Robert Crais - The sentry

Tobey said, "Kill'm."

Cleo said, "Cut off their heads, heads."

That was the plan. Cut off their heads, and ship'm to the Bolivians. The Bolivians liked creepy shit.

Daniel circled back to Azzara's street and parked below the house, looking north toward Sunset so he could keep an eye on things. Daniel studied the surrounding houses and the traffic up on Sunset. The guards ignored his van. Stupid. Daniel checked the pedestrians crossing on Sunset, thinking he might spot the arrow dude again. He wondered where the big fucker was, and whether he was watching Azzara's, or if the whole thing was just a coincidence and the dude was up there on Sunset getting another tattoo. Daniel stared at the billboard for a long time. Much of it was hidden by trees, but Daniel had considered using it earlier, and now he thought about using it again.

Daniel was watching the idiot in the Monte Carlo when a black limo passed and eased into Azzara's drive. Daniel remembered the tag. The same car had brought the Mexican from the airport, which meant it was now going to take him back.

Daniel thought, "Adios, muchacho."

Daniel was watching the limo when he caught a movement on the billboard through the trees. Someone was climbing down, and Daniel knew it was the dude with the arrows.

"MotherFUCK! He was watching the house!"

"Fuck, -uck, -uck."

Thirty seconds later, the tall dude ran across the street at the light, heading toward his Jeep. He must have seen the limo, too, and now he was going to follow.

Tobey boomed, "Kill'm, kill'm."

Cleo shrieked, "Get'm, get'm."

"We can't! We gotta stay on the house!"

Daniel smelled blood in the water, and knew he was close.

The Mexican, Azzara, a fat banger, and the cook came out and got into the limo. Daniel sat higher in the seat, and clenched the wheel until he thought his bones would pop through his skin. The cook and the waitress were separating, the cook going with the Mexican, the waitress staying at the house. Daniel was FUCKED!

Tobey murmured, "Mellow out, Daniel."

Cleo cooed, "Easy, dude, easy."

The limo backed out of the drive, then rolled up to Sunset.

"Easy, my ass! What about the cop? What if he bags the limo?"

Tobey said, "Let'm. He's after the Mexican."

Cleo said, "Take the waitress, Daniel. We'll figure it out, out."

Daniel felt as if his arms and legs were being yanked off at the joints, the cook ripping him in one direction, the waitress ripping him in another, but the voices were soothing. The voices helped him think.

Tobey whispered, "The waitress is here, get the waitress."

Cleo hissed, "The waitress will give you the cook."

Daniel knew they were right. He watched the limo disappear as it turned onto Sunset.

First he would take the waitress, then he would get the cook, and then he would have everything.

Elvis Cole

Cole wedged his phone under his ear, trying to reconcile what Pike was telling him. It felt as if Pike was describing one reality while Cole had been working to understand another.

"What you're telling me is these people are not being treated like prisoners."

"Four guards were outside the house, and at least two more were inside. You put guards on the outside, you're not keeping someone in, you're keeping someone out."

"I don't get it. How did a Trece crew go from shaking down Smith to being his host in three days?"

Pike didn't respond.

Cole said, "Feel free not to answer."

"The way they were shaking hands tells me it's business. The private jet tells me it's big business."

"You get the tail number?"

Cole copied the number as Pike recited it.

"Okay. I'll try to find out who owns it. Where are you going?"

"Back to Azzara's."

"Come here first. I want to go with you."

Cole thought for a moment, trying to sort out the new facts.

"Someone is hunting these people. We know that for sure. We thought it was Mendoza and Gomer, but it wasn't, and now Miguel Azzara is their best friend."

"Yes."

"Protecting them?"

"You go into business with people, you take care of them."

"I can't help wondering why a Trece street gang and Mexican cowboys with their own jet need to be in business with a man who fries oysters."

"I'll be there soon. We'll find out."

Cole spent the next ten minutes trying to identify the owners of Citation Jet XB-CCL, but had no luck. He was still on hold with the FAA when his call waiting told him Lucy Chenier was calling. He dropped the FAA and took Lucy's call.

Her voice was in full-on professional mode.

"Can you talk?"

"Absolutely. What did you find out?"

"I'm going to put you on speaker. Terry's here."

The sound qual ity went from crisp to hollow when she put him on speaker.

"Hey, Terry. Thanks for helping on this."

"Hey, man, no problem. You hear me okay?"

"Hear you fine."

Terry had a mellow voice with a woodsy Louisiana accent. He'd grown up in a family of police officers, and had been an officer himself before retiring to work as an investigator for Lucy's firm.

Lucy said, "So you know, we're in my office and we're alone. No one can hear what we say except you, me, and Terry."

"Okay."

"Are you by yourself?"

"Yeah. It's just us."

"Joe isn't there?"

"Not yet. He's on his way."

Cole wondered why she was being so legal.

"Okay. I'm emailing two pictures. Are you at your computer?"

"Will be. I'm going there now."

"Tell me if they're the people you know as Dru Rayne and Wilson Smith."

Her email was waiting when Cole reached his computer.

"Hang on. I'm opening it."

Cole wasn't surprised when the picture of Wilson Smith turned out to be a booking photo, but still felt a vague disappointment. The picture of Dru Rayne was a snapshot, showing her behind a bar, with her hair up, a crooked smile, and rainbows of cheap bracelets on her wrists. She was wearing a tight black T-shirt that read: Tip the Waitress or She'll Spit in Your Drink.

"Yeah. This is them."

Terry came back sounding pleased.

"Damn, boy."

Lucy said, "What we're about to tell you comes from a senior investigator with the Louisiana DOJ. Remember what I said about not being able to put the genie back in the bottle?"

"Are they going to call me?"

Terry spoke up again.

"He pressed me, buddy. I didn't give him your name or location, but five will get you six he's on the phone with the FBI. They're tracking a string of murders tied to this case, and the number is growing."

Cole felt a leaden I-knew-this-would-get-worse feeling as he stared at Smith's mug shot.

"Smith's a murderer?"

"Yeah, he probably is, but I'm not talking about him. At least eight and possibly nine murders have been committed by a person or persons trying to find the man you know as Wilson Smith."

Cole felt a cold tingle in the center of his chest. Pike was right-something way more dangerous than street-corner bangers had been in the Venice Canals.

"He found them. He's here."

Lucy and Terry spoke over each other, garbling each other's words before Lucy won out.

"How do you know he's found them?"

Cole told them about Mendoza and Gomer.

"We're not sure why they were watching the house, but they were found murdered the next morning. Joe believes they were murdered by someone who's looking for Wilson and Dru."

Terry's low voice was directed to Lucy.

"This isn't good. If this is the guy, we need to put our folks down here on his trail while it's hot."

"Elvis and I understand that, Terry. Tell him about Rainey."

Cole thought he heard Terry take a breath, almost as if he was trying to regain composure before he could get back to the business at hand.