Page 31 of Into the Fire

Evan said, “Next I take names.”

He snapped the laptop shut and stood. Max found his feet as well. “Should we turn this over to the cops?”

“Sure,” Evan said. “They’ll continue the investigation. Send you on your way. And you’ll wind up like your cousin or Lorraine Lennox.”

Max’s eyes got glassy. “Right. But how are you gonna figure out who’s behind it?”

“Not being bound by the law enables me to be more … efficient.”

Max nodded a few times rapidly. “Grant dealt with a lot of criminals. But something about these guys was scary enough for him to decide to put a break-glass-in-case-of-emergency option in place. And the guy at my apartment? He makes the dude who shot at us look like a minor-leaguer. These are bad men.”

Evan handed Max a roll of hundred-dollar bills and a burner cell phone. “I’ve dealt with a lot worse than money launderers and street-level hit men.” Evan started for the door. “Don’t use any credit cards. Don’t contact anyone. Don’t leave this place except to buy food. Use the phone I left you only to reach me. I’ll come back and update you on my progress tomorrow.”

The air of the entryway was humid and thick, tinged with the soggy reek of mold.

Evan had his hand on the doorknob when Max said, “Wait.”

He turned around.

“I didn’t have a chance to thank you,” Max said. “I don’t know where I’d be if it wasn’t for you. No—scratch that. I’d be dead already. I know that after the stuff with Violet … You may not be glad you’re helping me. But I am.”

Evan nodded. When he opened the front door, the chill night air blew across him, a refreshing break from the stillness of the house. He stepped out onto the porch.

“They say being brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared,” Max said. “It means you’re scared and do it anyway.”

Evan halted. He didn’t answer. But he turned around.

Max scratched at his neck, his fingernails raising red streaks. He was backlit, the shadows catching on his face, veiling his eyes. “Is that … is that true?”

Evan said, “I’m not scared yet.”

15

Predacious Douchenozzle

Westwood Village hugged the south edge of UCLA, a jumble of restaurants, movie theaters, bars, and shops hawking college gear. As was the case in the rest of West L.A., the real-estate market had blown sky-high, but the students streaming through left the neighborhood pleasingly shabby in places. Frat-house lawns littered with beer bottles, pizza by the slice, sublet condos losing a war of attrition.

In the warren of streets east of Veteran Avenue, Evan approached a three-story apartment complex, assessing the security measures. The windows were single-pane, flimsy in their frames, easily breakable. The mounted light by the call box was broken, casting the entrance in shadow. The guard plate on the door had come loose enough to be pried free with a screwdriver. He raked the dead bolt in all of ten seconds with a half-diamond pick and took the stairs to the second floor.

Midway down the hall, he paused outside an apartment door backlit with a bluish electronic glow. In the thin gap by the frame, he could see that the three dead bolts had been left unlocked.

Lazy.

The doorknob lock looked to be as old as the building itself. Evan flicked open his Strider folding knife, slipped it into the doorjamb, and angled it to catch the ramped latch. Before he slid it back into its housing to free the door, he hesitated.

With his free hand, he took out his RoamZone and texted: YOU FAILED YOUR SECURITY ASSESSMENT. I’M COMING IN NOW. DON’T JUMP ME.

A moment later the reply hummed in: THEN DON’T GIVE ME A GOOD REASON 2 JUMP U.

He thumbed in: KAY.

With a tilt of the blade, he opened the door.

A workstation pod consumed the entire front room, towers and servers stacked atop a circular desk. Monitors were mounted three high on metal racks, hiding the chair from view. The sound of furious clacking echoed off the walls and cottage-cheese ceiling, low-level violence being visited upon a keyboard.

As Evan closed the door behind him, a feminine voice said, “Hang on,” and then a teenage girl emerged from the circular desk through a missing slice.

A too-big flannel hung unbuttoned from her lithe, muscular frame. The red T-shirt beneath boasted an image of Hello Kitty brandishing an AK-47. Lush brown-black hair tumbled past the girl’s shoulders and mostly covered the shaved strip above her ear on the right side.