Last shot tr-4 Page 33

  One-handing the wheel at high noon, Bear shot Tim an unamused glance across the meat of his shoulder. "Kinda like us?"

  When Bear's boot hit the lock assembly, the entire motel shuddered. The door flew open, knob punching through the drywall. A thin, bald guy leapt off the bed like a goosed cat and crashed to the base of the wall, clutching his wife-beater undershirt at his chest. Bear hauled him up and threw him onto the bed, but the mattress was so bouncy he soared off the other side. Tim frisked him on the floor and sat him on a chair as Bear cleared the closet and bathroom. A Dodgers game blared on in the background until Bear, die-hard Giants fan, smacked the power button, zapping Gagne and the pitcher's mound into blackness. Aside from a pair of sneakers by the door and the open laptop on the opposite twin, the room was empty. Tim stared at the floating aphorism on the screen saver-If we'd have known it would be this much trouble, we would've picked our own damn cotton-and resisted an urge to ping-pong the shitheel off the bed a second time.

  "You're on Walker Jameson's trail?" Tim said.

  The guy scratched his bald pate, fingers flickering as if over piano keys. "Dunno."

  Bear looked from the abandoned sneakers-huge and floppy, size thirteens at least-to the lanky guy in the chair. Normal-size feet.

  "Wait a minute," Bear said, "this ain't Caden."

  The phone shuddered in Tim's pocket, and he opened it to watch a booking photo download on the small screen. Caden Burke was a hulking man, six-three by the markers behind him. His thick chest dwarfed the neckboard. He had a mouth like a seam, no lips, and a pronounced chin that gave the effect that his face was folded around the black slit.

  "Hell, no, I ain't Caden. My name's Phil Xavier. I'm just the fucking driver."

  "So where's Caden?" Bear stood over Xavier. "Where is he?"

  Tim said, "You'd better tell us everything you know, right now, or we'll nail your ass for conspiracy to commit murder." Xavier bunched his mouth, biting the insides of his lips. Tim leaned over him. "Right now, this moment, this is one of those decisions you don't want to spend twenty years rethinking at Lompoc."

  Sweat streaked down the sides of Xavier's head just behind the ears, lending a sheen to the inked shamrock low on his skull. The tattoo was still scabby-Xavier was a newbie, which meant he wasn't so far in he couldn't see a way out. "And if I tell you?"

  Tim made an on-the-spot call for expediency's sake. "Hey, you're just the driver, right?"

  Xavier cleared his throat nervously. "Caden's the guy, like I said. I just drive. But I heard him making calls on the way out, pieced together a thing or two."

  Bear: "Like?"

  "After the escape, Jameson made some underground calls checking out a hitter named the Piper. It trickled back to us-we'd put it on the street we wanted any word on Walker Jameson. Turns out the Piper's dead. Jameson found out someone snaked his commission."

  "Does Jameson know who? Maybe someone gave him a name?"

  Xavier's eyes shifted. "He might have gotten a name, sure, but not us."

  "What did you get?"

  "A time and place."

  "For what?"

  "Where Jameson could find the guy."

  "The time?"

  Xavier pulsed his hands into fists, working out tension. "Right now."

  "Where?"

  "You guys gonna hurt Caden?"

  "If he's going after Jameson, we're probably going to save his life."

  "You don't know Caden." Xavier had one of those nervous smiles where the lips touched at the middle but gapped at the sides.

  Bear palmed Xavier's head, his massive hands enclosing either side, and forced eye contact. "Where?"

  "I swear I don't know. Caden looked something up and took off outta here."

  "Looked something up? In what?"

  But Tim was already across the room at the laptop. The odious screen saver vanished when he hit the space bar. Explorer was open to Yahoo!'s TV page, the schedule highlighting the Dodgers-Marlins game. Tim clicked the browser's back button, passing a baseball stats page and a news story before a Mapquest page started to load, slowed by the phone-line connection. As the driving directions popped on-screen, one line at a time, Tim tracked them impatiently with his finger.

  Caden's route ended at Game.

  Chapter 65

  Tim had called for backup, but there was no way he and Bear were going to wait. A few minutes past seven, and already the wetlands had come alive with night noise, all order of chirping and scratching insects lending their sounds to the ashy air. A flurry of dusty moths beat against themselves and the lamp by the awning.

