S Huang - Zero Sum Game

I’d already known she wasn’t on the level, but I’d been assuming some combination of fear and naïveté. That maybe she hadn’t realized what she’d gotten into, or had been too scared to face it. “She doesn’t seem the type,” I offered, stalling.

“Nah, she doesn’t, does she?” said Tresting. “Was an odd sort of crime. Odd in the same way these lovely motorcycle gents discovered an irredeemable hatred for you. Makes you think it wasn’t their idea.”

“Maybe they thought it was a fun night out,” I said, stubbornly not thinking of the mines in the road or the freaking grenades, or the fact that all the biker guys I’d known had a code against baseless killing. Okay, something fishy might be up with the bikers, and it very well might have to do with Courtney Polk, but a mastermind theory that cast her as a hired assassin alongside them? It didn’t wash.

“Might agree with you, if there wasn’t a pattern,” said Tresting.

“A pattern of what?”

“Murders. And other things.”

“I don’t have time for riddles,” I said, my gun hand twitching.

“Well. Hypothetically, let’s say Miss Polk and your new friends here ain’t the only ones acting out of character. Let’s say it’s more. A lot more.” He cleared his throat. “And let’s say it’s senators and grandparents and the folk next door.”

I squinted. “Are you even listening to yourself? What, so every killer who doesn’t fit the profile is part of some shadowy conspiracy? Newsflash, Einstein: sometimes people are violent. A lot of times for no other reason than they want to hurt people.”

“A lot of times.” He gave a non-committal half-shrug. “Maybe not all the time.”

This was far too fantastic for me. “And Pithica?”

“Far as I can tell, it’s them pulling the strings. Can’t pin it any closer than the word, though.” He seemed to make a sudden decision and holstered his gun. “So. What do you say? Can I give you a lift into town? Maybe share some intel?”

My first impression was that the PI was one hundred percent cracked. But whatever else he was, Tresting was a lead, and I needed all the information I could get.

“Fine.” I slid the SIG back into my coat. I could still kill him in a fraction of a second if I needed to, as long as he didn’t have a gun on me.

Tresting jabbed his thumb at the source of the white headlights. “My truck. And I’ll pretend I didn’t see the extended mag.”

“It’s legal two hundred miles east of here. ’Sides, you should talk.”

“Yeah, speaking of, where is it?”

I waved vaguely toward the desert scrub. “Back there somewhere.”

He rolled his eyes and jogged over to where my bike had gone down, flashing around the white beam of a penlight. A few minutes later he returned, banged-up Glock in hand.

“Afraid your bike’s a lost cause,” he told me.

“Wasn’t mine.”

He shot me a look. “Didn’t hear that, either.”

“I thought you weren’t a cop anymore.”

“Old habits, blah-dee-blah.” Examining his jammed handgun, he dropped the mag out and racked the slide a few times, clearing the chamber, then stuck it in the back of his belt without reloading. I watched with some approval—I wouldn’t have trusted a weapon that had nosedived into the desert dust either, not if I had another choice. He patted his Beretta. “Lucky for you, I had another backup.”

“Yeah, nine-mil?” I scoffed. “Did a little girl give that to you as a party favor?”

“Best gun is the one you have with you,” he quoted at me mildly. “And someone stole my .45. Can I get the snubby back too, by the way?”

“Can’t,” I answered breezily. “I gave it to a little girl as a party favor.” Something in me twinged, and the quip felt hollow as I remembered what had happened to both Penny and her new present. “Let’s go.”

We did one last once-over of the bikers to look for anything out of the ordinary, but aside from some frighteningly high-tech night vision gear and more armaments I wouldn’t have expected this kind of gang to have—not that I was an expert or anything, but still, plastic explosives?—we found nothing. No clue indicating what might have brought them here, except that they really, really wanted me dead. Fun.

I snagged a saddlebag off one of the Harleys and loaded up some of the nicer toys. A girl can never have too many grenades, after all. Tresting gave me a severe look, but didn’t say anything, fortunately for him.

Tresting’s truck was a beat-up old clunker that looked like it had come out of its share of brawls not only still kicking but bragging about how tough it was. I stowed my bag of toys on the floor of the passenger seat and climbed in.

“Seatbelt,” said Tresting, as he coaxed the ignition to a shuddering rumble.

I didn’t explain that I could buckle up plenty fast enough if I calculated it would help with anything. Tresting had seen too much of my skills already. I fastened my seatbelt, muttering, “Yes, Mom,” under my breath.

Tresting revved the engine, the tires spinning against the sandy ground before they found enough purchase to rocket the truck forward with an almighty lurch. We bounced back onto the dusty highway, the headlights sluicing through the empty darkness.

“So,” I said. “GPS tracker?”

Tresting’s eyebrows jumped in surprise, and his teeth flashed in a sheepish grin. He put one hand in a jacket pocket and held up the tiny device between two fingers. “Smart gal.”

“On the bike,” I guessed, sure I was figuring this right. “You retrieved it when you got the Glock. And you knew to trace the bike because…you had another tracker on Courtney.”

He looked surprised again. “Quick study, too.”

“Which is how you found us at the motel. And you must have been watching where Polk is in LA. When I came back on the bike before leaving, you slapped another GPS on that. Smart.”

“Thanks.”

“Unless your clumsy surveillance gets my client killed, in which case I will not be amused. In fact, I’ll be so unamused I’ll put a bullet in you.”

“Ouch. And we was just getting to know each other.”

“I’m serious. If someone else figured out you’re tracking her, all they have to do is follow the same signal.”

He was silent for a moment. “She’s your client,” he said finally. “I only want to see where she leads.”

I scowled. “Compassionate man.” Pot, kettle, it was true, but he wouldn’t know me well enough to point it out.

Tresting’s knuckles tightened against the steering wheel. “Rather she don’t end up dead. But she murdered my client’s husband, and I’m gonna find who put her up to it.”

In fairness, he had a far guiltier conscience about putting Courtney in danger than I would have, had our positions been reversed. “One thing I don’t understand. If you got close enough to plant the tracker, why not interrogate her then? Why wave a gun at me so unsuccessfully at the motel?”

He didn’t rise to the bait, only let a frustrated breath hiss out through his teeth. “Didn’t get close enough. Got the opportunity to slip one into her food when the drug runners had her.”

And he’d figured a GPS would cover all bases in case he had to follow Courtney back to…well, to her masters, if Tresting was to be believed.

“Your turn,” Tresting said. “Who are you?”

I’d forgotten I hadn’t introduced myself. “Tell me more about Pithica.”

“Hey, I told you about the GPS.”

“You didn’t tell me; I guessed. And considering you were using it to track me, I think it was about time I knew.”

“Whatever,” he muttered. “In for a penny, I guess. Pithica’s some government project or other.”