She starts the car (sighing in relief that it's an automatic), and peels out of the parking lot, heading west. There's no thought in the choice; she's deliberately acting unthinkingly to keep from second guessing where the killers would expect them to go.

The car runs well enough, and the air conditioning that kicks on is pleasantly soothing, enough that the adrenaline begins to ebb and she starts feeling the throbbing pain in her arm, the raw sting of scratched palms and knees and the re-irritated wound from the day before high on her leg. "Then we go split up," she answers, her eyes on the road. "Give them two targets to chase, divide their resources."

That was the logical, smart answer. The correct answer. She knows this even as she says it, but the next words come anyway. "That or find somewhere to go to ground."