  The Game lounge was in full swing, its well-heeled clientele drinking and groping happily at the bar. The mood chilled at the sight of Bear prodding Xavier in cuffs through the door. No sign of Walker or Caden. Bear stormed to the back office. The counter was being run by a man with ruddy cheeks and a Scarface T-shirt, the S faded off, probably when his mom did his laundry.

  "Hey, Carface," Bear said, slapping his badge across the laid-open Paintball 2 Xtremes magazine. "Who's in the preserve? Right now." Bear snapped his fingers in front of the guy's face to jerk his focus from their handcuffed sidekick.

  "A…uh, handful of guys. And Afternoon D-Lite."

  "How many guys?"

  "I think three."

  "You think?" Tim pointed to equipment hanging from pegs near the lockers. "Can you count the missing vests?"

  "They brought their own." The worker flipped a binder out from the row and showed Tim three names, none of which meant anything to him.

  Xavier spit on the floor. "How 'bout I sit down?"

  Bear said, "Believe me, your presence at this moment is no fucking treat for us either."

  A movement caught Tim's eye through the side window-Wes Dieter pulling up to his marked space by the entrance. Dressed in pseudo-combat gear, he climbed out of his Cutlass Supreme.

  Tim turned back to the worker. "Have you seen this guy?" A head shake at Walker's picture. "How about him?" Tim snapped open his phone and showed the photograph of Caden.

  "Yeah, that guy was here a minute ago. At the bar, maybe?"

  Tim scanned the lounge again, and then his eyes pulled to the gauze curtain. He said to Bear, "He's in the preserve. Hunting."

  Bear unsnapped his holster strap. "Or waiting."

  Tim said, "Could he have snuck in without your seeing?"

  "Shit, I don't know," the worker said. "I guess someone could cut the net anywhere at the perimeter and slip through, they really wanted to."

  Which Walker may well have done earlier to set up for Tess's killer. Tim said, "Let me see the schedule for the rest of the night. Now."

  The worker fumbled at the computer. Wes entered to a stir, exchanging high fives with a few zealous clients. He cued to the tense vibe, spotted Tim, Bear, and Xavier, and approached. "Hey guys, what's the 411 here?"

  Tim said, "We think whoever killed Tess Jameson is on the premises. We were told he had an appointment here, right now." He didn't add that Tess's murderer might have drawn Walker Jameson on site for the kill, or that an Aryan Brotherhood hit man, in turn, was pursuing Walker.

  "I see." Wes rocked on his heels, then said, "Hey, Kenny, I need you to unload the paintball units from my backseat." He aimed his key chain at the window, and, outside, the soft top on his convertible retracted, a custom feature that must have cost thousands. "I'll help these gents."

  Kenny offered an annoyed look, then headed out.

  Wes said in a fierce whisper. "I thought we had a deal. You can't be hauling perps through here."

  Tim said, "We need tonight's schedule."

  Wes fought a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed sweat from his forehead but made no move toward the computer. "Come on, guys. Come back after hours, I'll get you whatever you need. But you're freaking my clients. Again."

  Outside, Kenny waited for the sluggish soft top to accordion out of his way, then hefted a crate from Wes's car. Wes crossed his arms, ready to cause a scene. Bear
shoved past him, stepping around the counter. The tabby stuck her head up from the Cutlass's passenger seat, then jumped up onto the hood, her orange coat rippling.

  Wes shook his head at Bear's rudeness, then said, "The schedule's on the clipboard by the preserve entrance." He went to get it, mumbling.

  The cat padded across the front of the Cutlass, her breath wisping, then curled at the end of the hood above the warmth of the engine.

  The oversize hood ornament.

  Bear looked up from the monitor, brow twisted with consternation. "This says the next appointment's a hunt-off. Metal Jacket and-"

  The clues aligned at once, pulling together in the instant Tim's hand dove for his Smith amp; Wesson. The low-rider-the Cutlass with the top peeled back. Wes's own words-I'm a computer guy at heart. He'd posed as the Piper in one of the chat rooms-ones that guys like us can't even find-and snaked the contract. The hit itself-highly competent but not meticulous, the imperfect work of a well-read and — practiced wannabe.

  Before Bear could utter his name, Wes Dieter slipped through the gauze, disappearing into the green-tinted shadows of the preserve. The four-time course champion, trying for a getaway but inadvertently heading into the lion's den. Given the recent fallout from Tess's murder, Tim had to assume that a real gun lurked in one of Wes's innumerable holsters and cargo pockets.

