Total Immunity E-Book

Robert Ward

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Smart, tough Los Angeles FBI agents Jack Harper and Oscar Hidalgo breathe sighs of relief after violent diamond smuggler Karl Steinbach is finally arrested in a complex sting. Vowing vengeance on the agents who brought him down, Steinbach is imprisoned - only to be offered a release with total immunity in a dodgy deal with Homeland Security. As Jack and Oscar's team of agents start to die, it becomes clear that Steinbach's is no idle threat. But when the pair investigate their slain comrade's lives, they discover that what looked like retribution is actually tied to a web of deceit that stretches to the highest echelons of the FBI. Navigating car chases, shootouts, and even venomous reptiles, Jack and Oscar furiously pursue clues scattered throughout the underbelly of Los Angeles, in a desperate attempt to find the killer - before he finds them. With a storyline crackling with action, a dazzling cast of thugs, traitors, killers and creeps, and a cinematic portrait of a seamy Los Angeles clogged with corruption and greed, Robert Ward's turbulent new thriller is clever, contemporary and cool as ice.

Leseprobe

an otto penzler book

First published in the United States of America in 2009 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

This edition first published in Great Britain in 2011 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books.

Copyright © Robert Ward 2009.

The moral right of Robert Ward to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-84887-567-8 (hardback) ISBN: 978-1-84887-568-5 (trade paperback) eBook ISBN 978-0-85789-672-8

Printed in Great Britain.

Corvus An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd Ormond House 26-27 Boswell Street London WC1N 3JZ

www.corvus-books.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Part II

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Part III

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Acknowledgment

BOOKS BY ROBERT WARD

Shedding Skin

Cattle Annie and Little Britches

The Sandman

Red Baker

The King of Cards

The Cactus Garden

Grace

Four Kinds of Rain

Total Immunity

For Jed Dietz and his wonderful family.

His wife, Julia McMillan, and awesome kids,

Edith, Robert, and Elihu

PART I

THE EVIL EYE

1

THE SILVER CESSNA glided down from the clouds and landed without a hitch at the private J. T. Hodges Airport in West Covina. Only seconds after it rolled to a stop, the side door slid open, portable steps dropped to the ground, and the blond female flight attendant stood by the top step and said good-bye to the muscular Arab, Kafi, dressed in his black silk tracksuit. The wiry bodyguard’s head swiveled left and right as he traced the airport for signs of danger. When he was certain the coast was clear, he turned and nodded to a figure who waited just inside the plane’s exit door. A few seconds later, stocky, burr-headed South African Karl Steinbach, whose parents had moved the family from Germany, dressed impeccably in his $10,000 silk Prada suit and his $5,000 bespoke Lobb shoes, walked down the silver steps. Just behind him was the second bodyguard, the apelike Welshman, Colin Draper. Like Kafi, Draper scoured the horizon for signs . . . a metallic glimmer, any evidence of an FBI agent hidden behind the eucalyptus trees to the north.

He saw nothing, no one.

Still, the two bodyguards didn’t rest easy until they’d crossed the steaming tarmac and deposited their charge, Steinbach, into the black Cadillac Escalade which waited just about twenty yards away from the silver plane. Within five seconds, both of them had joined Steinbach in the backseat and shut the doors. The uniformed chauffeur locked the doors from his control panel, turned up the AC, and the elegant limo pulled away. Inside, Karl Steinbach clicked on his favorite movie, House of Games. He’d seen the David Mamet written and directed movie six times but never tired of it. The low elegance of the machine-gun dialogue and the endless twists of the plot pleased him in a way that no mere action thriller ever could.

But today he couldn’t lose himself in it. Indeed, the things on his mind were of such a serious nature that he had trouble watching at all. This deal — and its myriad complications — had to work. It had to, and it would . . .

(But what if it didn’t? What if something went wrong?)

Nonsense. He wouldn’t allow himself to think about that. Every thing was under control, and it was going to work just the way he’d set it up.

He watched as Lindsay Crouse shot Joe Mantegna at LAX. Usually that was the high point of the picture for him . . . but now he glowered out at the window, feeling a roiling in his belly, a tension in his neck.

He squeezed the leather armrest with his right hand.

Relax. Chill.

The flight in, the landing, and the subsequent drive-away were a total success. It was all running like proverbial clockwork. It was all going to work out. It had to and it would.

But in any human endeavor, there are plans and plans.

Take FBI Agent Michael Perry. As Steinbach and his little crew headed into Silver Lake, Perry was sitting on an old and battered projectionist’s chair on the roof of the white stucco snack bar in an abandoned drive-in called The Floodlight. The dusty parking lot was covered with blowing newspapers and ancient popcorn boxes. It was all very American Gothic, but Perry wasn’t concerned with the atmospherics of the place. Perry had been watching the Steinbach landing through his high-powered Canon 10 × 30 binoculars. He had seen the whole efficient event: the plane coming in, the landing, and the drive-away. And as soon as Steinbach’s car had left the runway and headed into town, Perry took a bite of his cold burrito and hit the speed dial on his cell phone.

