Gregg Hurwitz - Last shot

"No way, pal. This is a big find." DeSquire lowered his voice. "Someone's looking to make chief, get his mug in front of the flashing bulbs. I wouldn't mind bumping up to supervisory deputy myself. Why you want a lid on it anyways?"

"If Walker Jameson doesn't know, I'd prefer to keep him chasing after a ghost."

One-handing the wheel at high noon, Bear shot Tim an unamused glance across the meat of his shoulder. "Kinda like us?"

When Bear's boot hit the lock assembly, the entire motel shuddered. The door flew open, knob punching through the drywall. A thin, bald guy leapt off the bed like a goosed cat and crashed to the base of the wall, clutching his wife-beater undershirt at his chest. Bear hauled him up and threw him onto the bed, but the mattress was so bouncy he soared off the other side. Tim frisked him on the floor and sat him on a chair as Bear cleared the closet and bathroom. A Dodgers game blared on in the background until Bear, die-hard Giants fan, smacked the power button, zapping Gagne and the pitcher's mound into blackness. Aside from a pair of sneakers by the door and the open laptop on the opposite twin, the room was empty. Tim stared at the floating aphorism on the screen saver-If we'd have known it would be this much trouble, we would've picked our own damn cotton-and resisted an urge to ping-pong the shitheel off the bed a second time.

"You're on Walker Jameson's trail?" Tim said.

The guy scratched his bald pate, fingers flickering as if over piano keys. "Dunno."

Bear looked from the abandoned sneakers-huge and floppy, size thirteens at least-to the lanky guy in the chair. Normal-size feet.

"Wait a minute," Bear said, "this ain't Caden."

The phone shuddered in Tim's pocket, and he opened it to watch a booking photo download on the small screen. Caden Burke was a hulking man, six-three by the markers behind him. His thick chest dwarfed the neckboard. He had a mouth like a seam, no lips, and a pronounced chin that gave the effect that his face was folded around the black slit.

"Hell, no, I ain't Caden. My name's Phil Xavier. I'm just the fucking driver."

"So where's Caden?" Bear stood over Xavier. "Where is he?"

Tim said, "You'd better tell us everything you know, right now, or we'll nail your ass for conspiracy to commit murder." Xavier bunched his mouth, biting the insides of his lips. Tim leaned over him. "Right now, this moment, this is one of those decisions you don't want to spend twenty years rethinking at Lompoc."

Sweat streaked down the sides of Xavier's head just behind the ears, lending a sheen to the inked shamrock low on his skull. The tattoo was still scabby-Xavier was a newbie, which meant he wasn't so far in he couldn't see a way out. "And if I tell you?"

Tim made an on-the-spot call for expediency's sake. "Hey, you're just the driver, right?"

Xavier cleared his throat nervously. "Caden's the guy, like I said. I just drive. But I heard him making calls on the way out, pieced together a thing or two."

Bear: "Like?"

"After the escape, Jameson made some underground calls checking out a hitter named the Piper. It trickled back to us-we'd put it on the street we wanted any word on Walker Jameson. Turns out the Piper's dead. Jameson found out someone snaked his commission."

"Does Jameson know who? Maybe someone gave him a name?"

Xavier's eyes shifted. "He might have gotten a name, sure, but not us."

"What did you get?"

"A time and place."

"For what?"

"Where Jameson could find the guy."

"The time?"

Xavier pulsed his hands into fists, working out tension. "Right now."

"Where?"

"You guys gonna hurt Caden?"

"If he's going after Jameson, we're probably going to save his life."

"You don't know Caden." Xavier had one of those nervous smiles where the lips touched at the middle but gapped at the sides.

Bear palmed Xavier's head, his massive hands enclosing either side, and forced eye contact. "Where?"

"I swear I don't know. Caden looked something up and took off outta here."

"Looked something up? In what?"

But Tim was already across the room at the laptop. The odious screen saver vanished when he hit the space bar. Explorer was open to Yahoo!'s TV page, the schedule highlighting the Dodgers-Marlins game. Tim clicked the browser's back button, passing a baseball stats page and a news story before a Mapquest page started to load, slowed by the phone-line connection. As the driving directions popped on-screen, one line at a time, Tim tracked them impatiently with his finger.

Caden's route ended at Game.

Tim had called for backup, but there was no way he and Bear were going to wait. A few minutes past seven, and already the wetlands had come alive with night noise, all order of chirping and scratching insects lending their sounds to the ashy air. A flurry of dusty moths beat against themselves and the lamp by the awning.

The Game lounge was in full swing, its well-heeled clientele drinking and groping happily at the bar. The mood chilled at the sight of Bear prodding Xavier in cuffs through the door. No sign of Walker or Caden. Bear stormed to the back office. The counter was being run by a man with ruddy cheeks and a Scarface T-shirt, the S faded off, probably when his mom did his laundry.

"Hey, Carface," Bear said, slapping his badge across the laid-open Paintball 2 Xtremes magazine. "Who's in the preserve? Right now." Bear snapped his fingers in front of the guy's face to jerk his focus from their handcuffed sidekick.

"A…uh, handful of guys. And Afternoon D-Lite."

"How many guys?"

"I think three."

"You think?" Tim pointed to equipment hanging from pegs near the lockers. "Can you count the missing vests?"

"They brought their own." The worker flipped a binder out from the row and showed Tim three names, none of which meant anything to him.

Xavier spit on the floor. "How 'bout I sit down?"

Bear said, "Believe me, your presence at this moment is no fucking treat for us either."

A movement caught Tim's eye through the side window-Wes Dieter pulling up to his marked space by the entrance. Dressed in pseudo-combat gear, he climbed out of his Cutlass Supreme.

Tim turned back to the worker. "Have you seen this guy?" A head shake at Walker's picture. "How about him?" Tim snapped open his phone and showed the photograph of Caden.

"Yeah, that guy was here a minute ago. At the bar, maybe?"

Tim scanned the lounge again, and then his eyes pulled to the gauze curtain. He said to Bear, "He's in the preserve. Hunting."

Bear unsnapped his holster strap. "Or waiting."

Tim said, "Could he have snuck in without your seeing?"

"Shit, I don't know," the worker said. "I guess someone could cut the net anywhere at the perimeter and slip through, they really wanted to."

Which Walker may well have done earlier to set up for Tess's killer. Tim said, "Let me see the schedule for the rest of the night. Now."

The worker fumbled at the computer. Wes entered to a stir, exchanging high fives with a few zealous clients. He cued to the tense vibe, spotted Tim, Bear, and Xavier, and approached. "Hey guys, what's the 411 here?"

Tim said, "We think whoever killed Tess Jameson is on the premises. We were told he had an appointment here, right now." He didn't add that Tess's murderer might have drawn Walker Jameson on site for the kill, or that an Aryan Brotherhood hit man, in turn, was pursuing Walker.

"I see." Wes rocked on his heels, then said, "Hey, Kenny, I need you to unload the paintball units from my backseat." He aimed his key chain at the window, and, outside, the soft top on his convertible retracted, a custom feature that must have cost thousands. "I'll help these gents."

Kenny offered an annoyed look, then headed out.