  Bear seized Xavier, steering him for the door. Tim ran for the curtain, shouting over his shoulder, "Clear the whole building! When backup gets here, have them seal off the preserve's perimeter!"

  He slipped through, dropping low on a knee, his revolver clutched tight in both hands. A muddy trail went a few feet before splitting in three directions. Fronds fluttered. Cottonwood, sagebrush, willow, and coyote bush broke his sight line. A coarse cawing. The silhouette of a great white egret scanned across the roof of the black netting, strobe-flickering against the dark gray sky beyond. The netting encasing the fifteen-acre preserve brought a kind of night-within-night. Tim eased forward, boots shoving into the mud, then stepped off the trail. He turned down the volume on his radio, cutting himself off from his backup. Noises all around.

  Tim melded into the imported foliage, listening for the sounds of human movement-headlong progress through brush, metallic clinks, leaves whispering across fabric. He and Walker were like sharks squaring off in a kiddy pool.

  Advancing on hands and knees could help him reduce his noise signature, but it would also slow him down. Since concealment options were copious, there was no need to maintain a low-to-ground profile. He was within an enclosed space with three potentially armed men, all of them killers, all of them hunting and being hunted. Time was of the essence if he wanted to play a role in the outcome. And prevent the naked corpse of a well-siliconed woman from making tomorrow's page one. To strike the balance between caution and pursuit, he opted for a slow upright patrol, stop-move-stop.

  He paused, getting down on a knee in the tules to listen and feel the air.

  Walker likely didn't know that Tim and Caden were present. If he had come, he'd set up to wait for the Piper. If Tim had some luck, Walker didn't realize yet that that meant this nickel-badge-wearing keyboard jockey. What would be the best tactical spot from which to observe, and execute a shot? Tim would have chosen the highest ground. A rise in the northwest quadrant seemed the best bet. Tim started to forge in that direction, through the dark heart of the preserve. If he heard anyone moving, odds were it was Caden, Wes, the girl, or one of the paintballers. Tim's first priority would be to reach the nonsuspects and direct them to safety. Then he'd try to latch on to Caden and trail and outflank him for an ambush, or stalk Wes until he drew Walker from cover.

  Someone large lumbered up the trail to Tim's right, and he whipped his gun over, waiting to see who appeared. An excessively camoed man with a beer gut charged around the bend, slipping to a halt. He smiled at Tim, raised his paintball gun. "Pow." His eyes changed when he took in Tim's expression and the steel gleam of the Smith amp; Wesson. Tim flicked his barrel toward the exit to keep the guy moving; he was only too happy to comply.

  In the blackness up ahead, a woman shouted, "Who the hell are you?" She yelped, and Tim ducked into the foliage. A few moments later, she ran past, naked and screaming, Afternoon no longer D-Lited.

  To his left he heard two bodies startle in the leaves, then move for the exit also, the panicked movements and shouted directives telling him they were the last two paintballers. Bear could deal with them and the girl once they spilled through the curtain.

  Moving briskly, Tim closed in on the area of foliage in which the regulars had stumbled upon an uninvited guest. The band of dense, shoulder-high bush crossed the base of the slope where Tim thought Walker might be bedded down. Tim steered clear of the loose rocks composing the waterfall's base, picking quiet footholds around the mud wallow. Another theme-park addition, a camouflaged heavy bag, creaked on its chain, its sway more than the net-blocked wind could have generated. Someone had shouldered it on his way past.

  Tim inched upslope, letting the branches bend slowly against him to avoid snaps and backwhips. A stout sprig hung up against his ankle, and he grabbed it, stepping past then carefully releasing the tension. Through the patchwork of underbrush, his eyes picked up the faintest movement against the mud, a dark boot rising out of view. He straightened, but the foliage blotted out any movement ahead.

  His stalker's instincts froze him. Someone else moved to his left just a few feet away-Tim sensed a vibration or the heat. With excruciating slowness, he pivoted to face his pursuer, his heels soundless in the mud. He lifted his. 357, dodging leaves on the rise. In the silence between the brush of leaves and the scratch of crickets, he heard it.

  The faint yet undeniable click of a hammer cocking.

  Behind him.