The phone had barely rung once before a voice on the other end answered. The man receiving the call was Oscar Hidalgo, a Mexican FBI agent who was thirty-four years old. He sat across the seat from his partner, Agent Jack Harper, thirty-five. The two men were diametrically opposite. Hidalgo was five foot six inches tall and weighed nearly 200 pounds. He was the strongest man at FBI Headquarters in Westwood, California. On a good day, he could dead-lift 359 pounds. Harper was thin and looked almost brittle, belying the fact that he was the champion boxer and karate man in the unit. Harper had also been an all-American college lacrosse player at the University of Maryland, where he’d been known as the quickest and toughest midfielder in the United States. He could run all day, and seemed impervious to hits from hulking defensemen. His lacrosse nickname was Scary.

Now Hidalgo spoke:

“Chef H. Here. What’s happening, baby?”

“The enchilada is on the fire,” Perry said.

“How high’s the flame?”

“Smoking, man,” Perry said. “So if you don’t want supper to burn, you guys should get a move on.”

“We’re rolling, baby,” Hidalgo said. “’Cause we’re some hungry dudes. How about Moyer and Rosenberg?”

“They’re inside the diner and ready to eat,” Perry said.

“Good,” Hidalgo said.

There was a small silence from Perry. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it but Hidalgo had worked with Perry before and knew that if the voluminous talker hesitated there must be a reason for it.

“What’s up?” Hidalgo said.

“I’m afraid we have two dinner cancellations,” Perry said.

“Snyder and Bond?” Hidalgo used two other agents’ code names.

“’Fraid so. Seems they’re dining with other people.”

“Who?” Hidalgo looked over at Harper, who was frowning as he weaved seamlessly in and out of traffic.

“They’re out with the new clients in town. They’re all going to Disneyland to see the fireworks.”

“I see,” Hidalgo said in a controlled way, which belied the sudden bolt of anger he felt inside.

He put the phone on hold and looked over at Jack.

“Snyder and Bond aren’t going to be there. They got called away by Homeland Defense. There’s an orange alert at Disneyland.”

Harper punched the steering wheel.

“Oh that’s nice,” he said. “They got you and me walking into a warehouse full of villains, and our backups are down in Ana-fuckingheim saving Goofy.”

“We could abort if you think it’s too risky, Jackie.”

“And let the Kraut run all the way back to his castle somewhere in the Black Forest? No fucking way! We finally got him here, and we’re not letting him go.”

“Then we’re going in?”

“What the fuck else?” Jack said. “When it’s time for dinner, a man’s gotta eat.”

Hidalgo clicked back on the phone.

“Mikie?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re going to go get us our dinner now.”

Perry started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Hidalgo demanded.

“Like there was ever any question. You guys like it better this way? Makes for a bigger rush.”

“Like my old grandmother said, ‘El futuro es una nube que uno no puede ver. Osea que el sabio hijo de puta dispara hoy y no se acompleja como una nena cuando lo hace.’”

“Which means?”

“That, my friend,” Hidalgo said, “is an old dicho. A saying filled with wisdom. It means: ‘The future is a cloud that no one can see. So the wise mutherfucker takes his shot today. And doesn’t whine like a pussy when he does it, either.’”

“Some mouth on your grandmother,” Perry laughed. Then he clicked off the phone.

The limo maneuvered down the 101 Freeway, turned off at the Echo Park exit, and drove north to Sunset Boulevard. Steinbach worked over the plan once again in his head, missing the street action, the blondes, redheads, and stunning Latina women of Silver Lake. He hated Los Angeles with a passion anyway, the cars, the loudmouth entertainment people . . . they reminded him of hyenas in suits. He didn’t like doing business here either, but circumstances dictated that he do so from time to time.

Like now . . . He felt a tightening of his chest muscles, and casually wondered to himself if he might be suffering the beginnings of a stroke.

Ridiculous, of course, but the tension was thick inside of him, like congealed grease in his aorta.

A few seconds later, Steinbach’s Escalade turned left into a potholed parking lot behind a gray stucco building, Ace Billiards and Pool Supplies. The driver stopped at the back door, and the three men got out. Kafitold the driver to wait across the street at Jed’s Big Star Diner.

The driver nodded and pulled away, and Kafiwalked past the other two and unlocked the padlock on the warehouse’s back door.

A few minutes later, Harper turned down a narrow alley and took a quick right into the same warehouse parking lot. Oscar checked to make sure his Glock .22 was fully chambered and took a deep breath.

“Here we go, Jackie,” he said.

Harper smiled and reached in the backseat for the briefcase. “It’s time to play that nifty game, Fuck the Scum,” he said.

Hidalgo laughed, but it came out more like a gag.

“Stomach’s acting up,” he said.

“You eat your breakfast this morning?” Harper said.

“Yeah, I ate it . . . a little. Two eggs, refritos, and a corn tortilla.”

They were out of the car now and walking toward the warehouse door.

“Yeah, well, that’s real healthy,” Jack said. “You should add lard and maybe cement in there, too. Plus, did you chew? You gotta chew.”

“I chewed,” Oscar said. “Trust me, I fucking chewed.”

“I doubt you did.” Harper smiled. “You’re a weak chewer, thus Hoovering indigestible bullshit down into your sensitive Latino stomach.”

