Robert Crais - The First Rule

“It’s only two o’clock.”

“I know. But we want to be prepared in case he comes early.”

She gripped her big purse. The one with the gun.

“I don’t care if he see me or not.”

“I care. Get in the back.”

She scowled again, but got out, and climbed into the backseat. Pike adjusted the mirror so he could see her.

“Can you see the entry?”

“Yes.”

“Watch.”

“It’s only two o’clock. Will be hours before he come.”

“Watch.”

He expected her to fidget or try to make conversation, but she didn’t. She sat behind him, a second presence in the car, quiet and still, watching.

They watched for an hour and ten minutes, silent, as people came and went around them, parking, backing out, pushing buggies filled high with groceries. Rina did not move or speak for the entire time, but then she suddenly pulled herself forward, and pointed past his chin.

“That window on the top floor, on the side there away from the freeway. That was mine.”

Then she settled back and said nothing more.

Pike studied her in the rearview, but only for a moment. He didn’t want her to catch him staring.

An hour and twenty minutes later, she abruptly pulled herself forward again.

“That girl. She is one of the girls there. In the green.”

A young woman in black spandex shorts and a lime green top came around the corner and went to the glass door. Her dark hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and a large gym bag was slung over her shoulder. On her way back from the gym. She was lean and fit, but her breasts were too large to be natural. She looked very young.

Rina said, “You see? I know this girl when they bring her here. They make her waitress, and then she dance.”

“Stripper.”

“Yes. And this.”

The girl let herself into the lobby, then pushed a button for the elevator.

Fifteen minutes later, Rina pulled forward again.

“There. In the black car.”

A black BMW convertible turned off Sepulveda and crept past the building as if looking for a parking place. The driver was a white male in his twenties with a thick neck and long, limp hair. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled, a day-old beard, and mirrored sunglasses.

Pike hit the speed dial for Cole.

Three cars away, Cole glanced over as he raised his phone.

“What’s up?”

“The black convertible.”

Cole glanced at the street.

“I’ll get Jon.”

Pike lowered the phone, but didn’t end the call. Cole was using a second phone to put Stone in the loop. They had planned on multiple phones to maintain constant contact.

The BMW reached the stop sign, but instead of circling the building to park on the street, the driver turned into the parking lot.

“Get down.”

Rina slumped down in her seat without question, but lifted her head enough to see.

The Beemer passed behind Pike’s Jeep and Cole’s Corvette, then turned onto the next row and parked by the sidewalk. The driver got out, stepped over a low hedge, then crossed the street. Pike made him for his late twenties, maybe average in height but with a heavy frame. He looked like a hitter, and probably thought he was good at it. He let himself into the building with his own key.

Pike said, “Here’s where you leave.”

Rina went directly to Cole’s Corvette, and got in as they had planned. She did not dawdle, stare, or draw attention to herself. Pike liked that about her.

Cole’s voice came from the phone.

“You want Jon to come in?”

“I’m good. Get her gone.”

Cole backed away, and cruised out of the parking lot.

The bagman was inside for less than ten minutes. For him, picking up cash from four prostitutes was just another stop in a day filled with stops-something to be accomplished quickly, and without wasted energy. The girls probably felt the same.

When the man merged from the building, Pike stepped out of the Jeep, but hung back to be sure he was returning to his car. When the man angled toward the Beemer, Pike made as if he was heading for a nearby car, but Darko’s boy never once looked at him. He passed in front of Pike within ten feet and swung around the Beemer’s rear end. As he opened the door, Pike closed the gap. When the bagman slid in behind the wheel, Pike came up along the passenger’s side, and lifted himself over the door and into the passenger’s seat.

The man lurched in surprise, but by then it was too late. Pike showed him the.357, down low so no one could see.

“Sh.”

The man’s eyes went wide as oncoming headlights, but he was a burly guy who was used to muscling people. He lunged for Pike’s gun, but Pike rolled his hands down and away with a minor wing chun deflection, and snapped the Python up hard into the bottom of the man’s chin, popping his jaw like a rat trap. The Python flicked again, and this time Pike hit him in the Adam’s apple.

The bagman clutched at his throat, choking. His face turned bright red.

Pike took the key from his hand, fit it into the ignition, the convertible top. He had to keep the button depressed throughout the process, but that was okay. His arm was a steel bar with his tattoo in the bagman’s face. Pike wanted him to see the red arrow.

Pike didn’t move or speak until the top was in place and the windows were closed, and neither did the bagman. He was too busy trying to breathe.

Pike said, “Grab the wheel. Both hands.”

He grabbed the wheel.

“Try to escape, I’ll kill you. Try to grab this weapon again, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

“This is a mistake, my man. I don’t know what you-”

Pike backfisted him hard on his temple, striking so fast the man had no time to react. His head bounced off the window, and Pike caught him again on the rebound. The second backfist made his eyes flag.

Pike jerked him upright, then dug his thumb into a nerve bundle between the man’s ribs. The man moaned, and pushed weakly at Pike’s hand, so Pike hit him again. The man covered his head.

Pike said, “Grab the wheel. Grab it.”

The man grabbed the wheel with both hands.

“Try to escape, I’ll kill you. Try to take this weapon again, I will kill you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Jesus, stop hitting me. Please-”

“If you let go of the wheel again, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

The man’s knuckles turned white as he tightened his grip. Blood from his mouth dripped onto his shirt, and the corner of his eye at his temple was swelling.

Pike said, “What’s your name?”

“Vasa.”

“I’m going to search you, Vasa. Don’t let go of the wheel. Do not r esist.”

Pike went through Vasa’s pockets, finding a black ostrich wallet, a Nokia cell phone, and four thin vinyl billfolds.

Pike said, “One from each girl?”

“Yes.”

“They have the money ready? You stop by, they give it to you?”

“You know who this belongs to?”

“Me.”

Pike thumbed through the bills, mostly hundreds and twenties, and counted out thirty-eight hundred. He tucked the money into his pocket.

“Where’s the rest?”

Vasa blinked at him.

“What rest? That’s it.”

Pike stared into Vasa’s eyes, and finally Vasa sighed.

“Under the seat.”

Pike found another seventy-three hundred dollars under the seat, and added it to the cash in his pocket. That made eleven thousand, one hundred dollars of Darko’s money.

Pike studied Vasa. He stared at Vasa so long, the man turned away.

“Why are you staring at me? Who are you?”

“My name is Pike. Say it.”

“You are Pike?”

“Say the name. Say it.”

“Pike. I say it. You are Pike.”