Т Паркер - Swift Vengeance

But I had good lines of sight from the middle lane. Stayed right there and gunned it. Eighty miles per hour, a hair faster than most of the flow. Eyes steady, breath even, high on hope. It was a wide freeway, two lanes on either side of me, traffic fast but light enough to give me a good view of the 4Runner.

But no 4Runner by the time I came to Del Mar Heights Road. Highway Patrol stopped on the right shoulder behind a Corvette, so I slowed down. Model citizen.

And no 4Runner by the next exit sign, either. That sinking feeling. But I regained my eighty miles an hour, blinders on for everything but what I wanted to see. And maybe because of that, I passed the Carmel Valley Road off-ramp just as I saw the dark gray Toyota climbing that ramp toward a very lucky green light that would take it over the freeway, then back onto it, heading in the opposite direction — north.

Disappointed and not a little pissed off, I sped the long half-mile south to Sorrento Valley Road. I knew that by the time I’d reached it, my mark would mostly likely be on his happy way northbound, doing the speed limit with nearly six thousand rounds of ammunition in the back, chalking up the miles between us. And almost impossible to find.

I exited at Sorrento Valley, pulled over when I could, called an old San Diego Sheriff’s Department friend who might be willing to run the 4Runner’s plates for me. I got a firm maybe.

Then Taucher. Who, when I told her about the ammunition, hissed a string of profanities. “We can rattle Hector’s cage first thing in the morning,” she said. “Friendly little knock and talk.”

“You might rethink that,” I said.

I told her I’d put the tracker on Hector’s car, that we knew his address and work schedule, and if left unmolested, odd Hector just might lead us somewhere even better than a knife buy and an ammunition transfer. But if we let him see our shadow, he’d go down his hole. And whoever was the receiver of said ammunition — maybe even Caliphornia himself — would go down his hole, too.

Taucher liked that. Then she was gone.

I stepped outside and had a smoke. Heavy breeze from the Pacific. Moon caught in the marine layer. Watched the cars speed by below me. Interstate 5 goes all the way from Mexico to Canada, where Canada names her 5 also and lets her run into the Rocky Mountains. I drove through British Columbia once. Beautiful. You might not know that California is longer than Texas is wide. Almost got into a bar fight about that, in Fort Worth, from where Lindsey hails.

I got back on the freeway, northbound for home. Still disappointed and a little pissed off. Reminded myself that everything happens for a reason. Reminded myself that I’ve never believed one word of that sentence.

But this I knew: I would stop Caliphornia and his loyal dunce Hector from whatever they were planning for Lindsey and Voss and whomever their almost six thousand rounds were for.

Halfway to Fallbrook I got a call from a number not in my contacts. It came in at exactly eleven o’clock, from a Las Vegas area code. I hit the earpiece button and waited.

“Mr. Ford, my name is Rasha Samara. I live in Las Vegas. I’m looking for Lindsey Rakes. She’s missing.”

Ring of ear and thump of heart. “What is your relationship with her?”

“We’re acquainted socially,” he said. “I am a businessman. Lindsey Rakes taught my son in school.”

His voice was full and smooth. A slight accent. My imagination readied for liftoff, but I kept it on the ground. So many salient details about Rasha Samara: IvarDuggans had told me that he’d been questioned by UC Irvine campus police for brandishing a janbiya at a party. Taucher had told me that the FBI was looking at him. My own eyes had told me that Samara had handwriting very similar to Caliphornia’s.

“I’ve been trying to contact her for four days now and she hasn’t responded,” he said. “Maybe she simply doesn’t want to communicate with me. If that’s the case, I’m fine with that. Still, I’m worried.”

He sounded reasonable and believable, I thought. “If something is wrong, do you have any idea where she would go?” I asked.

“I think she might have gone back to her previous address — your home in Fallbrook,” said Samara.

“Why do you want to find her?”

A beat. The Oceanside Boulevard exit sign rushed by above me.

“Why do you care? You find people for money.”

“Let’s say I care, Mr. Samara. We’re friends, and I value friends.”

“I value her, too. She’s important to me. Have you seen her?”

“Not in a year and a half.”

“Then I would like to hire you to find her.”

No way I could shield Lindsey and do an honest job for Rasha Samara. But I wanted him close, so I gave him my routine: twenty-four hundred dollars to start, cash only, good for three full days of work. If I got lucky before three days, he’d get a refund. If not, I charged one hundred dollars an hour for additional work. Major credit cards and PayPal accepted.

“Why cash to start?” he asked.

“So I can see the face I’m dealing with,” I said. “And change my mind if that face doesn’t look right. Right is kind of a broad term.”

We set the appointment for eight in the morning. Rather than use my Main Street office, I wanted Rasha to see my property, to see for himself that I had no Lindsey to hide.

I hung up, voice-dialed Burt, told him about tomorrow’s visitor. Asked him to get Lindsey and Zeno a motel for a couple of nights — something pet-friendly, not too far away but not too close.

Samara’s white Range Rover came up my driveway at seven fifty-nine the next morning. I’d had my run and punched the bags hard and well. Burt, walking down the drive with a cup of coffee, waved Samara through an open post-and-rail gate and into the barnyard. From where I sat under the big palapa I saw that Rasha had brought a second.

Samara got out of the passenger side and shut the door, then stood still, sizing up the ranch. Snapped his jacket arms down over his shirt cuffs as he considered. He was on the tall side, slender and wide-shouldered in a shimmering gray suit. Athletic and poised. Something like the shape of the man in the Bakersfield video. Sharp-faced, too, like the 4Runner’s driver the night before.

His confederate was an economy-sized block of muscle in a black polo shirt and chinos, with a gun in a paddle-style, inside-the-waistband holster at the small of his back.

I watched Burt introduce himself, shake hands, and motion toward me, Roland Ford, California Bureau of Security and Investigative Services license number PI 537668, firearm permit number 081211, six feet three inches tall, two hundred ten pounds, brown and brown, DOB 1/13/79. College grad, former jarhead, former professional boxer, former sheriff’s deputy, former husband. Likes: dancing, fishing, skiing, hiking, finding missing people, digging up the truth, a good bourbon, a good book. Dislikes: rudeness, ignorance, entitlement, cruelty, irresponsibility, cheating, sloth, parking tickets.

I felt good about myself right then. Early on a cool bright December morning. Watching the men come up the path toward me. I had a full set of teeth, a good cup of coffee, and a bright future so far as I could see. But there was something more, and it was this: last night, when I’d seen all that ammunition and understood that it was very likely to be used for wickedness, I’d felt needed. Needed to protect. To prevent. To vanquish. Nothing better than being necessary. I hadn’t felt that since the day Justine died. But last night, seeing Hector and his partner — whoever he might be — had jumped my adrenaline and my will. Now I felt light and nimble on my war footing. I’d been called again, and was soon to be deployed. My crusade. Roland Ford, paladin.