It was only eight in the morning, still too early to feel like his brain was trying to liquefy and escape through his ears. It certainly felt as though the day had started at least thirty hours ago. Trick rubbed at his eyes. They seemed irritated, dry, and grainy, as though he had poured some sand in them.
He was going through the footage from all the highway cameras in a ten-mile radius of the beach house, hoping to identify the car Glisson Barkley may have used in his getaway with Riona. There was every possibility the assassin had already ditched the car, but if Trick could still identify the car, it would give them a starting point to search.
The guys had lost track of Glisson at least three miles from the house, where the residential streets gave way to the highway. Although they w