“Fuck you, Jack,” Oscar said. “I don’t fucking Hoove.”

“He who hooves shall heave. Or so it is writ,” Jack said.

A lame joke, Jack thought. Just chattering away to ward off the fear he felt every time he walked into a room full of animals with high-powered weapons.

They came to the back door, but before Jack could ring the bell, the buzzer rang them in.

“Isn’t that nice,” Jack said. “They’re eager to see us. They love us, they really do.”

They walked inside. Oscar felt his stomach turn, and suddenly couldn’t remember if he’d chewed or not. All that he knew was that his stomach felt as if someone had turned up a welding torch inside his lower bowel. Maybe he had another fucking ulcer. Sweat trickled down his forehead. He took another deep breath. And the air seemed to whistle through the imagined hole in his gut.

Next life, maybe he’d be a teacher or something. But given the L.A. school system, maybe that would be worse.

He looked over at Jack who seemed as cool as a pitcher of sangria. The fucking guy . . . when it came to danger, affable Jackie seemed to disappear, and something blank and icy took over his body. He knew nothing of the way his partner actually felt. Neither of them ever talked about their fears.

They walked through a narrow hallway with a calendar of a topless Asian girl wearing a short plaid miniskirt and riding a Harley in front of a neon-lit bowling alley called jay’s spotlight lanes. From there they went through two more doors, then walked into a large, dimly lit warehouse, which was stacked with boxes inside which were pool tables.

Waiting for them in the middle of the room were not only Kafi, Draper, and Karl Steinbach, but two more goons, a blond boy with a birthmark on his jaw and a freckle-faced goof with a twisted mouth and a shaved head. Huckleberry Finn on crack. All of them were fully armed. Steinbach nodded to Jack, picked up a pool cue, and cleanly knocked in a bank shot.

“My friends,” he said. “I trust you had a good trip.”

“Right as rain,” Harper said, setting the briefcase down on the edge of the table.

“That’s good to know,” Steinbach said. He lined up another shot, and then in quick succession knocked in the five, six, and seven balls. His hand didn’t shake, and the worries, which had obsessed him only a few minutes ago, were dissolved in the small ecstasies of performance. Karl loved the game and had often wished he could be filmed.

“You look like you know what you’re doing,” Oscar said.

“Yes, in my wasted youth, I spent a lot of time in pool halls. They say it’s a relaxing game, but that’s untrue. Pool takes intense discipline and concentration. Like any game you play to win.”

Harper smiled and picked up the second cue, which was leaning against the table.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I think it just takes a modicum of talent and a little luck.”

Jack turned around backward, whipped the cue behind his back, and lined up the cue ball.

“Eight ball in the far left pocket,” he said.

He hit the cue with a high topspin, which sent it around the three ball, and hit the eight, right into the far left pocket.

“Bravo, Jackie,” Steinbach said. “But that took a lot of practice and a lot of skill.”

“Nah, Karl, just luck,” Jack said. “But then I’ve always been a lucky guy.”

“Maybe so,” Steinbach laughed. “Look how lucky you got when you met me.”

Jack smiled and put down the cue.

“Speaking of which . . . though your charming company is all anyone could hope for, my friend Luis and I have a plane to catch, so maybe we should get down to business.”

“Of course,” Steinbach said.

He looked at Kafiwho handed him a black felt box, about as big as Jack’s palm.

“More pool balls?” Hidalgo said.

“Yes, but these are special.”

Steinbach snapped open the box and showed the balls to Jack.

“Hand carved, Jack. Each ball made to exact specifications and real ivory. The finest in the world.”

Steinbach handed the ball to Jack.

“Push the number, Jackie.”

Jack pushed it with his thumb; there was a slight click and the ball slid open.

“Just like an Easter egg,” Oscar said. “You got chocolate bunnies in there?”

“Something far more delicious than that,” Steinbach said.

Jack reached inside the pool ball and found a small perfect diamond surrounded by crushed velvet to keep it from rattling around. Next to it was a second diamond. Within seconds, he’d discovered a third and a fourth.

“Hey, now, this is a game I could start to like,” Jack said.

“Every one of these balls is filled with prizes, my friend. Directly from Sierra Leone. Now, perhaps, I could see the briefcase?”

“Of course.” Oscar handed the case to the big German. Steinbach swept the pool balls into their pockets, sat the case on the green felt, and snapped it open. It was filled with banded packets of hundred-dollar bills.

“Beautiful!” Steinbach snapped shut the case.

Jack smiled. “You don’t want to count it, Karl?”

“No, Jack,” Steinbach said. “I trust you implicitly.”

Jack smiled wider and reached into his coat.

“That’s your misfortune, Karl, ’cause you’re under arrest. FBI.”

He pulled his .38 out of his holster, as did Oscar.

“Drop your weapons, pendejos,” Oscar said.

There was a brief second as Steinbach’s face registered the shock of Jack’s betrayal. Jack had seen this before. In any human interchange, trust is the glue that holds things together. Now, Jack thought, Karl was not only mad that he was going to jail but had hurt feelings.

Tough luck, Jack thought. The only feeling he had for Karl Steinbach was contempt.

