Robert Crais - The First Rule

“That’s him. The fuckin’ guy-”

The four men at the tables didn’t move. The muscular guy didn’t reach for his gun. They sat perfectly still.

Pike said, “I’m looking for Michael Darko.”

The oldest was a heavy man with large bones, thick wrists, and small eyes. Three of the four wore short-sleeved shirts, two showing skin that had been inked up with Eastern Bloc prison tats back in the old country.

The oldest man said, “I have never heard of this man. You have come to the wrong place.”

Two vinyl billfolds identical to the ones Pike took from Vasa were on the bar, along with a brown leather briefcase. Just sitting there, as if someone was in the middle of business when Vasa rushed in to tell his story. Pike moved toward the bar, and the muscular man stood.

He said, “Get the fuck out of here.”

When Pike reached the end of the bar, the furry man behind the bar shoved the beer keg aside and charged. He threw up his forearms like an offensive lineman blocking a defensive back, but Pike slipped to the side, pushed the man’s elbow down and away, caught his head, and rolled him into the floor. Third of a second once contact was made, and Pike was on his feet, watching the muscular man rush toward him in slow motion as the three other men, even more slowly, jumped to their feet.

The muscular man reached under his shirt even as he pushed past the tables. Pike did not try to stop the gun; he rolled his hand under the man’s wrist, drove the man’s arm over and back, and pulled him backward and down. Pike had the gun before the man slammed into the floor, and hit him on the forehead with it two hard times, even as Jon Stone’s voice cut through the gloom.

“Freeze, motherfuckers!”

The three men at the tables, on their feet now, raised their hands.

Jon stood just inside the door with an M4 carbine, painted up nicely in desert camo. Never taking his eyes from the men, Stone closed and locked the door, sealing the building. He grinned at Pike.

“Always wanted to say that.”

Pike checked the man’s pistol, then went through his pockets.

The man with the gold chains said, “What is it you want?”

Stone stepped forward, the grin suddenly gone, all fierce lines in full-on combat mode.

“Shut it, bitch. You will not speak unless spoken to.”

Pike found a wallet, keys, and cell phone, then stood away. He waved toward the floor with the pistol.

“Knees. Fingers laced behind your head.”

Stone kicked the nearest man down, and the others hurried into position.

Pike returned to the man with the enormous belly. His eyes were open, but unfocused, and he made no move to rise. Pike came away with a neat little.40-caliber pistol. He put everything on the bar with the vinyl billfolds, then returned to Stone’s prisoners, and searched them as well. None were armed, and none spoke while he went through their pockets, collecting their things.

When Pike finished, he returned to the bar and checked the vinyl billfolds. They were filled with cash. He opened the briefcase. More cash, a metal skimmer used to steal credit card information, and what looked like business papers. He put the two pistols and the other things he had taken from the men into the briefcase, closed it, then carried it back to the men. They watched him the way a cat trapped by a window watches a bird.

Pike said, “Darko?”

The older man shook his head.

“You are making a mistake.”

Behind them, Stone’s voice was soft.

“Maybe these fuckers were there that night. Maybe one of them gunned Frank.”

Pike said, “Vasa, do you remember my name?”

“You are Pike.”

The older man said, “You are dead man.”

Stone snapped the M4 into the back of his head. The man fell like a bag of wet towels and did not move. Vasa and the other man stared at his unconscious form for a moment, and now their eyes were frightened.

Pike dangled the briefcase, showing them.

“Everything Darko owns is mine. Darko is mine. This bar is mine. If you’re here when I come back, I’ll kill you.”

The other big man, the one still awake, squinted as if Pike was hidden by fog.

“You are insane.”

“Close this place now. Lock it. Tell him I’m coming.”

Pike left with the briefcase, and Stone followed him out. They went directly to Pike’s Jeep, then drove around the corner to Stone’s Rover. When they stopped, Stone opened the briefcase. He pushed the cash packs aside, and frowned.

“Hey, what is this shit?”

Pike fingered through the pages, clocking the columns of numbers organized by business, and realized what they had.

“Our next targets.”

He opened his phone to call Cole.

They met back at Cole’s house to go through the papers. Rina recog nized them immediately.

“They are gas stations.”

Stone said, “What the fuck?”

Cole thought the pages were bookkeeping ledgers, accounting for income from All-American Best Price Gas, Down Home Petroleum, and Super Star Service.

Cole said, “Super Star Service is right down the hill in Hollywood. One of those indie places.”

Rina nodded.

“You see? He make much money there. Very much. Maybe more than anywhere else.”

Stone said, “Bullshit. How much dough can he make selling gas?”

“You are an idiot. He not make the money selling gas. He steals the credit card information.”

Cole said, “It’s a skimmer rip-off. He’s doing credit card fraud.”

Cole explained how it worked. Darko’s people connected a skimmer sleeve to the card reader inside each gas pump, along with an altered keypad over the pump’s actual keypad. This allowed them to collect credit card and PIN information every time a customer swiped a credit card or used a debit card to pay for gas. Darko’s fraud crew then used this information to create new credit and debit cards, with which they could drain the victims’ debit accounts or run up huge charges before the victims or credit card companies froze the accounts.

“Each of these skimmers is worth anywhere from a hundred thousand to one-fifty a month in goods and cash, times however many skimmers he has in the three stations.”

Now Jon Stone made a little whistle, and laughed.

“Pretty soon you’re talking real money.”

Then he frowned.

“But waitaminute-if there’s no cash, what are we gonna steal?”

Pike said, “His machines.”

Cole nodded.

“Bust them right out of the pumps. Pop out the skimmers and keypads, he’s bleeding way bigger money than he earns from his prostitutes.”

Stone said, “Busting shit up. Now you’re talking, bro. Let’s get it going.”

Pike stopped him.

“Tomorrow. We want to pace it out, give him time to hear about what happened today, let him get angry about it. Tomorrow, we take him down one by one, pace it out over the day.”

“And sooner or later the enforcers show up.”

“That’s the idea.”

This was called baiting the enemy-Pike would pattern his actions to create an expectation, forcing the enemy to act on that expectation.

Later, Pike drove Rina back to the guesthouse. They rode in silence most of the way, she on her side of the Jeep, he on his. Up on Sunset, the kids were already lined up outside the Roxy, but Rina didn’t look. She stared out the window, thoughtful.

Yanni’s truck was at the curb when they pulled up.

Pike said, “You’re not coming tomorrow. No need for it. I’ll let you know what happened after.”

He thought she would object, but she didn’t. She studied him for a moment, and made no move to open the door.

“This is very much that you do. For this, I thank you.”

“Not just for you. For Frank and for myself, too.”