Robert Crais - Indigo Slam

The medical group had even been thoughtful enough to enclose a little pamphlet titled Living with Your Cancer.

I guess Jasper was right; Clark Hewitt was more than he seemed. I looked at Pike. ' Clark 's dying.'

Pike said, 'Yes.'

That's when a hard-looking man with an AK-47 stepped through the door and said, 'He's not the only one.'

He was an older guy with a hard face that looked as if it had been chipped from amber. He waved the AK. 'Hands on heads, fingers laced.' The accent was thick, but we could understand him.

I said, 'The building is surrounded by the United States Secret Service. Put down the gun and we won't have to kill you.'

'Lace your fingers.' I guess he didn't think it was funny.

He took a half-step backward into the hall, and when he did Pike shuffled one step to the right. When Pike moved, the older guy dropped into a half-crouch, bringing the AK smoothly to his shoulder, right elbow up above ninety degrees, left elbow crooked straight down beneath the AK's magazine, the rifle's comb snug against his cheek in a perfect offhand shooting stance. Perfect and practiced, as if he had grown up with a gun like this and knew exactly what to do with it. I said, 'Joe.'

Pike stopped.

The older guy yelled down the hall without taking his eyes from us. A door crashed and Walter Tran, Junior, came running up, excited and sweating, expensive shoes slipping on the vinyl tiles. When he saw me, his eyes got big and he barked, 'Holy shit!' He clawed at his clothes until he came up with a little silver.380 that he promptly dropped.

I said, 'Relax, Walter. We're not going anywhere.'

He scooped up the.380, fumbling to get the safety off and pointing it at the older guy who snapped at him in Vietnamese and slapped it out of his hands. The old man shifted to English. 'You're going to shoot yourself.'

I said, 'Walter, take a breath.'

Walter Junior pointed at me. 'This one was the guy at the paper. I've never seen the other one.' Pike, reduced to 'other' status.

The older guy narrowed his eyes again. 'He said they were with the Secret Service.'

Walter Junior said, 'Holy shit!' again, and ran back down the hall.

'I was kidding. We're private investigators.'

The older guy shrugged. 'Gives the boy something to do.'

The door crashed once more and Walter Junior was back, skidding to a stop just ahead of Nguyen Dak and two of the shotgunners who had fronted me at the Journal. I said, 'We could sell tickets.'

Nobody laughed at that one either.

Nguyen Dak was wearing a fine wool suit that had probably cost three grand. He looked at me. 'We told you to stay away.'

'Clark Hewitt has three children, and I have them. A bunch of Russians from Seattle are looking for Clark because they want to kill him. That means they're looking for his kids, too.'

'You should have listened.' Guess none of it mattered to him.

'We're here because we're working for Hewitt's children. We don't care about the printing.'

I guess that didn't matter to him either.

They made us lie face down with our fingers laced behind our heads, then searched us as if they were looking for a microphone or a transmitter. I guess maybe they were. Dak positioned the two shotgunners in the front corners of the room so they could cover us without shooting each other. The guy with the AK took our guns and our wallets, tossed them to Dak, then tied our hands behind our backs with electrical utility wire. Dak called him Mon. When our hands were tied, they lifted us into the two folding chairs. I said, 'It started out like a pretty good day.'

Dak made a gesture and one of the shotguns punched me on the side of the head. Seattle all over again.

Dak looked through my wallet first, then Pike's, then handed them to the guy with the AK. 'Private investigators.'

'I told you that.'

'You told this gentleman you are with the Secret Service.'

'Bad joke.'

Dak stared at me some more.

I said, 'We came here to find Clark Hewitt. We know he's working with you, and we know he's been here.'

Dak lit a Marlboro and looked at me through the smoke. The guy with the AK said something in Vietnamese, but Dak didn't respond. He said, 'We now have a problem.'

'I kinda guessed.'

'Who do you really work for?'

'Clark Hewitt's children.'

More cigarette, more smoke. 'I think maybe the FBI.'

I shrugged at him. 'If that's true, your problem's bigger than you think.' You could tell he knew that, and didn't like it. 'If we're feds, then other feds know where we are. If they know where we are, and we turn up dead, you're history.'

Dak clenched his jaw and waved the cigarette. 'I told you to stay away, and you did not. You came onto our property, and you have seen things that you should not have seen.'

I said, 'I don't give a damn what you're going to print, or why, or what you're going to do with it. I came here because Clark and his children are in danger.'

The AK spoke Vietnamese again, louder this time, and Dak shouted back at him, the other Viets looking from one to the other like some kind of tennis match was taking place, maybe yelling about killing us, maybe saying murder us clean right here in the room, then sweat it out with the cops and pretend they didn't know what happened or how or why. They were still going through it when Clark Hewitt came in with Walter Senior and another younger guy. Clark was wearing a cheap cotton shirt and baggy trousers over busted-out K-mart canvas shoes, and he had the vague, out-of-focus look of someone who'd just shot up.

Clark saw us and said, 'Oh, dear.'

Dak's eyes flashed angrily, and he jerked the cigarette. 'Get him out of here.'

The younger guy was pulling Clark back into the hall when I said, 'The Russians are in LA, Clark. I've got your kids stashed, but they're in danger.'

Clark jerked his arm away and came back into the room. 'Where are they?'

'At a friend's.'

Dak told the younger guy to get Clark out of there again, and when the younger guy grabbed his arm, Clark swatted at him. 'Get away from me!'

I looked back at Dak. 'I've got his children, goddamnit. Shooters from Seattle are down here looking for him, and he knows it's a fact.' I looked back at Clark. 'The Russians killed Wilson Brownell, and that means they know everything that he knows.'

Clark 's face worked. 'They killed Wil?'

The AK screamed again, and this time he shoved past the others and leveled the gun at us. When he did, Clark shrieked, 'No!' and lurched forward, shoving him away. Both Walters and the other Viets swarmed around him, and Dak slapped him hard, twice. Clark didn't quit. He punched at Dak, throwing awkward punches with nothing on them, but he kept throwing them until a Walter hung onto each arm and a third man had him around the neck. Clark was just full of surprises.

Pike said, 'Payback's going to hurt.'

The three men pulled Clark out of the way, and Dak waved at us, saying, 'Kill them.'

Clark said, 'If you kill them I won't print your goddamned dong.' Vietnamese money is called dong.

Dak's face went dark, and he shook Clark 's arm. 'You agreed to print for us and you will make the money!'

Clark said, 'Like hell I will.' When he said it a little bit of spit hit Dak on the shirt.

The AK had had enough with all the talk. He pushed past Dak and ran at us again, barking in Vietnamese. When he did, Dak yelled 'No!' and grabbed him from behind.

Dak and the AK and the other two older guys shoved and screamed at each other, and I knew what it was about. They were revolutionaries, but they were also businessmen with families and property and things they would lose if they were discovered. They were shouting about killing us, and it was clear that they wanted to. Pike tensed beside me, probably thinking that if the younger shotgunners looked at the older guys he would come out of the chair and risk the charge, maybe hit the near guy hard enough to knock free the gun, maybe get the gun and do some damage even with his hands tied behind his back.