“I have the coordinates,” I said.

“Are you secure?” he asked.

“I am being followed, but I have bypassed the main road,” I said. “I am heading to a facility east of Bakersfield.”

“The old munitions depot?” Miller asked.

“Yes,” I said. “The lease is still active under Gregory’s name.”

“That is outside my immediate jurisdiction without a warrant,” Miller said.

“I don’t need a warrant to look at the perimeter,” I said. “But I need a federal observer if we find what I think is there.”

There was a long pause on the line.

I could hear the sound of papers rustling on his end.

“I can be there in three hours,” Miller said. “Do not enter the facility until I arrive.”

“I will meet you at the southern gate,” I said.

I ended the call and set the phone back on the dashboard.

The SUV climbed a steep ridge, the tires spitting gravel against the wheel wells.

The moon had risen, casting a pale, silver glow over the dry washes below.

To our left, the mountains rose like dark walls against the sky.