IT WAS TEN-THIRTY FRIDAY NIGHT AND GRADY HUNT was in an FBI satellite van on Fillmore Street, just off of Geary. It was hot in the back of the van and Denny Denniston had just stepped outside to have a smoke.
Victoria and Beano were somewhere inside the Ritz-Carlton. Grady had several two-man jump-out teams in sedans parked in strategic locations around the hotel. He had placed an agent in a doorman's coat out front. Every time that unlucky agent had to lift luggage off the valet cart and pack it in a guest's car, he would swear at his FBI teammates in low tones over the mike on his lapel.
The paging unit that was in Victoria's purse was sending a very nice signal up to Satcom 6 and bouncing it back to the Global Positioning Satellite Dish on the top of the blue minivan. Grady could follow Victoria, watching her movements on the lighted electronic map on the screen in front of him. The pagers had been developed by the FBI field operation lab and were actually miniature tracking units. He loved giving these special pagers to snitches. He would always page them a few times to let them know he was thinking about them, but the real reason was to activate the satellite tracking in case they took off or got out of pocket. Victoria and Beano thought they had lost Grady on the roof of the Penn Mutual Building, but the beeper gave him back their location in less then five minutes.
The phone in the van rang and he snapped it up. It was Gil Green from his hotel room at the Fairmont, downtown. "Give me an update," the colorless D.A. demanded without preamble.
"They're still cooped. When they leave, I'll call."
"Still at the Ritz?"
"Yeah."
"I wonder what they're doing there. Makes no sense."
"Yeah." Grady was trying to get the politician off the phone. Then his satellite track went hot. "They're moving. Gotta go," and he hung up.
He banged on the back door for Denniston. Seconds later the Vanilla Surprise jumped back into the van. Grady Hunt yelled at his driver, "They're headed down Stockton, just took a left on Broadway," he said, as the driver put it in gear. "Get on the air and tell Larry White this Mobile Command Post is in motion," he said to Denniston, who picked up the mike and switched the scanner over to Tac Two.
"This is Operation Brushfire, M.C.P. We're hot. Target was heading down Stockton, took a left on Broadway."
"Roger that," the voice said back.
Grady leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. "Put a little oomph in it. I'd like to make visual contact, see what they're riding in."
"Okay," the driver said, and he put the pedal down and the blue minivan accelerated.
Grady grabbed the mike and triggered it as he watched the blip turn on his video map. "He's making a right on Van Ness. He's on Route 101, everybody. I'm going to move up. Intersect point is in two blocks. Hold your pattern," he said.
The others all waited.
In the ex-Delta Force van, one of the sharpshooters was driving, the other rode shotgun. Tommy was seated, his hands cuffed behind him in a backwards seat facing Joe. He was looking into his brother's hollow, cold eyes. Beano and Victoria were in the tan Lincoln just behind them with Reo, Reefer, and Doughboy.
"Joe, you gotta listen to me," Tommy finally said.
Joe didn't respond. His eyes were looking right through his brother.
"We own a fucking oil company. It's the largest stratigraphic trap in the Northern Hemisphere. I bought it for both of us. I found out about it from these two guys who hit the casino in the Bahamas. The old guy, he's a physicist; the young guy is a geologist. They worked for this Fentress County Tennessee oil company. Stop fucking staring through me and listen to me, Joe!"
But Joe Rina said nothing.
"They found this huge oil field. I'm talkin' a fucking monster, Joe. Six acres. Now, I know that don't mean nothin' to you, but if you knew geology, you'd know a six-acre pool is like, unheard of. It's not like some fucking little pocket well with fucking anticlines an' shit. It's a full, shale-roofed stratigraphic trap or some damn thing. That's where the big oil finds always are. And these two geeks worked for FCP amp;G and they proved the field with this well… called a delineation well and…"
"You bought the company?" Joe interrupted. "Is that your story? But the money was still in your car. You think I'm stupid?"
"I don't know how that happened, they musta-"
"What were you doing hanging out with Victoria Hart?" Joe interrupted again. "She tried to put me in jail for attempted murder. We had to kill three people to shake her off. Now she's in your hotel room calling you 'honey' and 'darling.' You make me want to vomit."
"She was in makeup, Joe. I didn't recognize her. She was pretending to be Laura Luna, the company's Financial Officer. See Chip Lacy, he's the President of the company, but he had a heart attack and…" Tommy stopped because Joe rubbed his forehead in disgust. "Listen, this whole thing sounds stupid, I know… but if you'll fucking listen, Joe, just listen to me, I'm sure you're gonna-"
"You know why I quit clipping guys and started letting you do it?" Joe interrupted for the third time.
"Look, Joe, this whole fucking thing… I can explain it."
"Reason I quit was I couldn't stand listening to dead men whine. You used to be a man; don't go out whining. Not that I care about memories anymore… but why don't you help me here and stop it? You're nothing but a walking piece of yesterday. A disappointing part of my personal history."
"Joe, how can you say that?"
"Only reason I don't put you down right now," Joe continued, "is this suit is raw silk, and at this range, I'm gonna get pieces a'you all over me from the back spray."
Tommy looked into Joe's eyes and saw such cold clarity that he knew his brother wasn't kidding.
"Joe, please listen… just let me…"
But Joe thumbed back the hammer and fired a shot. The driver of the van jumped and almost ran off the road. The bullet tore through Tommy's chest, puncturing his lung. He jackknifed forward from recoil and landed on Joe's lap, pouring blood all over the black, raw silk suit.
"Nuts," Joe said softly, then pushed his stunned and bleeding brother back into a sitting position. "Now shut up, will ya? I don't wanna hear any more."
They arrived at the Presidio entrance on Lombard. Reo pulled the Lincoln around in front of the van, got out, and, using a padlock key he had in his pocket, opened the gate of the old, abandoned military base. It sat on fourteen hundred acres of prime waterfront land and used to be the military command center for the eight Western states until it was closed because of budget cuts. The site was magnificent, with its wood-frame, turn-of-the-century architecture. The clapboard structures were built in the 1870's, with large bay windows that looked out on the Golden Gate Bridge. Reo stood aside as the Lincoln, driven by Doughboy and containing Reefer, Beano, and Victoria, pulled through the gate, followed by the sharpshooters in the white van with Joe and Tommy. Once they were through, Reo locked the gate. Then he got in the Lincoln and they pulled up Presidio Boulevard, past the deserted Letterman U.S. Army Health Clinic with its low eaves and slanting roof. They passed the old wood-frame Army Headquarters, which was closed up and abandoned. They turned left on Arguello Boulevard and headed up into the hills, leaving the base and the road lights behind. They drove south on the old rutted road, climbing toward the wooded hillside where Reo and his squad had done their LURRP training years before.
"They're in the Presidio," Grady said into the mike as he hunched over his GPS unit in the back of the van. He had a slight tinge of annoyance in his voice. "They could get lost up there. Let's move in. I'm gonna take the Lombard gate, you guys go in on Presidio Boulevard. Don't fuck with the lock, break it off if you have to."