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  In his penthouse, Otis Gaverill was not impressed with the captain’s press conference. “The property taxes on my greenhouses alone pay your salary ten times over!” he yelled at the screen.

  Curtis and J.A. waited, on edge, to see if he would rip the TV from the wall again. It appeared to be safe for the moment. Otis was more upset than either of them had ever seen him. Apart from being tricked out of two million dollars, they had lost seven of their toughest men in the SWAT raid. The two who had been taken alive were well represented by the firm’s lawyers, and would undoubtedly do time. But they wouldn’t make a deal with the police.

  “We’ve got to stop the bleeding!” Otis said. “These clowns are threatening our fiscal year. Put out a bounty. Make sure it’s widely known within our network. A quarter of a million dollars to anyone who can lead us to this organization’s new base.”

  Otis’s mobile rang, mercifully interrupting the diatribe for J.A. and Curtis. He answered.

  “O.”

  The caller described something in detail for thirty seconds. “Keep me posted,” Otis said.

  He clicked off. “That was our chief financial officer. It seems a couple of detectives came by the Verdant Florists and Greenhouses corporate offices and asked to speak with one of us. The receptionist said we were unavailable but they could call back and try to set up an appointment. Any guesses?”

  “Did the cops leave their names?” Curtis asked.

  “I didn’t ask. But you should call her and find out,” Otis replied.

  J.A. rubbed a day’s growth of beard, thinking he’d drop by the club for a proper shave. There were enough firewalls between them and the illicit end of their business that the police would never get close. Big O also had three city councilors and an assistant district attorney in his pocket, and a top law firm on retainer. If they needed to, they could turn up the heat to an unpleasant degree. But they all knew from a decade of experience that the best defense was to fly under everyone’s radar.

  “We’ll look into it, Big O,” he said.

  Mya called Mitchell as she was about to leave the office. “Hey, what are you up to tonight?”

  Through the phone, she could tell Mitchell and Sandovan were up on the precinct roof. Mitchell confessed as much. “We’re just hitting a few golf balls. There was a break in the grow op case. SWAT took down the gang. Eddie and I were thinking we might try to get in nine holes after work. Why, what’s up?”

  “Would you mind meeting me at my place? Dunn wants me to take on more responsibility and I’m not sure about the whole scenario.”

  “Sure thing. Want me to bring some Vietnamese food?”

  “You’re always taking care of dinner. Why don’t you let me do it this once?” said Mya.

  There was a pause.

  “Um… you’re not going to…make dinner, are you?” Mitchell said.

  Mya put on her best air of mock indignation. “I can cook! I thought I’d make my aunt’s famous mac and cheese.”

  “Hmm,” Mitchell mused. “Isn’t that the same mac and cheese you once burned so bad we had to throw out the casserole dish?”

  She laughed. “Ha, yes it is. Actually, I was going to grab a take-and-bake pizza from Upper Crust on the way home. The one with the grilled chicken, Asiago cheese, bacon and mushrooms.”

  “Hang on a second,” Mitchell covered his phone, but she could still hear him murmuring something to Sandovan.

  “It’s a deal,” he said. “Eddie says he can’t believe you’d take away his one night out, but since it sounds important, he’ll let it slide this one time.”

  Mya could hear Eddie in the background cursing Mitchell out. She knew Sandovan had said nothing of the sort. “You tell Eddie that I’ll get you guys a round of golf with Peter Dunn at the Stonebridge Club, just to make it up to him.”

  She could hear him relaying the offer, and Sandovan giving a whoop of approval. But when Mitchell came back on the line he downplayed it. “Eddie says he’s not really interested in playing at Stonebridge, but he’ll come along to keep me company.”

  “Yeah, I heard him,” Mya said. “He sounded pretty unexcited. I’ll see you around seven.”

  She clicked off and gathered her stuff. As she was leaving she checked in with Arlo McPhee to see how the Zealot Jeans game was progressing. He looked up from his monitor, excited. “Someone in Philly has already cracked the Locker Twenty-One code. And there was a pickup from the locker at the airport in San Francisco. So it looks like we’ve got two finalists already!”

