1700 hours- Washington Base of Operations
"I want all eyes on the street," a voice snapped through the din of keyboards clacking. Flickering screens showed the streets of Washington D.C. thick with stopped cars and slow moving pedestrians. "I want an APB out on one Crystal Yates."
"Ah wouldn't do that if Ah were you," Jazz interrupted. Agent in charge of local operations, David Monroe, turned to shoot an impatient glare at the hologram.
"And why not?" he demanded impatiently. Monroe was in charge of DC safety. That meant he tracked down area serial killers and psychos on a regular basis. He knew that the fastest way to find someone was to send out an APB and get local police stations looking for the psycho of the day.
"Because she'll vanish," Jazz said, glaring back at Monroe through his sunglasses. "She an' Bourne ain't yer garden variety killers. They're chameleons. They operate by blending in. The moment she sense the police on her tail you'll never see her again."
"So what are you suggesting I do?" Monroe snapped. "Just wait for her to show up and kill someone else?"
"No," Jazz snapped back. "Use your brain. She won't be taking an airplane or train out of the city. Too many cameras for you to look at. Buses are too slow and too confined. Her only options are to walk or hotwire a car. Watch the car lots and my friends and I will scan the streets. If she's out there, we'll find her." Monroe nodded once in approval.
1700 hours-Washington D.C.
The evening crowd moved slowly down the street and Crystal walked with them, keeping a wary eye on the street. Every time she saw a flash of silver or black her heart would leap into her throat only to slow down again when she saw it was just another dull car. She had five minutes before she was supposed to make contact with Bourne. She turned left on to another street and joined a cue waiting in line at a small cafe. Once she reached the front of the line she ordered a hot chocolate and inquired about a public phone.
"There's one on the far wall," the tired young woman who took her order said. Crystal thanked her, took her hot chocolate, and headed for the phone. She pulled the scrap of paper that Bourne had scribbled the number on, brought the phone card out of her shoe, stuck it in, and dialed. It rang twice and then abruptly silenced.
"Line's clean," Crystal said softly. "I'm at the coffee shop we cleared." Then she waited.
"I'm in the airport at Bangladesh," Bourne said after a moment. "I'm heading for a bus stop from here. The new number ends in 5594." Then came the click of the phone hanging up. Crystal hung up as well, heading for the street. She kept one eye on the traffic crawling by, another on the people around her. It was exhausting and she was sure she was missing some things. Bourne would be calling her work sloppy but at this point she was tired enough not to care.
She cut a corner short, almost slamming into a building, and glanced as casually over her shoulder as she could. No sign of any followers, at least not yet, and the number of cops on the street was standard. Still she had the feeling that she needed to get out of here. Maybe it was just standard paranoia but she felt as if the walls were closing in on her. She forced herself to stroll casually into a parking garage, waving a little at the attendant who smiled and waved back. She forced herself to keep that casual pace, even though her heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest, until she was out of sight of the attendant. Then she picked up the pace.
Crystal knew that she only had a limited amount of time before someone on that FBI squad picked her up entering the concrete structure. By then she had to be out and as far away as possible. Ideally that would have involved cutting the power but after her close call earlier in the day she didn't truly believe she had very much time. She climbed the stairs to the second level and made her way along row after row of glossy cars, looking for one that was fairly inconspicuous. Three minutes later she was hotwiring a black Honda Civic after picking the lock on the door and removing the license plate. Anything to slow the feds down. The clock is ticking down when Crystal pulled out of the parking garage, resisting the urge to punch the pedal to the floor and roar out with tires squealing. Next stop, Langley.