Gregg Hurwitz - Troubleshooter

"We'll take it." Bear's rig, parked facing east, eased out and drifted behind her.

Tim eyed the run-down Pinto. The AT, no doubt, was secured in the trunk. They only had to follow it home.

"Just shadow her," Malane said. "Don't take her into custody until we get to the stash house. We don't want to alert-"

Wristwatch Annie turned the corner on foot, sliding along the fence line behind the restaurant. She fumbled with a set of keys, then climbed into the Pinto and sped off.

Ten vehicles in the surrounding four blocks went on alert.

They followed her in shifts, each pair of cars turning off after a few blocks to be replaced by another. Malane and Tim carried her into the finish, a well-kept single-story house in a middle-class section of Mar Vista. She pulled into an open garage, which closed immediately behind her. They drifted past, turned around, and parked up the block, waiting for SWAT to move in.

Tim sat, working sunflower seeds between his teeth, occasionally shaking the Coke bottle so the soggy shells inside gave off a wet rattle. His focus, like Malane's, remained on the platinum Jag convertible parked across the street from the house, though neither had commented on the obvious.

Malane keyed his radio. "Sully? You on the rear fence line?"

"Yup. Got the parabolic on the rear window. Want me to cut you in?"

"Please."

A faint transmission played through Malane's radio.

The sharp feminine voice said, "…we all eyeballed it now, so we start with a clean accounting sheet. I don't want one of you whining that ten cc's dropped out of the deal."

The Prophet's velvet voice: "We are agreed."

"Same goes for the cash. Count the down payment again now if you have to."

"It is all here."

"Seventy/thirty to the producer this round."

"I am aware of the deal."

"Then you won't mind touching all the bases so there's no misunderstandings. The deal's on consignment-the money down gets laid off against profit. We hold up our end, next one goes sixty/forty. Then an even split between producer and distributor. I handle the money coming and going. That's what you signed off on. Agreed?"

"That is correct. I look forward to a long collaboration."

Rustling.

"Wait. I have not tested the product."

There was a faint rumble of tires, and then, from all directions, black trucks poured onto the street. SWAT members hung off the vehicles, riding the running boards, their vest pouches bulging with flash bangs. The trucks stopped, sealing off the street and giving the target house a half-block buffer. SWAT pulled into entry formation, at least forty agents closing the divide on foot, an organized swarm of black flight suits. A Sheriff's bomb dog led the charge, positioned to check the front door for booby traps. Only now did Tim spot a rippling of bushes at the back fence line.

He clicked on the radio. "Bear? Take her. We're going in."

The no-knock entry would've made the ART squad proud. The battering ram left the door flat on the entrance floor for the agents to trample. Tim and Malane crossed the street at a jog. Inside, there were shouted commands and a few yells, but no gunshots. Smith amp; Wesson aimed at the floor, Tim rode in on the aftermath, the safest lineup position he'd ever taken on a kick-in. His heart was pounding nonetheless. He moved room to room in search of Den Laurey.

The Prophet, Dhul Faqar Al-Malik, lay facedown on the shag carpet of the living room, a streak of dust coloring his dark hair like a skunk's stripe. A still-packaged extraction needle lay on the carpet where he'd dropped it, beside a portable lab kit. The FBI agents had uncovered a modest weapons cache in the front closet.

A shrill voice said, "Get your fucking hands off me."

Tim stepped around the corner, where two agents were securing Dana Lake. She glared at Tim, her milky cheeks flushed a sunset shade of magenta. The money launderer-nice WASP name, clean record, just as Smiles had predicted.

"What was your cut, Dana?"

"This is ridiculous. I'm here to broker a surrender for my client."

Behind her, Wristwatch Annie was being frisked. She laughed into the carpet and said to the SWAT member, "Easy, tiger. Any more and it'll cost ya."

Two translucent balloons filled with clear liquid sat on an electronic scale. The digital readout glowed red: 2.015 KG. A few agents regarded the spheres with awe. The bomb dog sat beside the table, eyeing a pizza box on the kitchen counter with interest. Next to the scale, an open computer carrying case displayed packets of hundred-dollar bills. Agents stomped through the house, industrious as insects.

Tim asked the SWAT commander, "Where's Laurey? Is the house safed?"

"House is safed. No one else here."

"Are you sure? Are you positive? You checked the attic?"

"Yes, we checked the attic." He turned to one of his agents, forearm resting atop his MP5. "Who is this fucking guy?"

Malane interceded, grabbing the commander's arm and talking to him in a whispered rush as Tim stepped back and holstered his. 357. He checked the other rooms, moving desperately now, tearing aside shower curtains and dust ruffles. The FBI agents watched him with curiosity. Defeated, he returned to the living room.

Al-Malik's dark blazer had split along one of the arm seams, tufts of white thread sticking up at the shoulder. Seeing him now, Tim felt as he had when watching the televised army medic pick nits out of Saddam's beard: how disappointingly undersize monsters were in ordinary light.

Dana machine-gunned questions at the arresting agents: "What are you charging me with? Where's my phone call? Do you have a history of brutality, or are you starting fresh with this arrest?"

Malane stood beside her as she argued and jerked against the cuffs, calmly imploring her to sign an Advice of Rights form. Watching his levelheaded recitation, Tim felt a newfound respect for him. Maybe he'd misread some of Malane's earlier coolness.

Dana addressed Tim over Malane's shoulder. "Don't look at me, Rackley. You haven't won anything here."

He worked his lip between his teeth, his mind on Den Laurey cruising free as Peter Fonda, but without the fruity helmet.

"You've got some client list, Ms. Lake," Malane said. "Bikers and terrorists-hell, you've got a full roster. It's all about putting people together, isn't it? Putting them together while hiding behind attorney-client privilege. How many money launderers have you represented in the past five years?"

"Plenty. I'm a defense attorney."

"And a quick study, I'd imagine."

"These are baseless charges. They'll be dropped within twenty-four hours."

"Nice legalese on the Good Morning Vacations small print. Clever stuff."

"You have zero evidence to tie me to anything."

"Wrong answer," Malane said. "The correct answer is 'What's Good Morning Vacations?'"

Tim walked outside, sitting on a rickety porch swing. The neighbors were at their front doors and windows; a few kids circled behind the FBI trucks on their bikes, calling questions to the agents.

The SWAT commander hustled Al-Malik along the walk as a helicopter swooped over the rooftops and touched down on the street. Maybe the arrest would be announced on the evening news, maybe not. The Prophet would disappear into an unofficial holding cell somewhere, hidden in Homeland Security's long shadow, or he'd be shipped off to Guantanamo Bay, where international law-and the Constitution-couldn't get through the barbed wire and humidity. Watching Al-Malik being guided into the helo, Tim thought it likely that this was the last time he'd hear of him.

Tim reached Bear by Nextel; he and Guerrera had scooped up Babe Donovan and were headed back to Cell Block to book her.

Bear issued a grunt when Tim told him Den wasn't in custody. "I'll tell her her boyfriend won't be joining her."