Gregg Hurwitz - Troubleshooter

Malane and Tim moved through the commotion, Bear and Guerrera at their backs. They breached the front door, heading up the stairs, handguns drawn but pointed at the floor. A few of Pete's deeds, marked by missing pinkies, slithered past them in the narrow upstairs halls, running to safety. The sounds of energetic sex issued from Uncle Pete's room, interrupted at intervals by a whirring noise.

Tim pushed open the door with his foot, keeping both hands on his. 357. Uncle Pete sat in the darkness, an immense shadow, the light of the TV turning his face watery blue. Hound Dog sat at his side, and he stroked the poodle's topknot absentmindedly, eyes glued to the screen session. His other hand commanded the remote control resting on the arm of his padded lounge chair. His fat fingers twitched, and the porn tape fast-forwarded, played, fast-forwarded. Wearing boxers and a wife-beater undershirt, he filled every crevice of the chair. Hound Dog's black-marble eyes pulled over to Tim, his upper lip wrinkling in a silent growl. As they approached, he rose to all fours, snarling. Bear snapped his fingers, and the poodle sat back down and lowered his head to his paws.

Keeping his eyes on the screen, Uncle Pete said, "Howdy, Trouble. I heard yer grand entrance down there."

"You told me to come back with formal charges and a warrant," Tim said. "Here I am."

From downstairs came the boot vibrations of agents taking over the house.

Emitting a groan of exertion, Pete reached for his cell phone on the floor. "I gotta call my lawyer."

"We'll save you your daytime minutes," Tim said. "Hell, we'll put you in the same cell as her."

To his credit, Uncle Pete didn't give up much. His eyes widened a touch, the lines smoothing from his forehead, and his hair seemed to shift back slightly on his skull. But he didn't so much as turn.

He bobbed his massive head, settling back into his chair. "Let me wait for the money shot."

He fast forwarded a few more seconds, then let the tape play. Sounds of explosive release. He nodded at the screen. "Atta boy, Peter North."

With great effort he pulled himself to his feet and offered Tim his wrists.

The detention enforcement officer waited respectfully, key in hand. Tim pressed his knuckles on the cool steel door, gathering his focus. The command post was humming with activity; he'd slipped out unnoticed. By comparison Cell Block was peaceful, the quiet broken only by the squeak of boots on tile and the incessant hacking of a prisoner a few cells over.

The search of the clubhouse had turned up all order of incriminating evidence to shore up the case against Uncle Pete. Dana Lake's files would likely prove a treasure trove, but first the FBI would have to navigate through a minefield of legalities regarding confidentiality-the U.S. Attorney's office was on it full bore and feeling more confident than Tim had seen them regarding a major case. On his way into the command post, he'd caught Winston Smith, the AUSA, whistling in the hall in an uncharacteristic show of buoyancy.

Bear and Guerrera had followed Babe Donovan back to an apartment in West L.A., where they'd made the arrest. In the laundry room, they'd discovered a laminating machine around which were scattered the raw materials from a number of forged IDs, including an access card for a Burbank Airport maintenance worker. They'd also found a drawerful of badges from different law-enforcement agencies, awards for successful assassinations. The Cadillac Miller Meteor hearse had been hiding in the covered garage. An elderly neighbor reported that Babe used to park a yellow Volvo in her second space, the same make and model of the car left behind on the 10 freeway to clog traffic minutes before Den and Kaner's break. The building's garage security camera confirmed the plates; the Volvo tied Babe to the murder of two federal officers and a civilian.

Six hours after the clubhouse raid, the deputies continued to sift through seized papers. From the first wave of analysis, Smith was preparing to indict eleven other Sinners. Tannino had stopped by the post to declare that they had enough to sink the organization.

But, not surprisingly, nothing had turned up on Den Laurey.

Tim had put out alerts at the borders and airports and BOLOs to all agencies in the surrounding states. He'd contacted law enforcement in each city where the Sinners had a chapter, urging increased surveillance. The Service's public-information officer had released a selection of Den's photos to the news stations and was negotiating with the Times for tomorrow's front page. The more time passed, the greater likelihood that Den would slip away. And after a while Dray's assailant would recede into the Top 15, his face becoming one of many in the lineup of flyers posted in the admin corridor at the rear of the courthouse. Unsolved cases. Open investigations. Dangerous individuals whose pictures the deputies walked past every day on their way to new business.

Tim nodded, and the officer pulled back the steel door. Through the mesh gate, Tim could see Babe sitting on the molded plastic bench, her legs spread in a slightly masculine manner. He entered and stood opposite her.

Her feathered hair, seventies sexy, stood up in the back from her leaning against the wall. She had a big-perhaps enhanced-chest but a petite frame, so the orange jumpsuit bagged around her like a clown costume. A band of sunburn saddled her pug nose. Her surprising cobalt eyes remained impenetrable, but her face had loosened with fear or dread, her jaw held slightly forward as if to control her breathing. For the first time, Tim saw her as a kid, not far removed from college girls or the daughters of his older colleagues. Her file showed she was from a middle-class family. She'd taken a wrong turn and wound up on the back of a Harley and now here. It was almost hard to believe the role she'd willingly played in Den Laurey's assault on Greater Los Angeles.

"Hello, Ms. Donovan. I'm Tim Rackley."

She pulled her head back, regarding him over her nose. "You got a smoke?"

"Not on me, no." He crouched, bringing himself eye level. "There's no way around you doing some time, but I can help you."

"If I sell out my man? You gotta be joking."

"You're looking at a lot of time, Babe. Maybe life."

"So what? You can live on the inside. You can have a life on the inside."

"Who told you that? Den?"

"No, it wasn't him. We've had plenty of family go down."

"Being inside is hell, Babe. A year feels like a lifetime. After a few you won't remember who you are now. It's not a life."

"Neither's being a traitor. You citizens don't understand that."

"You don't think taking marching orders from bin Laden is being a traitor?"

"Sinners don't take orders from no one. Least of all a bunch of ragheads."

"So think for yourself now, Babe. This is the end of the road for you. It's the end of the road for Den, too. Help us close this thing out without anyone else getting killed."

She made a derisive noise deep in her throat. "Man, you're clueless. Even if I didn't love the Man-which I fucking do more than anything-selling out a Sinner is the lowest thing a member of the family can do. The lowest. There's a code, and you don't break it. No matter what."

"But you're not a Sinner." He watched the rage flare in her shiny eyes; his remark had cut her deep. He continued, more placatingly, "If you help us find him, we'll have a better shot at taking him alive. We can plan the takedown better. Control the situation. Make sure he doesn't end up coming in in a body bag."

"Why? So he can get the lethal injection or the chair or whatever you fuckers use nowadays? No way. We both know why you're here. You don't know where he is. And when the Man doesn't want to be found, he doesn't get found. You don't stand a chance."