  “That’s great news, Arlo,” she said. “Keep me posted via email.”

  She took the elevator to the parking garage. As she walked up to her Porsche, she couldn’t help but admire its muscular profile and the depth of the paint. She remembered the day Dunn had given it to her.

  It was a week after they’d won the Zealot Jeans account—the third win in eight months where she had played a major role. Unbeknownst to Mya, Dunn had her four-year-old BMW coupe removed from her parking spot and the Porsche parked there in its place. She’d gone down to the parking garage and cursed when she saw another car in her parking space. She called up to Dunn, since he was the only one in the office when she’d left. Mya had asked if he could find out “what asshole had moved her car and parked in her spot.”

  He told her he didn’t know, but to give him the license plate number. She was two letters into reading it to him when she realized the plate on the Porsche was hers. Dunn had gotten Mitchell to arrange for the change in registration and the transfer of the plates.

  “The man certainly has a sense of style,” Mya said out loud as she got in and gunned it. On the way home she picked up the pizza and when she arrived Mitchell’s truck was already in one of the guest spots. As she unlocked the door, she could hear the TV.

  “Hey kiddo, in here,” Mitchell said.

  She brought the pizza into the living room with her and leaned over to kiss him. “Who’s winning?” she asked, seeing him absorbed in a hockey game.

  “Ah, it’s four-two for St. Louis. I turned the oven on to four hundred, so you can just chuck the pizza in for twelve minutes and it should be perfect.”

  “Do you want another beer?” Mya asked as she went to the kitchen.

  “Yeah, my doctor told me I have a barley deficiency, so that’d be helpful,” he cracked.

  Fifteen minutes later they were each nose-deep in a slice of gourmet pizza, fresh from the oven, and shouting at the TV set as Mitchell’s favorite team—Boston—tried to tie the score by pulling their goalie in the dying seconds of the game. Their cries went unanswered. The team lost 4-3.

  “Damn,” Mitchell said, picking a tendril of cheese off Mya’s chin. “I thought for sure they’d tie it up. Hey how was your day? You sounded pretty serious on the phone.”

  Mya took a slug of her beer and put it down. She wiped her lips with paper towel—Mitchell’s idea of a napkin—and told him about Dunn’s offer.

  He listened patiently between bites of pizza. When Mya was finished, she asked what he thought. Mitchell drained his beer and thought for a moment. “It sounds like a great opportunity. You’ve got a boss who loves you and appreciates what you do. Kinda like Captain Ramsey and me, only respectful, nurturing, and rewarding. Dunn’s giving you a realistic assessment of what you’re in for if you accept the offer. And you’re young enough that you might be able to go hard at the job for five more years then start a family. You could have it all.”

  Mya’s eyes opened a bit wider at the mention of starting a family. She and Mitchell had been seeing each other for almost two and a half years. She felt they were serious, but they’d never talked about marriage, kids, or the proverbial house in the ‘burbs. She had met his mother and instantly loved her. He had met her parents, and while they couldn’t put aside their concerns about his being a cop, they liked him very much.

  Mitchell was easy to like. Mya knew he was also easy to love. She looked at him. “It’s a lot of money. Does it ever bother you tha
t I make more than you?”

  “I really don’t give it much thought,” Mitchell said. “You know I don’t get envious when we go to parties at your friends’ places or your work and people are showing off their latest indulgences. I had no idea who Giorgio Versace was before I met you.”

  Mya stifled a laugh. “You mean Giorgio Armani?”

  “Yeah, that guy. Anyway, I don’t really know much about all that designer expensive stuff. So it’s hard to envy what you’re not aware of. Don’t get me wrong, your car is nice. And so’s this condo. But I don’t lay awake in my apartment wondering how I’m going to compete with people who make a lot more money than me. Hell, I can always have them pulled over and get their Maseratis or Ferraris impounded.”

  “Your lack of pretense is one of the things I love about you. What about Dunn? What do you think of him?”

