Gregg Hurwitz - Troubleshooter

As the injured officer howled and crawled away from the scuffle, the other two hammered Kaner against the wall, struggling to hold him in place. One dropped to all fours, reaching under the shield and pulling Kaner's feet out from under him. Kaner hit the concrete hard, banging his head. While he was dazed, they got him in a restraint hold and moved him out of the cell, four detention enforcement officers leaping in to help.

"Put him in the interview room next to Booking," Tim said. "Cuff wrists and ankles to the chair."

Kaner lunged at Tim as he was dragged past, cursing, spittle flying from his lips with the effort.

Bear's breath passed through his teeth as a whistle. They followed at a distance. A one-way mirror occupied a wall of the spacious interview room, a cardboard box below it. In the far corner, a metal chair was bolted to the floor. The officers double-cuffed each of Kaner's limbs to the chair and left him with Tim, Bear, and Guerrera. Kaner strained against the cuffs, throwing his weight violently from side to side, trying to budge the chair. Bear stepped forward, but Tim held up his hand. Kaner thrashed and swore for about ten minutes, finally settling back in exhausted defeat.

He was massive, overflowing the chair. A shadow cut his face in half. Same shock of black hair from the photos, same fleshy ears, like cuts of meat, laid flat to the skull. His forearms were like bars, barely tapering at the wrists. The cuffs rustled against the chair when he stirred, detention wind chimes. The windowless room smelled of his sweat, strong and musky.

Tim took a step closer. Finally at close quarters with a Sinner nomad. Tim's first chance to address one of the outlaws present when Dray had been shot. He forgot about Tannino and Malane behind the mirror; he forgot about everything but himself and Kaner and the brief stretch of concrete separating them. His anger made him numb; it altered his depth perception so he saw Kaner's features as juts and recesses.

He drew his gun, aiming at Kaner's head. Kaner regarded him with curiosity.

Tim tossed the keys to Guerrera. "Uncuff him."

Guerrera looked at Tim with concern and maybe a little excitement.

"Temper tantrum's over," Tim said. "We're all grown-ups here. We can share the sandbox. Can't we?"

Disheveled from his struggling, Kaner settled back in his chair and smirked. "Sure thing." His larynx sounded one step short of cancerous.

Guerrera freed his wrists from behind but left his ankles cuffed to the chair legs. Tim kept his. 357 raised until Guerrera had moved out of Kaner's reach, then lowered it. Kaner rubbed his left wrist, where the handcuff had drawn blood during the in-cell takedown. Dangerous eyes gleamed through the wisps of hair.

"You might have noticed we were looking for you," Tim said. "Where you been?"

Kaner offered a docile grin. "Oh, here and there."

"Is that right."

It was odd to have hostility and civility juxtaposed so quickly.

"Where's Den Laurey?"

"Haven't the foggiest."

"I know you're coordinating plans. Where is he?"

"Hey, man, we do our own thing. I don't know where he holes up, he don't know where I do. That way one of us gets popped, the other's in the clear." He ran a strangely wide, flat tongue across his teeth.

"I don't believe you. I think you know where Den Laurey is. I think you know where he sleeps."

"Why you so fixated on the Man?"

"I want to send him flowers."

"You can't catch the Man. The Man's an apparition. Only reason you got him last time is he didn't know you were looking. But now, hell, you can't do nothin' but ride his wake."

Bear tried a new tack, probably because Tim wasn't making headway. "That T-shirt supposed to keep the boys off your back in the pen? Maybe we put you in general pop at MDC, let you play catch-up with a few Cholo Rovers."

"You dumb fuck. There's no rival clubs in prison. On the inside we're all brothers."

"Even the spics?" Guerrera asked. "I'm not sure they'd agree after the Palmdale massacre."

"'The Palmdale massacre.'" Kaner sucked his teeth. "Got a ring, don't it?"

Bear poked around in the cardboard box. "Hey, guess what we got in here?"

"Michael Jackson's nose."

Bear withdrew Kaner's drive chain. He whipped the concrete floor with it. Kaner regarded him, a hint of nervousness creasing his features. But Bear turned away, looping the drive chain around his neck and admiring himself in the one-way. "What do you think?"

Kaner's face rearranged itself into a sneer.

"I think it's a great look," Bear continued, still preening in the mirror. "But how do you get around your grease problems? Ajax? Bleach? Or do you order direct from the Village People?"

Kaner smirked at some private thought. "You hate me because I'm different. I hate you because you're all the same."

"No," Tim said, "we hate you because you kill people."

Kaner shrugged. "Trample the weak, hurdle the dead."

"You should start a bumper-sticker factory," Bear said. "All these aphorisms. How do you guys come up with them? Do you sit around the clubhouse, going, 'Stomp on the weak, leap over the dead. No, that's not right. It just doesn't sing.'"

"Let's get something straight. I'm not gonna tell you shit. No matter what. So all this business"-Kaner waved a hand around-"you ain't gonna get a rise outta me."

"Hey, wait," Bear said, still doing his shtick. "Something's missing." He dug through Kaner's personals in the cardboard box, then halted, snapping his fingers. "Hey, I know."

He strolled out into the hall and returned with an article of clothing encased in dry-cleaning wrap. He hung it on the door and stripped away the cellophane to reveal Kaner's originals. The collar had been starched, and the leather was now pristine; even the patches seemed to shine.

Kaner made a noise like a gurgle deep in his throat and charged off the chair. The ankle cuffs held firm, and he slapped against the floor, where he seemed to remember his predicament. Calmly, though without grace, he restored himself to the chair, his eyes eerily calm.

He gestured with a flick of his chin. "That's a declaration of war."

"Haven't you heard?" Bear said. "We're already at war, mother-fucker."

Tim pushed forward, hard, trying to keep Kaner off balance. "We know about Allah's Tears. About Good Morning Vacations. About the girls. About the corpses. We know about everything."

Kaner couldn't keep the surprise from his face, but he covered quickly, a scowl tightening his features. "Not everything," he said. "Or you wouldn't be talking to me."

"That's a helluva scheme Uncle Pete dreamed up," Tim said.

"Who's saying Uncle Pete knows shit?"

"I am. It took us a while to figure out what you guys were up to, but we did."

"No shit it took a while. No one misses a spic bitch. Not even spics. They don't got no respect for their property, not like we do. No one fucks with my deed. No one."

"Not like you can fuck with Mexican girls." Tim moved closer, getting in Kaner's space, cutting off his view of Bear and Guerrera. A mano a mano confrontation. Whether Kaner talked or not, he was going away for life. His ass was already nailed on the escape offense and resultant murders. He had nothing to lose. If Tim pushed him hard enough, he hoped he could get him to flaunt his superiority.

"Damn straight."

"But you dumb fucks picked them at random. No plan."

"At random," Kaner repeated with disdain. "At random? Then why'd it take you so long to catch on? I'll tell you why: We dodged all the triggers."

"What triggers?"

"The triggers that make people notice. We needed chunky ones, but we knew to steer clear of pregnant broads. Brings too much static. Look what happened with Laci Peterson. Who needs that mess? You don't give people a reason to give a shit in this country, they won't. That knocked-up deputy's on every channel. Kill a pregnant bitch, you got a news story. Kill a fat Mexican broad, hell, you got a statistic."