Steinbach looked around the room, his face a panicky pale white. Behind the piles of stacked pool tables to his left, two more Feds appeared: Agents Zac Blakely and Ron Hughes, both carrying submachine guns. Both had been there, in place, well in advance of Steinbach’s arrival.

“Drop your guns now, assholes!” Blakely said.

“Fuck you,” the Arab said, turning on Blakely, letting go with a blast from his gun. The bullets sprayed the pool tables next to Blakely, who dove to the floor for cover.

Steinbach quickly pulled his own .45 from his shoulder holster and aimed it at Oscar Hidalgo. He was about to pull the trigger when Jack threw the diamond-filled pool ball into his face. Steinbach yelled and fell backward, holding his bleeding nose.

Jack turned quickly and saw the big Welshman, Draper, raise his gun to shoot Oscar. He picked up the pool cue and smacked him in the mouth, knocking three bloodied teeth to the floor.

One of the other goons aimed at Blakely, but Oscar cut him in half with two bullets from his pistol.

Jack watched as Kafidove behind a cardboard box. Jack aimed dead center at the slogan have fun with pool and fired. The bullet tore through the box and hit Kafiin the throat. The Arab fell to the floor, flopping like a dying fish.

Jack watched as Hughes shot Draper in the back of the leg. The Welshman fell to one knee, dropped his gun, and threw up his hands.

The bald-headed goon was caught between the crossfire and he went down in a hail of bullets. The freckle-faced boy dropped his gun and held up his arms. “No more, man,” he said. “No más.” Hughes quickly cuff ed him. Now Jack turned to arrest the German, but Steinbach was already half across the warehouse floor, headed for the far exit door.

Jack took off after him, firing as he ran, but missed and watched Steinbach disappear from the warehouse into the bright sunlight of Sunset Boulevard.

They ran down the teeming street past shoppers who were lined up for the new iPod sales from Best Buy. Jack slammed into a blonde with a pierced tongue who screamed as she fell to the pavement. Ahead of him, Steinbach turned and aimed his gun.

“Down!” Jack screamed. “FBI!”

The people on the street fell to the hot pavement as Steinbach fired at Jack. The bullet veered off to the right and smashed into a Porsche Boxster’s windshield. It shattered into a thousand pieces. The car alarm went off, screaming through the smogged-out air.

Jack aimed and fired back at Steinbach, but missed as the bullet hit a patio chair outside a furniture store, spinning it around.

Steinbach ran on, turned left, heading for the lake at Echo Park. He disappeared behind a little stand of palm trees. Jack dodged around a Mister Softee truck, moved toward the lake, keeping low, behind parked cars.

Then it happened. Steinbach made a move toward the muddy beach right near the pedal-boat rental pier. Jack fired and hit him in the right leg. Steinbach fell to his knee but turned around firing, and Jack felt the bullet whistle by his right ear.

He crouched and fired again, and saw Steinbach fall backward into the muddy lake.

He splashed around, flailing like a beached walrus. Jack heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Oscar and Ron Hughes just behind him, their guns drawn.

“The mutherfucker looks like Shamu,” Oscar said.

Jack ran forward, holding his gun on Steinbach who was up now, throwing his gun onto the beach, holding his hands above his drenched, muddy head.

“Come on outta there now,” Jack said. “And don’t try anything original or you’re gonna look like a paper target at a rifle range.”

Though wet and bleeding, Steinbach wasn’t cowed.

“That’s what you’d like, hey, Jack? Blow me up, say it was self-defense. But I’m not going to play your game. No, my friend, you’re going to play mine.”

Steinbach walked forward, hands still in the air, and a smile on his fat face.

“I love games, Karl. What’s the rules?”

“Simple. You . . . him, and the other two cops are never going to testify against me. Because, my friends, you are all going to die.”

Jack looked at his partner and laughed.

“You hear that, Oscar? We’re all dead men walking.”

“Yeah,” Oscar said. “Scary.”

But Ron Hughes wasn’t laughing. He looked at the German with contempt.

“Hey, fuck you, fatboy. You scare nobody.”

“You’ll see,” Steinbach said. “You’re all going to find out. My reach is longer than any prison cell you assholes can throw me in.”

“Creepy,” Jack said. “Now shut the fuck up, turn around, and put your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest for smuggling, and anything else you’re dumb enough to say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

Before Jack could cuff him, Hughes stepped forward, knee deep in water.

“Jack, you got his name wrong. It’s not Karl, it’s Fuckface.” He punched the German in the head and watched as he fell back in the filthy water. Then he waded out a little farther, raising his right fist to give him another little shot.

But Jack grabbed Hughes from behind and pushed him back toward the beach.

“Take it easy, Ronnie.”

“That was for my old partner, Terry Masters, who this germ shot over in Munich. We got your ass now, Karl. You’re never gonna get out.”

Jack clicked the cuffs on Steinbach and pulled him out of the water. Behind the three cops, Zac Blakely came with the remaining two live smugglers, both of them cuff ed from behind. In the distance they could hear sirens, and a paddy wagon was rolling in at the corner.

Jack pushed Steinbach down the street as a crowd gathered, mumbling and chattering.

“You guys will all pay with your lives,” Steinbach said. “All of you are going to fucking die. I promise you.”