  “It’s not like we could be buddies or anything,” Mitchell began. “But he seems like a decent guy. Less cut-throat than a lot of people in your business.”

  Mya nodded. “He’s fair. But he’s got an edge. Did I ever tell you how he set up his company?”

  Mitchell shook his head, “Nope.”

  “He got screwed over by the big agency he used to work for. They’d promised to make him a partner and reneged on it. When Dunn learned they weren’t going to make good on their promise, he barged into the senior partner’s office and confronted him. The guy just laughed at him. So Dunn asked which account was his favorite. The guy tells him ‘everyone knows my favorite client is the Versailles hotel chain. But you’re wasting your time if you think you can steal them away.’ Dunn tells the guy that within twelve months, he’ll have it. The senior partner freaked out. He tripled the account staff, and spent the next year sucking up to the client.”

  Mitchell laughed, “So what happened?”

  “Dunn didn’t steal that account. He actually spent the next twelve months infiltrating the agency’s biggest client, and took that instead.”

  “Crafty bastard. So he distracted them and then cut them off at the ankles. Oooh that’s devious.”

  “Speaking of bastards,” Mya said through a mouthful of pizza. “Garrett Lawrence quit today. Didn’t even come into the office. Just sent an email saying he was leaving.”

  “And who’s that again?” Mitchell asked innocently.

  “The guy who is such a perv. The one who put his hand on my ass.”

  “Oh yeah, that jerk. Well, the company’s better off without him.”

  Mitchell looked slyly down at the platter on the coffee table, where the last slice of pizza sat defenseless. “I know I’ve had four slices, and you’ve had three. But would you mind splitting that one with me? It’s so good.”

  Mya batted her eyelashes. “I don’t mind. Besides, you’re going to need the energy tonight.”

  He held up the recently-orphaned slice so she could take a bite from the end. “In that case, you’d better have some too.”

  35

  The Colonel and his men gathered around a table they’d fashioned out of the warehouse’s office door and a couple of sawhorses. He had instructed Barros to purchase half a dozen bottles of good wine and a large quantity of gourmet take-out food.

  The table was covered in lamb kebabs, roasted vegetables, a herb-rubbed whole beef tenderloin, grilled prawns in a ketjap mani glaze, garlic naan bread, and fragrant lemongrass chicken satays. There was enough wine for the men to enjoy themselves without a debilitating hangover.

  Ramon raised his glass. “To Luis. For picking the pockets of the drug dealers.”

  Luis demurred. “The credit goes to the Colonel. The trick was his idea. I just did what any of you would have done and followed orders.”

  The Colonel held up his hand and the debate was suspended. “The credit goes to all of you. But let us not forget that with every raid we go further into the lair of the snake. We must keep our senses sharp. Now, there is one very urgent detail that I fear has escaped the attention of all of you.”

  Diego spoke up, “What is it, Commandante?”

  The Colonel pointed to the feast on the table. “The food is getting cold. Eat!”

  Compared to their usual assaults, it was uncoordinated and reckless. The teamwork and selflessness the Colonel had worked so hard to develop went out the window. But in the end it was an effective attack. The food and wine were wiped out.

  Hector and Arturo cleaned the paper plates, food containers, and bottles off the table. Hector took the bag of garbage to the nearest dumpster in the industrial complex that had become their new home. As he walked the hundred yards to the garbage container he admired the stars in the clear sky. There seemed to be fewer here than in his home country, but he knew it was just because the ambient glow from the city made them harder to see.

  The top of the dumpster was open. He tossed the bag inside. The moment it landed there was a sudden movement, and a dark figure sprang from the container. Hector’s hand instinctively flew to his pistol, but before he could pull it from his belt he saw that the figure had fled to the fence line. It was a feral dog. From a safe distance, the animal looked back at him through a hole in the fence, eyes glowing as they reflected the moonlight.

  Hector’s pulse was already returning to normal. He watched the dog trot away from the fence and up into the grassy hillside. We are alike, he thought. Both survivors. Torn from civilization, but able to adapt, no matter what the circumstances. Stealing in, taking what we want, then retreating.

