Robert Crais - The sentry

The woman did not speak to him or look at him, which was fine by Daniel. When her wrists were secure, he flipped her over and taped her mouth, a big silver rectangle that made her look like a robot. He liked her better that way.

They were on Wilshire Boulevard, in a parking lot across from the La Brea Tar Pits. Daniel liked the dying mammoth. There was this huge statue of a mammoth stuck in the tar like it was being sucked down to its death. Daniel enjoyed thinking about the big sonofabitch drownin' in tar. He wondered if the heat killed it first, maybe boilin' it to death before it drowned. That would be even better.

The satellite phone rang as he climbed into the front seat. The Bolivian. Daniel answered in his most professional, ass-slurping voice.

"This is Daniel. Do we have anything on the tag?"

Instead of answering Daniel's question, the fuckin' Bolivian launched into meaningless shit that ended with the inevitable question.

"I have Ms. Platt now. Yes, sir, she is in my possession. She is three feet away from me. No, sir, I do not have Mr. Rainey. He is with his Mexican friend, but I'll have him in a few minutes, and we'll have what we have."

Blah blah, rant. Blah blah, rant. Jesus, the man could go on.

Tobey said, "Fuck'm."

Cleo said, "Hang up, up."

Daniel was getting pissed off.

"Sir, were you able to pull anything off the tag? I'd like to know who I'm dealing with."

Fucker still didn't answer. Instead, he wanted to know why Daniel asked about the plate and how the man drivin' the Jeep was involved. Daniel felt put on the spot.

"I don't know how he's involved, sir. He was at Rainey's house at least once, and I saw him today at Azzara's. He clearly knows who these people are, and that means he's a problem."

More Bolivian ass gas. The guy had an endless supply.

"No, sir. I believe he followed the Mexican and Mr. Rainey back to the airport, but I can't know that for sure. I chose to take Ms. Platt."

Fuckin' Bolivian blew like a ripe pimple, screaming that the Mexican might have brought the fishmonger down to Mexico. This is why Daniel hated talking to the fuckers, all the screaming hysterics.

"Sir, Mr. Rainey is still in Los Angeles. Ms. Platt just spoke with him. Can we please get back to whatever you've learned? I have to move quickly."

The Bolivian puked up a wad of information about the dude with the arrows. Dude's name was Pike. A Force Recon Marine who became a police officer. Daniel heard that, he worried the guy was a Fed, but the Bolivian then said something interesting.

"Excuse me, sir, I want to be clear on this. He is no longer in law enforcement?"

Blah blah, blah blah.

"He's a mercenary? We know this for a fact?"

Daniel listened more carefully. The arrow dude shit-canned off the cops, then became a gun for hire, and had worked for the top Private Military Corporations out of London and Washington in conflicts all over the world, including Central America. Daniel thought, cool, and wondered if they had ever crossed paths. The cartels hired mercs from time to time, and so did the governments who fought the cartels. Daniel never met one of those boys he couldn't kill.

"Do we know who he's working for?"

The Bolivian didn't have a whole lot to say. They were asking around, still trying to find out, blah blah blah. Daniel wondered if the man was being evasive.

"I have to go, sir. The next time we speak, I'll have more good news. That's a promise."

More overblown, effusive praise for Daniel's efforts.

"Thank you, sir. Really. You're too kind."

Dickweed.

Daniel killed the link.

Tobey's giggle echoed in his ear.

"You're too kind, that's a good one."

Cleo joined in.

"Too kind, what an ass potato."

They sounded like chipmunks.

"Would you two shut up?"

"Up-"

"-up."

Daniel stared at the mammoth stuck in the sludge, head back, tusks high, like it was begging God to pluck it from the muck. He wondered if the Bolivian was lying about the arrow dude. If the guy was a merc, then maybe the Bolivians had hired the sonofabitch to find Rainey and Platt just like they hired Daniel. Maybe they fed him all the same information, and had given him all the shit they learned from Daniel. These things were possible and made Daniel's head hurt. Made it hurt bad.

Tobey's calm voice soothed him.

"Stop it, Daniel."

Cleo's gentle echo comforted him.

"Make it stop, stop."

Daniel concentrated on the mammoth, trying to imagine what it felt like to be boiled in hot tar. Probably not so hot.

Tobey's laugh boomed like faraway gunshots.

"That's a good one, Daniel!"

Cleo laughed, too. Like revved-up chainsaws.

"You're killin' me, killin' me!"

Daniel pushed the paranoia aside. Either the Bolivians were fuckin' him or they weren't, and they probably weren't. Even the Bolivians weren't stupid enough to fuck with a werewolf.

The dude with the arrows had probably heard about the reward, and was working for himself. Daniel was fine with it. Being a mercenary meant the guy was in it for the money, which meant he could always be bought if it came to that, but for all Daniel knew, the dumb asswipe lost Rainey and stopped off for a hamburger. Daniel might never see the tattooed, sunglasses-wearing asscheese again.

Tobey gently chided him.

"Let's not be stupid."

"Stupid, stupid."

The boys were right. If the Bolivians hadn't fed the arrow dude information, then the guy was fuckin' good. Way he showed up at the canal, way he popped up on the billboard-this guy was dangerous good.

Daniel picked up the woman's phone, and looked at her. She was lying back there like she was dead. Daniel liked'm that way.

"Your fuckin' boyfriend better call soon. I'm gettin' anxious."

She didn't move. Not even a twitch. Just stared at him with these narrow, watchful eyes. Like she was thinking.

Daniel jiggled the phone, and smiled at her.

The deader the better.

Both ends of Azzara's street were blocked by black-and-white radio cars when Button and Futardo arrived. By then, LAPD barriers and yellow crime-scene tape ran from the house to the street, and Hector's Monte Carlo was hidden by a collapsible screen. Hollywood Station owned the crime scene, but the Malevos Pacificos and Venice Trece belonged to Button.

Button hammered Pike and Cole with questions as they walked through the scene, but Pike wanted him focused on Azzara.

"We believe he returned here from the airport because his car is missing. He drives a black Prius. Get his tag, and put it out to patrol."

"Did Azzara kill these people?"

Cole said, "We told you who killed them. Azzara probably has Rainey, and one or both of them can probably help find Rose Platt."

Cole showed them William Rainey's booking photo.

"I wrote Rainey's file number on the back. Call the Louisiana Department of Justice. They'll back up what we're saying."

Button's jaw worked as he stared at the photo, but he handed it to Futardo.

"Call down there and see if you can find someone who knows about this."

Futardo started away, but Button stopped her.

"Hang on-before you call, pull Azzara's DMV and give it to the patrol commander. Tell him Azzara is a suspect in a multiple homicide. Tell him I'll call him as soon as I can."

She started away again, but he stopped her again.

"Futardo. They give you any shit down in Louisiana, bring me the phone."

This time he let her go, and turned back to Pike.

"Twelve fucking million dollars, and this guy is making sandwiches in Venice?"

"Po'boys."

As Futardo left, a Pacific Station gang detective named Eduardo Valenti waved them over to the banger by the coffee table.

"I know this one, too. Bobby Ruiz, aka Lil Rok."