“You’re repeating yourself, Karl,” Jack said. “Sign of an inferior mind.”

“I’ll take him from here,” Blakely said, as the wagon pulled up.

Jack pushed the smuggler toward Blakely as the paddy-wagon door opened.

Steinbach turned and looked at Jack with intense hatred.

“Remember what I said, Jackie,” he said, then turned again and stepped inside the wagon.

“He’s not a very good sport, is he?” Jack said to Oscar.

“Very bad loser,” Oscar said. “But that’s how the Germans are. My grandfather used to say, ‘Los mama huevos son en sus rodillas o tu garganta.’ Which means, ‘The cocksuckers are either at your knees or at your throat.’”

Jack laughed.

“I hope to meet your grandfather when I die,” Jack said.

“I’ll see to it,” Oscar said. “But don’t make it anytime soon, okay?”

Jack laughed.

“You kidding? And give up all this? What say we stop into Charlie’s and get us a couple of nice cold drinks on the way home? We speed a little, we can hit there just around the end of happy hour.”

“Excellent suggestion,” Oscar said. “You’re buying, of course.” “Well, of course.”

The two men turned to break through the little crowd, when

both of them simultaneously saw an old Mexican Indian woman, dressed in a bright orange-and-black dress. She wore a scarf with orange parrots painted on it. She looked at them and shook her head mournfully.

“Qué pasa, señora?” Jack said.

The old woman stared intently at both of them, then turned and looked at the now-receding paddy wagon.

“Nada bueno,” she said. “El es malo. Señor give you the evil eye, mister. El se ve muy malo.”

“Yeah, right,” Jack said. He was going to tell her that he wasn’t afraid of such superstitious crap, but somehow the words got caught in his throat.

He looked at Oscar, who sighed.

“You go home now, señora,” Oscar said. “And thanks for the warning.”

She turned and shook her head in a concerned way.

“No es bueno, señores, es malo. Es muy malo.”

She pointed ominously to her own eye, then turned and limped away.

“Crazy old lady,” Ron Hughes said.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “A whack job.”

But as they headed back to the warehouse to gather evidence, Jack felt something like an icy finger travel up his spine.

2

THE SCENE AT Charlie Breen’s Deckhouse Restaurant was always rocking at happy hour. Bikers, surfers, beach bunnies, local businessmen, and cops all hung out there in rough harmony. And all of them were always greeted with the same laughter and pat on the back from Charlie himself. Now in his late fifties, Charlie was a living legend in Santa Monica. After a nomadic life of doing business and traveling in Europe, South America, and China, Charlie had come home and taken a ramshackle, falling-down druggie hangout, bought it twenty years ago for a comparative song and largely on the force of his personality — open, friendly, and caring — and made it into one of the most successful beach bars in Los Angeles. Jack had known him for close to ten years, and whenever he and Oscar finished working a case, Charlie’s was the first place they headed.

This night was special, however. Jack and Oscar had been working the Karl Steinbach case for close to a year. There had been many times when the two partners despaired of ever catching him. So tonight was party time, drinking, laughing, and sitting around the big circular bar, looking out on the lights of Santa Monica Bay. The two backup cops, Zac Blakely and Ron Hughes, were with them, as was big, silver-haired Charlie Breen himself, who kept the laughs and liquor flowing.

In front and above them was Charlie’s new fifty-inch plasma screen television set, with its endless games, CNN, and the local news feeds. Jack was feeling no pain as he downed his third Wild Turkey, with Hefeweizen and lemon back. Next to him, Oscar tossed back a shot of Herradura Gold Tequila. He couldn’t remember which shot it was, but he was pretty sure that number five had been some time ago.

“Hey, hey, hey, wait . . . there it is,” Ron Hughes said.

He pointed at the TV, where newscaster Trisha Toyota began her nightly news report.

“In Hollywood,” she chirped, “we’re used to seeing shoot-outs and robberies on the city streets, most of them staged for the studio cameras. But today in the Echo Park neighborhood, local residents were horrified to see the real thing unfold. In a sting operation, four FBI undercover agents took down a vicious gang of diamond smugglers.”

The whole bar had stopped talking now as Charlie signaled for them to check out the TV.

“Oh, yeah!” Blakely said.

He was referring to Jack, who was now being interviewed by Toyota, his facial features digitally blacked out.

There was a loud hoot from the denizens of the bar.

“Quiet, people,” Charlie said. “Our star is going to speak!”

Trisha Toyota smiled and turned to Jack:

“I have with me here the leader of the FBI operation, a man we’ll call Bill Kelley. I understand you chased the suspect all the way to Echo Lake.”

“That’s right, Trish,” Jack said.

“And all the while he was shooting at you,” she said in her breathless way.

“Yeah, but the only thing he hit was Mister Softee,” Jack said.

That got a big laugh at the bar.

“And he ended up in the lake,” Trish said.

“Yeah, but he was a little too late for the pedal boats, so he ended up getting all wet.”

Another roar from the drunken eager bar mates.

“But I understand that the suspect threatened to kill all of you. Doesn’t that worry you?”

There was a brief hesitation, and then Jack gave her the line:

“Yeah, Trish, my partners and I are flat-out terrified. I doubt any of us will sleep a wink tonight.”

