He nodded.
He freed his Mag-Lite from his cargo pocket and pointed it at the ground. He would have preferred night-vision goggles to breach the dark house, but the heavy flashlight would have to do.
Den returned from the far room, now wearing a black tank top. The bowie knife gleamed, showing off its sinister curve until he jammed it into its sheath. He sank to his knees again, partially disappearing behind the couch, and dumped a few more items into the backpack.
"…authorities believe that Den Laurey, considered armed and extremely dangerous, remains at large in the Greater Los Angeles area…"
Den's head snapped up, the TV framing it almost perfectly. Then he reached for something on the floor. His shoulders rippled with an unseen motion of his hands, and then he rose, street-ready in his originals, the flame-ensconced laughing skull ascending into view from behind the couch.
Melissa Yueh continued, "…locates this man, Den Laurey, they are urged to contact…"
For once the local news star's irritating habit of hogging live screen time was a blessing. Den hovered in front of the TV, waiting to hit the "power" button until his coverage was done.
Tim and Bear exploded through the back door. "Freeze! U.S. Marshals!"
"Hands up! Get 'em up!"
The circle of Tim's light captured Den's face, frozen in surprise. His hands were raised, the FTW tattoo peeking out from the collar of his tank top. The leather jacket hid his knife and at least one gun.
Backing slowly to the wall, he squinted into the light. His stubbled cheeks tensed, then relaxed as his lips pursed in an intimation of a grin, his expression a perfect match for the mug-shot smirk filling the TV screen. "Troubleshooter." He might have been greeting an old friend.
"Freeze," Bear said. "Now."
Den took another half step back, his shoulder brushing the blank wall by the staircase. An upside-down sheriff's deputy patch had been added to the filthy leather, right over the heart, a fresh addition.
Tim's anger flared, then burned down to a cool blue flame. He lined the sights just below Den's collarbone tattoo, right on the clean badge. His hands were steady, as steady as they'd ever been. At fifteen feet Den didn't have a prayer.
"This is your last chance to live," Tim said. "You run, you die."
His hands still held high, Den rubbed against the wall, like a grizzly scratching his back on a tree trunk. At the last instant, it hit Tim what he was doing, and he shouted and lunged forward as the light switch clicked on and the light-socket bomb exploded. A brilliant flash lit the room with instant, eye-scorching clarity, and BBs shot past his head. A hunk of shrapnel blew out the TV. Tim got the Mag-Lite back up while BBs were still rattling on the floor, but Den was gone.
Bear rolled to his side, coughing. "Yawright?"
Tim leapt to his feet. Den could've taken off through the garage on the Harley by now, but the door remained open, the painted bike in place. Footsteps pounded across the ceiling, and then came the smash of the second-floor window, the tinkle of falling glass, the creak of a drainpipe. Precious was barking as Tim ran out onto the veranda and Den's shadow thundered overhead, firing down in yellow starbursts, the whole structure creaking with his weight. Tim dove behind a post, skidding on the distressed wood.
More pounding footsteps, the latticed roof cracking as Den took flight, then the thump of his landing on the shed. Two more shots drove Tim back behind the post and Bear around the jamb.
A rasp across shingles, a thud of boots striking dirt, the creak of the trailer gate swinging open.
Tim sprinted around the fetid pool. Motorcycle wheels thrummed down the ramp. The cough of an engine, a gunshot, then a high, warbling howl.
Tim's ruthless backup plan come to fruition.
Tim pulled to a halt in the alley. The Harley tottered a moment longer at the base of the ramp, then fell. The shotgun blast had blown off the seat, taking Den with it. He must have been half on his bike when his booby trap had blown; judging from the bloodstains, the spray of pellets had entered him to the right of his bladder on the rise.
Somehow Den had landed on his feet. His eyes locked for an instant on the kill switch on his handlebar; he'd remembered to throw the toggle, but Tim had cut the connecting wire. Den had received the treatment intended for bike thieves-a Chief-designed shotgun blast up the frame tubing. The explosion had blown the metal box open. Two balloons filled with Allah's Tears had rolled onto the ground, where they sat quivering.
Den staggered to the side and sat down, his head lolling forward, a string of drool connecting his lower lip to the cracked dirt of the alley. He withdrew his hand from his jacket, and it came away artery red. He peeled back his jacket. His undershirt was soiled with blood, the fabric rippled like silt. It took him two tries to free the bowie from the sheath. The ivory handle winked in the darkness. He tried a feeble swing in Tim's direction but collapsed onto his back, a gurgle blowing a crimson bubble at his lips.
Tim walked over and looked down at him. Den's limbs shook; he couldn't muster the strength to lift his celebrated knife. The tiny rubies embedded in the butt glittered. Tim stepped on Den's wrist, pinning his hand to the dirt. He crouched and pried the knife free.
Den's head lay cocked back, his eyes straining in the sockets. Tim leaned over him with the blade. He cut Dray's new patch off the leather jacket and held it up before Den's dying face.
"Andrea Rackley," he said.
He pocketed the patch and stood. Den's eyes glassed over, and the bubble at his lips popped. Tim stripped the guns from his body and tossed them in the dirt. He turned around, and Bear was behind him, leaning on the shack, Nextel at his side.
The breeze shifted, bringing with it the rising cry of sirens.
Chapter 67
Out on the street, news crews clamored at the barricades. Producers pleaded into cell phones; tungsten-halogen lights blared; sound guys hopped about, arms raised to support dangling boom mikes. Melissa Yueh herself showed up in a KCOM van that resembled a movie trailer. For high-profile stories, she'd forgo the anchor desk and roll up her sleeves. She paced outside, delicate yet ruthless, like a great cat. The public information officer had hauled a podium to the front walk and draped it in royal blue cloth in preparation for Tannino's news conference. A Marshals' arrest meant podium rights, which in turn guaranteed that the wooden Service seal would be front and center on all broadcasts.
Tim stayed in the house; a new Rackley scoop had been the holy grail for reporters-especially Yueh-ever since his highly publicized release from jail. He, Bear, Guerrera, Smiles, and Malane huddled in the corner, notepads out, checking off everything that needed checking. Deputies and agents mingled, Aaronson and the other criminalists chasing them off the carpets and out of bathrooms so they could process the scene. For once the celebratory mood was unalloyed-no missing nomad, no drug bait-and-switch, no dots left to connect.
Tannino made his triumphant entrance around 4:00 A.M. He paused in the doorway, surveying the scene until his eyes came to rest on Tim. He winked, then tilted his head in a deferential nod. He crossed and paused before Tim, looking up, his jaw set, his eyes dark and twinkling.
Tim unholstered his. 357 and offered it, butt first.
"Any shots fired?"
Tim shook his head.
"Keep it."
The FBI brass rolled up, and the assistant chief deputy appeared at Tannino's elbow, pulling him away. Tannino played nice with the SAC, but it was clear that once cameras rolled, the marshal would be front and center, the special agent in charge floating behind his left shoulder, Ed McMahon to Johnny, waiting to field follow-up after the bombshells flared out.