CHAPTER EIGHT
Why do they always run? Harley thought as she sprinted after Underwood, barely managing to sidestep a stroller pushed into her path by a sixty-something grandmother still staring after the fleeing farmer, her eyes wrinkled in puzzlement. As Harley danced around the stroller, she glanced down to see a pair of twins goggling up at her, one holding a set of plastic keys, the other a cloth book with an owl on the cover.
The baby with the keys held them up toward Harley, mouth open in a round O.
Gaining her footing again, Harley pushed off and raced between the pair of tents, emerging on the other side in a crowd of babbling teenagers with ice cream cones in their hands. She pushed through them, ignoring their startled murmurs.
“FBI!” she shouted. “Let me through!”
As she esc
