had expected that. The ground between the cars had lain in shadow for at least an hour now.
Humans still wouldn’t be discernible in the lanes: the lanes were reading a hundred degrees, while the tops of the cars were reading five degrees higher. But it was progress.
It crossed Finn’s mind that Paige Campbell and her associates, however many she had with her, might be hiding in one of the structures within the city. That would be problematic, short term. Every building’s interior had been superheated all day long by the greenhouse effect. It was probably a hundred twenty or higher in each of them, and that heat would take time to bleed out through closed windows and plaster walls.
But long term it was no problem at all. How long could Campbell and the others stay hidden in those conditions? It was unlikely they’d brought much food and water of their own, if any, and they sure as hell weren’t going to find any left sitting around in Yuma.
If it came to simply waiting them out, that would be fine. They weren’t going anywhere on the present side, and they weren’t going anywhere on this side either. It was going to end here, sometime in the next twenty-four hours.
But every instinct told Finn that they were out among the cars, making whatever run for it they could, and that this would be over very, very soon.
He stared at the laptops again. Watched the contrast of the lanes deepen. Some portions of them were taking on a new shade now. Ninety-nine degrees.
Moving quickly. Not quite running. Stopping at intervals. They were dead south of town now, two miles west of where they’d begun their sideways move.
Not far enough, Travis thought. Not nearly far enough. The plan had a giant drawback built into it: it was going to give away their position the instant they executed it. Which might be okay, as long as the plan worked. As long as its effect was immediate and overwhelming for Finn’s people.
But for that to happen, they needed to cover a certain amount of distance first. The path they’d taken so far was a line from east to west, south of Yuma. Like they were underlining the city on a map, right to left. The longer they could make the line before everything happened, the more likely the plan was to succeed.
Distance and time. They needed more of one. They were running out of the other.
Nearly straight ahead of them, the sun’s lower rim touched the horizon.
The mast was finished. Lambert and Miller stood armed with the others now, while the four with the guywires staked them into the ground.
Grayling was moving back and forth over his laptops, hunched, looking excited.
Finn could see sparse portions of the open lanes reading ninety-seven degrees now. Even the cars themselves were reading down around one hundred.
Two and a half miles. Still probably not enough. It was impossible to guess exactly what would be enough. The plan would work or it wouldn’t.
The sun was gone. The desert felt immediately cooler, though Travis was sure that was a psychological effect. It’d been cooling steadily for a long time now. He let his hand press on the hood of a truck as he passed it. Warm, but not hot.
“There!” Grayling said. His hand shot out to indicate the fifth laptop’s screen. “South of southwest, a mile and a half away.” He dropped to one knee and studied the monitor. “I see three of them. Christ, they’re not even hiding. I’ve got direct line of sight. They’re moving—straight west through the cars. I wouldn’t say they’re running. I don’t know what the hell they’re doing. It’s like a fast walk, hunched over. Maybe they’re tired.”
“Then it won’t be hard to catch them,” Finn said.
He turned and picked up the cylinder from where he’d set it on the curb. A second later he was running, holding the cylinder with both hands and tucking it against himself. Lambert and Miller and the other eight fell in behind him.
This would be simple. Straight south out of town along one of the broad lanes among the cars, until they were level with the east-west line the others were fleeing along. Then just catch up to them from behind—maybe stick to a parallel path ten yards north of theirs until the last minute, to stay clear of the sightlines between the cars.
Finn freed a hand from the cylinder and took from his vest pocket the FLIR goggles he’d brought along. He hung them around his neck by their strap. They weren’t necessary yet, but in another ten minutes the desert would be an ink-black void without them. His men each had them too.
Paige Campbell and her friends almost certainly didn’t.
Finn really did feel bad for them. It wasn’t even going to be a contest.
Chapter Thirty