Toyota cracked up, as did the patrons of Charlie Breen’s bar. Charlie reached over, grabbed Jack’s right arm, and held it above his head.

“The winner and still champion, Agent Jack Harper! Though I gotta tell you, you look a lot better with your face blacked out.”

There were cheers and laughs throughout the bar. Oscar held up his tequila and toasted Jack.

“To Karl Steinbach, may his punk ass rot in prison for the rest of his life!”

Hughes and his partner, a tired and curiously quiet Zac Blakely, joined in the toast. Jack felt a shot of warmth zap through him. It was great being here . . . with Charlie, with his guys . . . successful on a case. One good one made up for all the ones that got away, and during the last few years, there had more than a few of those. Ever since 9/11 there had been just about nothing but bad news for the Bureau. Leaks to the press, moles like the traitor, Robert Hansen, a guy with whom Jack had played on the Agency basketball team for three years. A guy he thought he knew. So tonight was a bit more than an arrest party, it was a comeback celebration for Jack, his guys, and the Bureau.

“Hey, Jackie,” Oscar said. “I gotta go . . . tomorrow’s another bitch of a day, huh?”

“Yeah,” Hughes said. “Getting late.”

“Come on, O,” Jack said. “Don’t wimp out on us.”

He reached over and hugged his partner of ten years. And added a kiss on the forehead.

“Jesus, Jackie,” Oscar said. “Cut that shit out, maricón.”

Jack laughed and kissed him again. Oscar pretended to fight back, then kissed Jack, too.

“Hey, Oscar,” Ron Hughes said. “You be careful on the way home, babe. Steinbach’s boys might be waiting for you.”

“Fuck him,” Oscar said. “As my old grandmother used to say, ‘El dia de las brujas en Hollywood asusta más que ese malparido tonto.’ Which means, ‘Halloween in Hollywood is scarier than that fucking mope.’”

“You got it, Osc,” Jack said. “See you in the A.M.”

The partners slapped five, and Oscar gave a quick hug to Charlie as he headed out to the parking lot.

A second later, as Jack downed his next beer, Zac Blakely signaled to him with his eyes: He wanted to have a private talk. The two men drifted over to the corner and sat down in a vacant booth.

“Forrester is starting again,” Blakely said as he sipped his beer. He rolled his brown eyes in disgust.

Forrester was Supervisory Agent William Forrester, the bane of both Jack’s and Blakely’s existence. Their immediate supervisor, Forrester was a Harvard graduate, who never tired of saying, “When I was back at Cambridge, we did things this way . . .” In addition to being a first-class snob, Forrester was also convinced that Blakely and Hughes and maybe even Jack himself were rogue agents who had their eye on stealing valuable evidence, whether it be money or jewels. It didn’t help that the last bust Blakely and Hughes had led (and in which Jack and Oscar had served as their backups), a major robbery at City National Bank in North Hollywood, had ended up with $200,000 of unaccounted-for money.

“Guy has some kind of major hard-on for you,” Jack said.

“I know,” Blakely said. “But Ron and I didn’t take the money. We caught Miller and his crew at the track, where they were going to lay the money off . Nailed them and brought the money to the office, processed it with Garrett in Evidence. And never saw it again. Then, when we’re going to re-count it for Miller’s trial, we find that two hundred grand is gone.”

Jack nodded his head, then sipped his drink.

“I know, Zac. You don’t have to convince me. What’s Forrester saying to you now?”

“He’s not saying anything,” Blakely said. “But he’s got guys tailing us night and day. And he’s intimated a couple of times, Jackie, that you were probably involved as a criminal accessory.”

“I know. He’s tried to rattle my cage a few times. But fuck him,” Jack said. “He’s got nothing on any of us.”

“Yeah,” Blakely said. “But it gets a little old being tailed all the time.”

He indicated a bearded man with a scar under his right eye across the room.

“Check out that fuck.”

Jack casually turned and looked over the guy, who was pretending to be looking at one of the ski bunnies who’d just rolled in.

“That guy was sent by Forrester?” Jack said. “You sure?”

“No, I’m not sure. But he’s been watching us all night.”

Jack looked over at the big man’s hollow eyes, which seemed to stare right through him.

“This the first time you’ve seen him?”

“Yeah, I think so. But there have been other guys, too. You recognize him, Jack?”

“No,” Jack said. “I don’t. But I did notice him about a half hour ago, and it occurred to me that he could have been sent by Steinbach.”

“But we just arrested him,” Blakely said. “How could Steinbach move that fast?”

“Marvels of technology,” Jack said. “With an instant message, he can set up an instant tail. The guy has that kind of operation. He could have done it while he was running for the lake.”

“That sounds a little paranoid to me, Jack,” Blakely countered. “Yeah, well, it probably is,” Jack said. “But maybe we’re both

being a little crazy. Look, I know and you know you that Ron and I didn’t steal the City National dough. Forrester is worried about how the Director sees him. He’s going to hassle you for a while, then, when we make another good bust, he’ll give it up.”

Blakely looked tired. “He threatened my pension, Jack. I swear, if he does anything to fuck that up, I’m going to bullwhip his ass down Wilshire Boulevard, then torch him.”

