Gregg Hurwitz - The Program

Dray pressed a hand to the bridge of her nose. "No, no violence like that. The rules apply when it's our family on the line, too. If they don't, the rules don't mean shit. And we don't mean shit." She realized she was standing, and she eased herself down into a chair. A stampede of anxiety overtook her; she waited for the dust to settle. She couldn't survive another funeral. She couldn't endure identifying Tim's body, seeing the cold face beneath the Tom Altman-dyed hair and fake goatee. An idea sailed through her grief, setting her back in the chair.

"Bear?" Her voice was shaky, excited. "Bear, where's Leah's car?"

"Police impound lot. They towed it to the one on Aliso off Alameda. Why?"

"We gotta make a phone call."

Wearing dark slacks, twice-cuffed shirtsleeves, four-inch lifts, and a contentious scowl, Pete Krindon approached the heavyset city worker at the impound lot. The guy manned a station resembling a Hertz rental booth near the front gate. Behind the high-rising fences capped with barbed wire, Ferraris and Pintos commingled, an egalitarian paradise for the appropriated.

The worker tugged at his jowls and suspiciously regarded the biohazard-orange zippered bag swinging at Pete's side.

Pete's hand moved to his hip; a badge glinted, then disappeared. "Derek Cliffstone, Department of Homeland Security. I'm looking for a stolen Lexus IS 300, license plate four-xray-union-Paul-zero-two-two, impounded this A.M. from a Middle Eastern male, alias Leo Henderson."

"Leo Henderson?"

"Persian. They make 'em light-skinned, too, there, chief." Pete leaned forward in his oxblood loafers, the heel of his hand resting on his holstered Glock. He ran his tongue along the inside of his lower lip and spit on the curb. "Sometime today might be nice."

Pete set the orange bag on the counter as the worker drummed reluctantly on a computer keyboard.

"You want a look, you're gonna have to produce a warrant – wait, wait, wait!" The guy scrambled back off his seat. "The fuck is that?"

Pete finished tightening the rubber strap on his gas mask. He dug through a selection of filters, mumbling under his breath, "Anthrax, smallpox, sarin nerve gas – a ha, VX." He screwed the filter into place beneath the nose cup. "Sir, we have reason to believe the trunk of that vehicle might contain some hazardous material." His voice sounded metallic and alien. "Parking-space number, please."

Ashen, the guy stared at him.

"Parking-space number, please."

His hands sprang forward onto the keyboard, knocking over a cup of coffee. "Three eighty-five. In the northeast corner."

"Thank you. Please do not move from this spot, sir." Pete presented him with a business card, the Homeland Security seal glimmering in gold. "This is my supervisor's telephone number. Should you hear an explosion, please contact him immediately."

Before disappearing behind the first row of cars, Pete offered a salute that the baffled worker returned. Then he tugged off his mask and smoothed his fire-red locks back into place.

He found Leah's car quickly. Wriggling beneath, he affixed a transmitter to the undercarriage. He whistled as he strolled back, a classical piece he'd picked up from watching Bugs Bunny.

The worker was standing precisely where Pete had left him, frozen like a timorous four-year-old regarding a jack-in-the-box. His hefty frame settled with relief at Pete's reappearance.

"Wrong vehicle, chief. My apologies." Pete took his sweat-slick hand, nodded curtly, and headed for the street. "Your country thanks you."

When Bear kicked open the interrogation door, Henderson bolted upright in his chair. On the opposite side of the scarred wooden table, Thomas and Freed stood.

"Leave us."

Bear remained stone still in the doorway as the deputies exited.

Henderson started breathing hard. "I said I want to call my lawyer."

Bear laced his fingers and cracked his knuckles.

"You can't just hold me here."

Bear snapped forward, flipping over the table with a swipe of his hand. It struck the wall upside down about five feet up. He seized Henderson's shoulders, shoving him back in the chair so the rear legs creaked under the weight.

Henderson finally opened his eyes. Bear's face was two inches from his. "You're free to go."

Henderson swallowed hard. "What?"

Bear released him, and the chair thunked down on all four legs. Bear strode to the glass, squaring off with his reflection. "The Hennings are not pressing charges. They've written their daughter off. And her car. It's your lucky day, scumsuck. Get the fuck out of here." He tapped his foot twice, then whirled around. "You waiting on an apology?"

Henderson scrambled off the chair and out the door.

By eleven-thirty, desperation had cast its shadow across Dray, leaving her scared and agitated. She'd put on her uniform in an attempt to feel tougher. A stroke of sage paint marked the back of her hand from painting the garage door yesterday morning. It seemed like months ago.

"What the hell's taking so long?"

Bear leaned back on his couch, readjusting the pump-action shotgun across his thighs. He'd already donned his black cotton gloves and steel-plate boots; his ballistic helmet, goggles, and tactical vest were piled on the floor at his feet. He'd informed Tannino that a confidential informant was phoning in a related tip, and the marshal had put the ART squad on high alert.

Bear said, "It probably took Henderson a while to get the Lexus processed out."

"I thought you called and took care of that."

"I did. They had a shake-up earlier, though, a bogus terrorist threat or something, got them a bit scrambled on paperwork."

"How do we even know we can trust this guy? I mean, what's our guarantee he knows what he's doing?"

"Pete Krindon," Bear said, "knows what he's doing."

The phone rang, causing Boston to startle up from his nap near the dog bowl.

Dray snapped it up.

"McKinley and Seventy-sixth," a voice said, and then the line went dead.

Bear knew better than to ask Dray to wait at home, but he told her she'd have to stay in his truck during the tactical strike. They drove over in silence.

A throw of storage warehouses were packed within a so-called industrial park that was neither industrial nor a park. Lots of parking lots and barbed wire. Bear cut the lights, and they drifted silently down the paved drive.

Aside from the van and the Lexus parked next to the primary warehouse, the area was deserted.

A great place to kill someone.

They left the truck behind the loading dock around back, then did some preliminary reconnaissance, taking note of voices and vibrations.

Within minutes the Beast rolled up to the staging point and disgorged the geared-up ART squad members, who mustered between the old retrofitted ambulance and Bear's rig. The deputies greeted Dray as if she were one of their own.

Brian Miller squat-leaned against the black-painted side of the Beast, POLICE U.S. MARSHALS rising over his head in white letters. At his side, Precious was locked on – no panting, no tail wagging, no growling – her wolf-yellow eyes standing out against her black Labrador coat. An Alpo-fueled early-warning system for rigged doors and booby traps, she was the top bitch on the Explosive Detection Canine Team. A Thomas Harris devotee, Miller had named her after Jame Gumb's poodle.

Maybeck reacquainted himself with his battering ram with a flurry of superstitious taps and squeezes, a ballplayer's on-deck bat ritual. He'd brought the damn thing with him from the St. Louis district; at Miller's promotion party, Maybeck's wife had joked that she'd caught him dressing it up in their daughter's Barbie outfits.

Thomas and Freed produced dueling pairs of night-vision goggles and eased around the corner, wind snapping at their block-lettered nylon raid jackets. The others circled up, the muzzles of their MP5s angled to the asphalt. Bear alone used a shotgun. Charged with double-aught buck, the cut-down twelve-gauge was fitted with a fourteen-inch barrel and a pistol-grip stock. The sight of Bear wielding it in full gallop was apocalyptic.