  His body reacted before the sound registered as a thought. He spun, and as his own gun jerked in his grip, he saw the flare from a muzzle illuminating Walker's face, floating as if detached among the leaves. The gunshot, compounded, seemed unreasonably loud.

  Chapter 66

  Before Tim could comprehend that the explosion came in surround sound-from in front of him, behind him, and his own hands-a hot streak ripped his neck. His recoil spun him around to see Caden Burke drop to the mud howling and gripping his shoulder. Walker Jameson grunted-Tim's bullet had struck home-and a Redhawk six-shooter spit from the bushes, knocked loose. Walker's furious retreat sounded like a beast fleeing.

  Tim couldn't go after him right away because he still had Caden loose and who he guessed was Wes up ahead. Putting his knee in Caden's back, Tim frisked him, pocketing his Ruger and a quaint switchblade. Walker's shot had missed Tim and embedded in the ball of Caden's shoulder, pulling Caden's shot off center and inadvertently saving Tim's life. When Tim cuffed him, Caden screeched with pain.

  Tim scrambled back to reclaim the Redhawk. The stock was still warm and felt familiar somehow, molded to his hand. He stiffened at a sudden footfall, turning to source the noise. With a whooshing of leaves, Wes charged out of the brush-he'd circled during the commotion and come in from the west. Tim went airborne, extended in a sideways dive, using Walker's Redhawk to sight on Wes's substantial critical mass. A slow-motion clarity came over Tim as it often did in a close exchange. He saw the black hole of Wes's mouth looming behind the smaller black hole of a handgun muzzle. The moonlight's sheen on the glossy leaves misted from the waterfall. Caden bucking against the cuffs, snarling with pain and a sort of dumb puzzlement. Tim flashed on Tess, made to sit at gunpoint on her bed, made to wait as Wes Dieter-the man at the receiving end of the Redhawk that Tim now clutched-pressed steel to her temple. Her last-second, turned-head recoil before the shot, when fear turned to dumb instinct. Tim's finger tensed, and the trigger inched back, hammer ready to fall on one of Walker's titanium bullets. At the last instant before he struck mud, Tim moved the barrel three millimeters left and put a bullet through Wes's forearm.

  Wes's gun spun from his limp hand, and he shrieked, pl
opping in the mud wallow, his gun echoing the splash an instant later. Tim retrieved the gun, cinched Wes's good wrist to his ankle with plastic flex-cuffs, and sprinted off after Walker, feeding Bear the update a mile a minute through the radio. Across the dark preserve and through the netting, he could see a line of blue and red lights moving in from the south.

  Leaves and thin branches whipped Tim's face. He hurtled over a slope, and the netting appeared, blindsiding him and cradling his full momentum to a stop. Tim could see Bear at the parking lot, shouting at the incoming units to spread out. Working his way along the netting, Tim shoved into it at intervals to test its tension. Finally a shove yielded no resistance and he tumbled through, landing on the flat, sparse wetland outside the preserve. The net had been sliced cleanly through. Within a few acres' sprint lay Lincoln Boulevard and scores of side streets, the freeway a brief stretch beyond. The wind snapped the netting angrily behind Tim.

  He focused on the dark sweep of earth, looking for any movement. Its lights off, a car peeled out from the wetlands border, too dark for Tim to discern its make or model. It turned a corner, and Walker was gone. Tim ran his hand along the slit in the netting, and it came away sticky. He raised his fingertips, and the moonlight brought the drops of Walker's blood visible.

  He radioed Bear the car's approximate location and told him Walker was wounded. By the time he walked around to the building's entrance, Game had been cleared of clients and the area was swarming with deputies, cops, and ambulances. Thomas and Freed had already retrieved Wes and Caden and turned them over to LAPD, a pair of cops keeping the hit men company in their respective ambulances. Xavier glared at Tim from the back of a departing black-and-white.

  Crossing the parking lot, Tim heard a pattering and looked down. Dime-size drops on the asphalt. He touched his fingertips to the ground, and they came up red, his prints marked with his own blood above the smeared stain of Walker's. He patted himself down, searching for the entry wound with no luck until a paramedic clamped a gauze pad to the side of his neck and tried to lead him to the rescue vehicle. Tim took over the pressure clamp and said, "Just a second," breaking toward Tannino and a cluster of deputies. The paramedic followed, voicing his concerns.