Michael Prescott - Mortal Faults

Still, there was more to the dream than that. She had a feeling she was trapped in a deeper sense than simple emotional disconnectedness. Trapped by… circumstances? Fate? She wasn’t sure she believed in either. Circumstances were what you made them. Fate was a myth. Or so she liked to tell herself. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe when she’d signed up for this life, she’d boarded a train that was headed down a straight stretch of rail toward a predetermined end, and now the train was moving too fast for her to jump off.

Not that she would have jumped off, anyway. She was committed. She would ride this line to the end-even if it was a dead end. What the hell. Everything was a dead end if you looked far enough ahead, wasn’t it?

Besides, there was always a chance the train would jump the rails. She wasn’t sure if that part of the analogy was comforting or disquieting. She supposed it depended on whether or not she survived the wreck.

The door opened, and Wyatt came in. “Their main hangout,” he said without preliminaries, “is a biker bar on South Grande Avenue, name of Fast Eddie’s. There’s about twenty-five, thirty members in the Santa Ana club, plus a few probates-aspiring members-at any given time.”

“And they all have these tattoos?”

“All the sworn members, yeah. It’s part of the initiation ceremony. The tat isn’t always on the neck. Sometimes it’s on the biceps or the chest or wherever.”

“As gangs go, are we talking major crime or penny-ante stuff?”

“Somewhere in between. They push meth and designer drugs, but they don’t produce the stuff themselves. They’ve made efforts to legitimize themselves-graffiti cleanup, toys for tots, that sort of thing. But it’s all bullshit. At heart they’re all about drugs and violence.”

“A real credit to their community.”

“They’re people you don’t want to fool around with.”

“I never fool around,” Abby said quietly.

Wyatt gave her a long look. “That's what worries me.”

She didn't like his inquiring stare. It was hard to know what secrets he might draw out of her. He knew her so much better than Tess did.

She broke eye contact, moving quickly to the door. “Thanks, Vic. I owe you.”

He showed her an unreadable smile. “I'll put it on your tab.”

Reynolds had spent the night in his home office, a small, private retreat on the ground floor of his house. Nora knew better than to disturb him there. He’d microwaved a frozen fettuccini dinner and forced himself to eat it, the meal washed down with more than one glass of Scotch. At ten p.m. and again at eleven, he turned on the local news to see the story of the home invasion in San Fernando. He learned nothing from the accounts except that the reporters and a few onlookers had remained outside the house late into the night. He knew that Shanker’s men could do nothing until the media left.

By midnight he had to assume that the goddamned reporters were finally gone. They wouldn’t linger after doing their live stand-ups for the late local news. When the TV vans left, the neighborhood curiosity seekers would leave, too. And Bethany-Andrea-would be alone.

He had no doubt she would stay in the house. She would not trust the police enough to accept their protection. And if she was as paranoid and hostile as Abby Sinclair said, she wouldn’t have any friends she could go to.

She ought to be easy prey.

He waited, nursing another Scotch. Shanker’s boys would get it done this time. Hell, they might have done the job already. Andrea could be dead, even now. Or dying, her blood draining onto the floor as she lay helpless. He hoped she knew who was responsible. He wanted her to know who killed her.

His cell phone rang. He snatched it off his desk. “Yeah.”

“It’s me.” Shanker’s voice.

“You get it done?” Reynolds licked his lips and realized the old expression was true-he could almost taste it.

But Shanker took a moment too long to answer. “No,” he said finally. “We didn’t.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“She’s being watched.”

“What?”

“I went up there to scout the area. Figured I would do the job myself. No more delegating. I hung out in a park across from her house. Nobody noticed me. I was wearing grungy clothes, looked like a homeless guy. I waited till after the TV assholes left.”

“And?”

“A little later I saw somebody go into the house next door to the target’s residence. It’s a house that’s supposed to be unoccupied. Abandoned. Windows boarded up. But people are in there. And there’s another thing. A van.”

“What kind of van?”

“Cargo type, no rear windows. Got the name of a plumbing company on it. Parked down the street. It’s been there all night.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I got close enough to see some light from the front compartment. There’s people inside the van. It’s a stakeout, Jack.”

“Who? Cops, feds?”

“I don’t know. Cops, I assume. Home invasion’s not a federal crime. Undercover cops are probably waiting to see if anybody comes back for a return visit.”

Reynolds gripped the phone too tightly. “Fuck it. Send them in anyway.”

“I can’t do that. The cops-”

“Get some backup. Three, four of your guys. Go in with shotguns. Kill the fucking cops. Blow them the fuck away. With enough firepower and the element of surprise, you can do it.”

There was another long silence. “I don’t think that’s too realistic, Jack.”

“Realistic? You don’t think it’s fucking realistic? How about your ass in a concrete drum? Is that realistic? How about what happened to Joe Ferris?”

“I’m just trying to look at the situation as it stands. I’m already on my way back to Santa Ana. I gave it my best shot, but for tonight, it’s a no-go.”

“Fuck that bullshit. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Jack, what can I tell you?”

“You can tell me you got results. That’s what the fuck I hired you for. I even gave you a second chance to make good. That’s not something I would offer to just anybody. Now you’re jerking me off and making excuses-”

“It’s not excuses. She’s under surveillance. She’s a hardened target. I can’t touch her.”

“God damn it, you listen to me. I want that woman dead. Now. Tonight. I don’t care what it takes, I want you to make it happen. You hear me, you dumb dogshit cocksucker? You hear me?”

“I hear you, Jack. But I can’t help you. Maybe in a day or two, if the heat’s off…”

“I ought to cut your fucking balls off. Except you don’t have any. No cojones, Ron. Even a damn lettuce picker has more guts than you.”

“Jack, we can work something out.”

“You’re a dead man,” Reynolds said, ending the call. “Fucking dead,” he added to the empty room.

He threw the phone away. It clattered in a corner. He took a step in one direction, then another, unable to select any course of action, even where he wanted to walk. Then he turned and moved behind his desk, threw a row of books off the shelf onto the floor, and exposed a wall safe. He dialed the combination, opened the safe. Inside, among other valuables and secrets, there was a handgun. He pulled it out. Fully loaded. Spare clips in the safe.

He could do the job himself. Take the gun, drive to San Fernando right now, sneak unseen into Andrea’s yard, get into her house. Shoot her dead. But the shot would draw the undercover cops. And he had no silencer. All right, so he would kill her some other way. Smother her, strangle her, drown her in the fucking toilet. A silent kill, then an escape into the shadows-

Bullshit.

He wasn’t going to do any goddamn thing like that. He didn’t even know how to do it. It wasn’t part of his-how would Stenzel say it? — his skills set. Not one of his core competencies.