Into the Fire(104)

Max had finally caught his breath. “Who the hell are they now?”

“My guess?” Evan said. “Dirty cops or contract washouts. Former operators, probably SWAT.”

“Sent by?”

Seven endless days ago, Max had come to Evan with one problem. It had turned into two problems, which had turned into three. The fourth problem—Bedrosov—had now led to a fifth. At this point, despite Joey’s assurances, it was barely worth getting surprised over.

Before Evan answered, Max said, “What’s to say the guys who just shot at us weren’t real SWAT?”

“The carbines,” Evan said, rubbing his head. “The muzzle flash looked to be from a sixteen-inch barrel. That’s an M-forgery, designed to have the look of an M4 without all the features. The legit select-buyer models have fourteen-inch barrels. Plus, the forgeries have only two positions—safe and semi. They were firing at us a round at a time. Federal-or state-acquired weaponry go to full auto, which, if they’d had, believe me, they’d have used.”

“You noticed all that? In the middle of everything?”

But Evan was already dialing his RoamZone.

Tommy answered immediately. “I knew you’d come to your senses about that Ballista.”

“It’s not about the rifle.”

“Well, fuck a duck,” Tommy said. “Why do I get the sense you’re about to do that thing you do? An urgent need followed by an urgent request followed by an urgent timeline.”

“You said you’re in L.A. today. I need to see you.”

Tommy sighed, cigarette smoke blowing across the phone on the other end. “I’ll text you times.”

“Oh. And I might need to swap out trucks.”

Evan disconnected before Tommy’s cursing could pick up steam.

He texted Joey: NEED ADDRESS FOR BENJAMIN BEDROSOV.

He hopped out, dropped the bullet-scarred tailgate, and retrieved another set of license plates from one of the flat rectangular vaults overlaying the bed. After swapping out the plates, he climbed back into the driver’s seat.

Max was leaning forward onto the dashboard, resting his forehead against his hands. He seemed to be catching his breath. He looked over and noticed that Evan was in the same posture—face to his knuckles, hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to breathe. The adrenaline spike had receded, the headache returning angrier than before.

“What’s wrong with you?” Max sounded genuinely worried.

“I’m okay. Just need to close my eyes for a sec.”

“Bullshit.”

When Evan let his eyelids fall, it felt so good he thought it might be nice to never be awake again. “Concussion,” he finally said. “Just … haven’t slept in a while. So.”

“Let’s get you somewhere you can rest.”

“No time.” Evan used his arms to shove himself back in his seat.

“Why?” Max said. “What are we doing now?”

Evan forced his eyes open. “Going fishing.”





55



An Elaborate Piece of Business





Benjamin Bedrosov’s house, a nothing-to-see-here single-story perched on a steep hillside in Beachwood Canyon, squatted beneath a riot of bushy magnolias. No guard booths, no security fence, no locked gate—from the outside it looked as innocuous as Bedrosov himself. The relative privacy that he no doubt relished worked to Evan’s advantage now as he took on the Medeco dead bolt of the front door. The alarm system had been disabled, the wires beneath the main panel inside cleanly snipped and bypassed.

“Someone beat us here,” Evan said.

Max looked around warily. “Who?”

“Let’s find out.”

Splitting up, he and Max moved swiftly through the house, their search streamlined by the sterile modern interior. Bedrosov, it seemed, was no more a fan of decor and clutter than Evan was, which had no doubt made matters easy for the search team who’d moved through ahead of them. The plentiful windows, shaded by encroaching boughs, threw blocky light across bare tile floors.

A metal swoop intended for logs sat empty by the hearth. On the marble counter, an acrylic pasta holder contained a silo of red fusilli. The pantry held four cans of vegetarian beans, the refrigerator a jug of salsa and a half-drunk bottle of Chianti. In the garage a Tesla slumbered beneath a car cover. A small workbench backed by a pegboard held a few basic tools and a partially finished model of a World War II Flettner helicopter.

“Hey!” Max called out from somewhere deep in the house.

Evan stepped back into the house proper and walked down a bare corridor to the bedroom. Small monitors paneled one wall. They provided security views all around the property, another of Bedrosov’s precautions that would serve them well now in case unexpected visitors showed up.

Max stood across the room before an open wardrobe, hanging suits raked aside to reveal a wall safe.

“It was hidden behind this.” Max pointed to a panel of drywall he’d pried off and set to the side. “Almost seamless. But the cut was nonstandard, so I poked around some.”

“Nicely done,” Evan said.

“Yeah, well. Don’t know how far it’ll get us. The safe has a fingerprint reader.”

Evan drew close and examined it. The safe was an elaborate piece of business—Israeli make, hingeless outer frame, no combination dial to drill through. He tapped the steel-plate door with his knuckles, judged it to be a half inch.