Jack laughed. It was good to hear the Blakely of old, the angry, funny badass who had taught him much of what he knew.

“He’s not going to touch your pension, Zac. He’s got nothing.”

“I know that and you know that,” Zac said. “But to cover his own ass, he could invent a few facts. After all, in a few months, I’m retired. Might serve him very well to pin something on me.”

Jack shook his head. “He’s not that nuts. He tried anything like that, we’d nail him to the cross.”

Zac nodded and managed a tired smile.

“Glad you’re with me, Jack.”

“Always. You’re my main man.”

They smiled and headed back to the bar. The bearded man watched them go, then slipped out the front door.

Jack, Blakely, and Hughes watched him go.

“Heading back to make his report to Forrester?” Hughes said.

Jack laughed. “Forget that germ,” he said. “Could just be watching us because he thinks we’re movie stars.”

“Yeah,” Hughes said. “The Three Fucking Stooges.”

A few minutes later, a DEA agent named Tommy Wilson came in. Jack and Tommy had some bad blood between them over a shared case a few years back, so Jack tried to ignore him, but red-faced Wilson, already half in the bag, greeted him effusively anyway.

“Ah,” he said. “Look who it is. The highly sung heroes of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Heard you brought in the Kraut.”

Jack didn’t bother to reply, still hoping he could avoid talking to Tommy but, on his left, Blakely took the bait.

“Whoa, Fast Tommy of the DEA. We’re looking forward to the day when we can wrap your humble little agency up with ours.”

“Yeah,” Hughes said. “Then we can teach you how to be real police.”

Tommy waited until the three Feds had stopped laughing at him, then sprang his surprise.

“You boys are a little behind the curve. This humble servant of the people is now working for the new superstar agency, the Department of Homeland Security.”

“Jumped ship, huh, Tommy?” Hughes said.

Wilson laughed and looked at Jack.

“Just went where my services are needed by my country. And the way I hear it, we might roll you guys up into our agency, given all the tragic mistakes you’ve made of late.”

Hughes started to get off the bar stool, but Blakely held him back.

“Not funny, Tommy.”

“Then why am I laughing so hard?” Wilson smiled wickedly at the three FBI agents and walked around to the other side of the bar, where three other agents greeted him.

“I oughta kick that arrogant dickhead’s ass,” Hughes said.

“Aw, fuck him,” Blakely said. “They’re still the new kids on the block.”

Hughes shook his head, said, “I just hope Congress doesn’t give them the whole block.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “They grabbed off eight of our agents in the last six months. Man, it’s getting thin out there.”

“Fuck ’em and the horse they rode in on,” Blakely said.

“Eloquently put, Zac,” Jack said. “You are a master of the English language.”

“Fuckin’ A, I am,” a somewhat renewed Blakely said. “I am the king of wit and hyperbole. And I taught you all you know, young Jackie.”

“That you did,” Jack said. “The man was my first partner, Charlie.”

“Really?” Charlie said. “And you didn’t shoot him for insubordination?”

“Tried to several times,” Blakely said. “But he moved too fast. He doesn’t need my help anymore. He’s his own man out there. That was good work today, Jackie. I never knew you could run like that.”

“Always been fast,” Jack said. “Speed of foot makes up for my slow mental capacities.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Hughes said.

Hughes and Blakely clicked glasses, said their good-byes, and headed for the door.

“Keep what I told you in mind,” Blakely said. “Slick Billy would like to bring us all down.”

“Got it,” Jack said.

“Drive safe,” Charlie said. “They got traffic cops out there.” The two Feds waved as they headed out the door. Jack looked

out at the Pacific, saw the moon gleaming off the waves. Seeing and hearing the roar of the surf settled him, made his blood pressure drop, and took away the violent images and feelings that warred inside of him.

He thought of the bearded man, wondered if he was a spy and, if so, was he working for Forrester or Karl Steinbach? Or if he was just some poor beach bum who they’d only imagined was part of their little paranoid party?

Jack sighed, tried to clear his mind. He looked at Charlie, his gray swept-back hair, his broad football player’s chest . . . There was something solid about Charlie, he thought, something stable, unlike himself. He was mercurial, always had been. Which was why he was attracted to undercover work. There were times when he came down off being one of the bad guys when he didn’t know who he was anymore. There would be a two- or three-day period when he would look at his son, Kevin, or his girlfriend, Julie, and feel emotionally dead to them. It was like they were strangers, yet worse than that, because with a stranger he might want to make an effort to impress or at least be civil. With his own friends and family, even Kevin, he would feel as though he had blown down to zero, maybe beyond. What was real and what was false had become so twisted in his mind that his ordinary human affections seemed to go into hiding. And he secretly feared that one day they might not return.

“Hey,” Charlie said, “how about one for the road?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Why not?”

Charlie motioned to Sam, the Italian barmaid, and she picked up the shot glass and filled it with Jack Daniel’s.

“You and Julie doing good, Jackie?”

“Sure,” Jack said. “Pretty good, anyway.”

“Wedding bells?”

“Nah, not yet, Charlie. You know how it is. I’m already zero for one on that score. ’Sides, I haven’t known her long enough.”