  He turned to rejoin his comrades. The dog continued up the hill and dissolved into the night.

  Four thousand miles and nine time zones to the east, Pyotr Ptushko and his entourage had finalized the itinerary for their visit to America’s eastern seaboard. In two weeks time he would be suffering from a swollen right hand as he gripped and grinned his way through all the events that had been arranged in his honor.

  He had dispatched Yuri to help the newly-installed government of Uramera quash the minor uprisings that were slowing down his mining operations in that country. What was the point of financing a revolution if the return on investment never materialized, he pondered.

  Among the many divisions of Ptushko’s global conglomerate was a security force similar to the private contractors that had augmented American forces in Iraq and Afghanistan. Yuri was one of the leaders of this force. With impressive firepower and tactical resources, the private army allowed Ptushko to back up his financial clout with military grade leverage. A ten-thousand acre training facility in the Altai Republic not only kept his own men fit and ready for their operations, it also served as an off-the-grid site where foreign governments could conduct elaborate exercises with their own elite fighting units.

  He had lucrative contracts with more than forty countries to use the facility. Ptushko had hired experts in everything from long-range marksmanship to guerrilla warfare. Less well known was that the center also had a black market weapons bazaar, where one could procure anything from an assault hovercraft to interrogation chemicals.

  Ptushko looked around his boardroom table at the rest of the entourage that would be making the US trip with him. The group was comprised of Yasmine, his private pilot, his bodyguard Vasily, the vice president of logistics of his shipping company, a publicity coordinator, and two of his lawyers.

  “We will be in the United States just three days, and a lot of that will be taken up with public relations as the politicians try to hump my leg. But the real objective for this visit is to convince the Salento Port administrators to give our cargo ships preferential treatment. The efficiencies we can gain will help us improve our market share in the Americas. Yasmine, can you take us quickly through the finalized itinerary?”

  Without consulting notes or any other visual aids, Yasmine ran the group through the detailed schedule. “We will be met by the state governor and the mayor of Salento at the airport, and go straight to the parade route. The parade is scheduled to take two hours and end just before lunch. Vasily, if you want to
correspond with the man in charge of parade security, his name is Sergeant Randall Tewks. He is leading the security detail on behalf of the Salento Police Department.”

  Vasily nodded, his thick neck flexing with the effort.

  Yasmine continued. “We…or rather Pyotr, considers this to be a minimal threat scenario. It is not like visiting some of our mining and manufacturing resources in parts of the world where there is no law and order. Therefore we will not be taking body armor.”

  The publicity coordinator nodded agreeably. “I think it would be bad manners if we all donned bulletproof vests. We’re their honored guests. The entire nation is putting out the red carpet. Three television networks are including at least part of the parade in their regional coverage and one has made a national commitment.”

  Ptushko smiled. “I believe the biggest threat will come from STDs in the American night clubs, or possibly hardening of our arteries as we are wined and dined. I know that some of our business contacts have planned a private dinner at Giraf, which has a waiting list for reservations six months into the future.”

  The lawyers laughed out loud.

  Yasmine glanced at them with contempt and kept the briefing going. She recited the entire three day plan from memory, then looked around the room for questions.

  Vasily spoke. “Weapons?”

  Yasmine pre-empted Ptushko’s response. “Your standard light armament package, Vasily. I have arranged the necessary diplomatic dispensations to ensure that you will not be bothered by local law enforcement.”

  In contrast to Vasily, the lawyers had a couple of long-winded contractual nitpicks which Ptushko quickly dismissed as trivial. The gathering was adjourned. Ptushko left for the annual general meeting of one of his subsidiaries. Yasmine and Vasily were the last to leave the room. Yasmine because she was downloading a series of documents to a flash drive; Vasily because he was downloading a series of pastries from a tray in the middle of the table. She watched as he made six croissants and four palmier disappear.

  “How can you stay in shape when you eat everything in sight, Vasily?” Yasmine said.