Into the Fire(77)
He thought back to Grant Merriweather’s final moments, confused and depleted. He’d given his life uncovering the evidence to take down Bedrosov’s operation. He’d been hired by dirty cops with a hidden agenda. By doing his job well, he’d turned it into a death sentence. For himself and for Max.
If Evan didn’t shut Bedrosov down, he’d send the next wave of hit men after Max. And another wave after that.
Evan stared at Grant’s thumb drive, currently slotted into a USB port. The attached Swiss Army knife key chain protruded, a mundane hiding place for a data dump that had cost twenty lives and counting. Bedrosov had presided over the whole bloody mess with calm upper-management demeanor, a pleasing fa?ade, and a psychopath’s willingness to dispatch anyone in his way.
Evan had faced evil before in various guises—dark and dirty, passionate and zealous, powerful and cruel. But he’d never gone up against someone so … ordinary. This mission moved against the grain of all those that had come before. Rather than winding into increasing perversion and turpitude, it seemed to arc upward toward a kind of warped legitimacy. He kept looking for a clear enemy, but the faces he continued to encounter were seemingly interchangeable. Terzian and Petro and Brust and Nu?ez and Bedrosov were variations on the same theme, a progression of men seeking profit at any cost.
As if reading his thoughts, Joey said, “I thought we’d finally get to some master villain, you know? Someone who looks the part. But he’s not a villain any more than those dirty cops were. It’s like they’re all pieces of a villain that have to be put together for us to see. And that makes them worse, almost. ’Cuz they can pretend none of them are to blame.” Her dark eyes were shiny, her hair twisted down to cover one eye. She’d withdrawn into herself, but Evan could hear in her voice how keenly she felt the outrage. “The guy does whatever he wants to whoever he wants and gets away with it.”
“Not anymore,” Evan said.
Joey’s eyes were glassy, drinking in the evidence writ large on the walls.
Evan thought about the epiphany that had hit him after he’d taken out Petro: That he wasn’t fighting a snake but a hydra. That the fanged mouths would keep multiplying until he reached the commanding head and severed it. He hoped that was Bedrock. But this time he had to make sure of it.
“While I’m doing this,” he said, “you dig into Bedrock’s connections, bank records, comms, e-mails, everything. I’ve been caught on the back foot three times now. I need to know that if I walk out of this alive, I’m done.”
Joey’s eyes flared at the “if,” but he gestured her aside, not wanting to get bogged down. After she vacated the chair, he rattled around in Google, coming up with a slew of articles from April about Armenian pride rallies. A San Diego feature contained several photographs depicting some of the marchers and naming them in the captions.
Evan started highlighting names and running them through the databases.
“What are you doing?” Joey said.
He waved her off. From her dish of cobalt pebbles, Vera II looked on in support.
The fourth name, Paytsar Hovsepian, threw back a useful report from NCIC. A stoned outing in his senior year of high school had ended with a conviction for vandalism. He’d made threatening remarks to the arresting officer, earning him a position on the Violent Person file.
Even more helpful was his profile information. Mid-thirties. Lean build. Average height. Just an ordinary guy, not too handsome.
Evan went back to the online article depicting Paytsar holding a sign that read NO PLACE FOR DENIAL. With his other hand, he flashed the peace sign.
Evan double-clicked on the high-res photo. Great focus, strong lighting.
Precisely what he needed.
He zoomed in on the two fingers held aloft. Tighter, tighter.
“X,” Joey said, “why are you dicking around with this right now?”
From his other side, Vera II cheered him on silently. Another reason to prefer the company of plants.
The photo resolution held. He captured the image, sent it to his RoamZone.
“Wait,” Joey said. “Is that…? Are you…?” She shook her head. “No way. No fucking way.”
“Language,” he said.
He grabbed his phone from the charger, scratched Dog the dog on the head, headed out of the Vault.
Paused halfway across the threshold, one foot in the shower.
“You coming or not?”
Joey scrambled off her chair.
41
Your Usual Four-Alarm Emergency
“Are you fucking crazy?” Melinda Truong asked.
The accurate answer, Evan figured, was yes.
Joey had ridden shotgun on the drive to Northridge, laptop across her thighs, running through procedures and regulations and pop-quizzing him on the players inside. It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was what he had.
Melinda set her tiny, capable fists on her hips, and Evan realized that she wasn’t going to allow him to dismiss the question as rhetorical. He looked to Joey for air support, but her mouth only clutched a few times ineffectually.
Melinda was the first person Evan had seen render Joey speechless.
And fair enough. She was a force of nature. Stunning and lithe, a rope of jet-black hair hanging past the curve of her lower back. Yoga pants and a Lululemon sports bra hugged her compact form. Her skin was without blemish, perfectly smooth. Not a stray hair out of place. A pair of bright yellow Pumas capped off the precision athlete look.