“She living with you now?”

“Part-time,” Jack said. “She’s keeping her own apartment until . . . you know, we’re sure.”

“Know what you mean,” Charlie said. “Hey, you gonna bring your son up to the Brentwood League this year?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “He’s got so many things going already. Plays guitar in his rock group, and he’s taking AP classes.”

What he didn’t say was that Kevin had been rebellious lately. Just a couple of weeks ago, he’d lied about going to the library, and stayed out late, behavior which sent Julie into a panic. Jack had done much the same kinds of things as a kid, so he wasn’t that worried. Not yet, anyway.

“Yeah, sure,” Charlie said. “But you gotta get the kid outdoors a little. We’re talking baseball, the greatest sport of all time.”

“I’m a little busy right now, Charlie. I don’t know if I can coach.”

“Who says you gotta? I’m up there. Kev can play on my team. The mighty Brentwood Dodgers.”

Charlie assumed a catcher’s pose, and Jack laughed and punched him in the arm.

“All right. Maybe. When’s sign-up?”

“Saturday at eleven,” Charlie said. “Bring him up. I remember he can really pound the ball.”

“Yeah, no doubt about it. He’s got a good eye and real good bat speed. I’ll talk to him about it.”

Charlie smiled happily and nodded his head.

“Man,” Jack said. “The way you are . . . you shoulda had kids, Charlie.”

Charlie sighed and shook his head.

“Tried, man. Wasn’t in the cards. Tried the normal way, and then we did the in vitro thing. Now lemme tell you, Jackie, that’s a lot of fun. You go into some little room and they got porno DVDs in there and some lesbian mags, and you jerk off into a cup, and have to come out into the hallway afterward carrying the fucking thing and you run into all these other cats who are also carrying their cups around. Oh, man, it’s Loser Land.”

Charlie limped around with an imaginary cup in his hand as Jack smiled sympathetically.

“And after all that, and the ten grand it costs you, the shit doesn’t even work. It’s 12 percent or something. We did it three times, too . . . and that was enough ’cause not only did I not have the kid, but I lost my wife. You try fucking on schedule for two and a half years . . . giving her injections at night, waking up at three A.M. to crying jags. No, man, that was the end for me. But it’s okay. This way I get to coach the kids when they’re sweet and young. Later, when they become car thieves and teenage crackheads, I don’t have to be involved.”

“I’m sorry, Charlie. That must have been rough.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “It sucked. But that’s long ago and far away, my friend. Look at that ocean, listen to that surf. That’s what we’re living for nowadays. Let the past go, Jackie. That’s what you gotta learn.”

Jack looked at him and smiled.

“Get out there with your kid,” Charlie said. “’Cause in a few years he’ll have a girlfriend, and then it’ll be bye-bye, Daddy.”

“I hear you, Charlie,” Jack said. “Thanks for the drink. See you tomorrow, coach.”

Charlie smiled and hugged Jack and Jack felt a bolt of affection for him. Something surprising and tender that he had rarely felt for his own dad.

He was glad he could feel something for his friend, glad he wasn’t just a shadow self, faking it here, faking it there, as he lured scumbags like Steinbach into his trap.

• • •

The Santa Monica Freeway was lit with a strange neon glow, and there was only one other car on the road. A black sedan somewhere behind him . . . maybe a hundred yards away. What was it, a Lincoln Town Car? A Caddy? He couldn’t tell.

Ah, what the hell, why should he worry?

It was just some other guy like him, heading home after too many drinks. Nothing to get buzzed about.

Still, when he thought of the old woman, the way she looked at him. The evil eye. He give you the evil eye, señor. Like something out of a werewolf movie from long ago. What was that woman’s name? Maria Ouspenskaya. When the wolfbane blooms and the moon is full . . . Christ, that was just a lot of Hollywood bullshit.

Just the same, it had scared the living shit out of him when he was nine or ten.

And now the car was getting closer . . . really speeding up, and just to be safe, Jack reached into his coat . . . felt the grip of his .38.

Not that he was worried or anything . . .

Now the other car was really closing on him.

It was a Lincoln.

Jack squinted into the rearview. Jesus, it was the bearded guy, no doubt about it. He was following him. But who had sent him: Forrester or Steinbach?

Up ahead was Jack’s exit . . . five or ten more feet.

He had to slow down a little to make the turn. The Lincoln pulled alongside him. Jack turned and looked at the guy. The scar seemed to glow off his face.

He looked directly at Jack and gave him a superior little sneer as the Lincoln rushed by.

Jack headed down the ramp, his heart beating so hard he could hear it in his ears.

Maybe Blakely was right, after all. Forrester was trying to build some kind of case against all of them.

Ever since the Hansen betrayal, the service had become wired, as if they’d ingested a ton of meth and were all having multiple hallucinations and massive paranoia.

Looking for moles, criminals, bad agents . . .

Forrester, like some kind of Stalinist enforcer trying to find the mole.

Jack felt his skin crawl. What had started out as a celebration had turned into something creepy, another bad vibe.

The thought infuriated him.

Being spied on by Forrester. If it was Forrester.

Once again, he thought of the old woman. “Malo, señor. He give you the evil eye.” And a chill ran down his back.