Gregg Hurwitz - Troubleshooter

At a wide bend, she slowed, and her free hand went inside her jacket. A manila envelope took flight, landing at the feet of a biker parked on the dirt apron. The biker crouched and flipped up his wind visor to peruse the envelope's contents.

Tim rolled through the turn, and his headlights swept across Den Laurey's face.

Tim hit the brakes, and for an instant the two men regarded each other through the windshield. The split second of shock passed, and then Tim's gun was out, the PA at his lips. Den hopped onto his bike, which faced the Buick.

"Get off that bike now!"

Den spun the Harley in a half circle, throwing up a sheet of dust. Breaking Service policy, Tim fired a warning shot out the open window. Den revved the engine but didn't take off. Finally he turned, the insect bulge of his helmet fixed on the gun pointed at his shoulders.

"Turn off your motor. Throw your keys to your right. No-do not put down your kickstand!"

Den remained on his tiptoes, forced to balance the weighty bike.

Tim alternated the PA with the push-to-talk mike of the dashboard Motorola. "Request immediate backup following high-risk motorcycle stop on Den Laurey."

The CSO responded from the comm center downtown, his voice ratcheting high with excitement. "Where are you?"

Tim paused, frustrated with himself. "The Malibu hills. I'm not sure exactly where-check my location with OnStar. Do we have any units available in Malibu or Simi?"

"Hang on, lemme see who's on the air."

Den bristled restlessly. Tim got back on the PA. "Take off your helmet. Throw it to the right. Now!" The helmet bounced once and rolled a few feet down the slope.

The CSO came back in his ear: "It's a twenty-minute ETA."

"Then contact the watch commander at the Malibu/Lost Hills Sheriff's Station, give him my bearings, tell him to get a few units up here ASAP. This won't wait."

"Ten-four."

Tim eased out of the car and stood, both hands on the. 357, his wrists resting on the V created by the open door. A faint breeze blew musky canyon smells across his face-sage, eucalyptus, dirt, and leaves commingled in a marijuana-like sweetness. Despite the December night, his neck tingled with sweat. Due to the sudden nature of the encounter, Tim hadn't been able to locate the stop to his advantage. The curve left blind road in front of and behind them. At the edge of his vision ahead, the narrow road split three ways. Through traffic would be disruptive-and provide Den opportunities.

A knucklehead engine powered Den's Harley cutaway, the row of bulky nuts on the right side sticking up like an iron fist. The front wheel was barely raked out, maybe a few degrees, flame-decorated extensions lengthening the front fork.

Holding a shooting stance, Tim slowly approached. Den shifted slightly, his right leg tensing to take more of the bike's weight. Tim froze, a red flag rising. His eyes picked over Den's back and the motionless bike.

Crosshairs had been etched on the left rearview mirror. The left grip, pointing back at Tim, terminated in a hole, the bore of a jerry-rigged shotgun hidden in the handlebar.

Tim shuffled quickly to the side, out of the scatter radius, holding the gun on Den's head.

"Put down your kickstand. Put it down! Dismount on your right. On your right."

Den had to turn unnaturally to dismount on the wrong side, presenting Tim with a full view of his body and hands. His road-filthy jacket didn't feature the more visible rockers and flaming skull on the back, but the front bore his markings, safe from the view of drivers. A scattering of upside-down cop patches for the officers the nomads had killed. The ubiquitous 1% triangle. A rectangular in-memory-of patch, NIGGER STEVE written in block letters. Tim felt his stomach tighten when he took in the two upside-down U.S. Marshals Service patches, not yet dulled by road wear.

Den's face, bearing a few days' stubble, remained relaxed. He offered a disarming smile. "This ain't gonna end well for you."

The sight of the patches had put a charge into Tim; he did a poor job keeping the anger from his voice. "Turn around. On your knees. Lace your hands behind your head. Good boy, you know the drill." He eased forward, holding his. 357 steady, his other hand going to the cuffs at his belt.

Den's shoulders started shaking, and then Tim heard a low, ticking chuckle.

The crackle of a Harley engine disrupted the night. Then another. Within seconds two Harleys materialized, skidding up on the dirt plateau to flank Den protectively. The helmeted drivers, like Den, wore plain leathers in place of their originals. The larger of the two-Kaner-showed off arms covered with ink, the Illustrated Man on growth hormones. Double-looped around his neck hung an impeccably cleaned motorcycle drive chain. Its silver links, unblackened by grease, were surprisingly elegant. Whereas Den radiated quiet menace, Kaner was all brute force-head-on posture, wide fighter's stance, chin pulled back over blocklike shoulders as if he'd just reared up to his nearly seven feet.

A spill of white hair collected at his partner's collar beneath the helmet-Tom-Tom the towhead.

They were too close, almost right on top of Tim. His voice came out hoarse. "Hands up! Hands up!"

His eyes flicked to Den's discarded helmet, the tentacle of a wire mike floating below the visor to provide hands-free radio communication with the other bikers. The nomads were traveling close for protection but riding separate to stay inconspicuous.

The night chill filled Tim's nostrils, his lungs. Keeping his gun level at Den's head, he began a cautious retreat to his car-the distance would give him a better shot at holding all three in his scope. When the other bikers moved, Tim jerked the gun to cover them, and they held up their hands casually, as if amused.

"Lugathat," Tom-Tom said. "Guess he's got the sitwayshun under control."

The sound of two more bikes approaching, this time from behind Tim, sped his pace. He ducked behind his open door, reaching for the mike of his radio as the bikes swept past. They stopped about ten yards back from the others, where Tim couldn't effectively cover them. Another Harley and an Indian. Chief's helmet tilted in mock greeting. The bikers turned off their engines, one after another, until the night held only a dizzying silence and a few crickets scratching their legs disharmoniously. Four helmeted heads pointed at Tim intently, the alien, eyeless stares of the dark wind visors projecting threat.

Tim heard his breath as an echo in his chest, his gun flashing left and right as he tried to keep everyone pinned down. When he spoke into the radio, he could hear the slight tremor in his voice. "I have all the Sinner nomads here. Repeat: all the Sinner nomads. I'm outnumbered and need backup immediately."

Den lowered his hands and rose from his knees, keeping his back to Tim. His breath fogged over his shoulder. He turned slowly, his profile cut cleanly from the glow of Kaner's headlight.

"Sheriff's gave me a ten-minute ETA." The CSO sounded a touch panicked himself. "That's the quickest we got, Rack. Want me to stay on with you?"

Tim released the mike, the coiled cord sucking it back across the seat.

He sighted on Den's critical mass, but the others in his periphery were moving, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Kaner tugged the drive chain from his neck and wrapped it once around his forearm like a flexible bludgeon. Tom-Tom pulled the sissy bar free from his bike, its filed points rising into view, and wielded it like a double lance. The red road flare latched to Chief's frame transformed into a pipe shotgun in his hands. Goat slid off his bike, twisting his gas cap to reveal the hunting knife welded to the inside. Tim swung his gun over to Chief, who had the only firearm, but then a handgun appeared at Den's side, pressed to his thigh.