At 7:30, they got back into the car. It wouldn’t be much longer until they accepted that they had been stood up.

Pike hurried downstairs to the employees’ bathroom off the kitchen. It had a single window that looked out at Union Station. Pike had opened it when he first arrived so its movement would draw no attention.

At 7:51, the seven agents surveilling the area emerged from their hiding places and gathered at the north corner of the parking lot. Pitman had flagged the play. Pike left the restaurant and trotted to Cole’s car, which was parked at the end of Olvera Street. Cole had swapped for the Lexus.

Pike followed the blue sedan south on Alameda toward the Roybal Building-the federal office building. The rush-hour stop-and-go was brutal, with only a few cars at a time spurting forward between grudging light changes, but Pike counted on this working for him.

The blue sedan was three cars ahead when the yellow went red, and Pitman was trapped. Pike maneuvered Cole’s car into a loading zone, got out, and watched the crossing lights ahead. When the crossing light signaled the lights were about to change, Pike trotted forward, picking up speed.

Pike closed on the sedan like a shark tracking a blood trail and attacked out of their blind spot. Neither man saw him, and neither was expecting his assault. Pike reached Blanchette’s side of the sedan just as the light turned green, and shattered Blanchette’s window with his pistol.

Pike jerked the door open and pushed his gun into Blanchette’s side, screaming to keep him confused.

“Your belt. Pop your belt-”

Pike stripped Blanchette’s gun, dragged him from the car, and proned him on the street, keeping his gun on Pitman.

“Hands on the wheel! On the wheel or I’ll kill you.”

The cars ahead of them were gone. The lane was clear. Horns behind them shrieked as Pike slid into the car.

Pitman said, “Pike?”

Pike stripped Pitman’s weapon and tossed it into the back. Outside, Blanchette was getting up.

“Drive!”

Pitman didn’t move, maybe slowed by confusion, but his eyes flickered with anger.

“I’m a federal agent. You can’t-”

Pike hit him hard in the forehead with his pistol, grabbed the wheel, and powered through the light.

36

THEY WERE under the First Street Bridge when Pitman woke, parked between towering concrete columns at the edge of the Los Angeles River. Abandoned vehicles impounded by the city were parked in even rows there in the dead space beneath the bridge, protected by a chain-link fence from everything but dust, birds, and taggers. Pike was parked at the end of the fence. Trucks passing overhead made the fence buzz like swarming bees. They were less than eight blocks from Cole’s car.

Pitman jerked upright, trying to get away, but Pike had tied his wrists to the wheel with plastic restraints. Pitman twisted as far from Pike as possible.

“What are you doing? What in hell do you think you’re doing, Pike? Let me go!”

Pitman looked younger now that Pike was close. His forehead was split where Pike hit him, leaking a crusty red mask over his face. Pike watched him, holding the pistol loosely in his lap.

Pitman said, “You assaulted a federal officer. You fucking kidnapped me! Let me go! Cut me loose, and we’ll forget about this. I can help you!”

Pike tapped the pistol.

“I’m not the one who needs help.”

Pitman’s face twitched and popped as if moving in every direction at once.

“You are in deep shit-deep shit! You are breaking major federal laws here! Walk away now, or you will be under the jail.”

Pike said, “Khali Vahnich. A terrorist.”

“I’m telling you, Pike-walk away!”

“A known terrorist.”

“I’m not discussing this!”

Pike lifted the Kimber just enough to point it.

“We’re talking about whether or not you die.”

“I’m a federal officer! You would be killing a federal officer!”

Pike nodded, quiet and calm.

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Jesus Christ!”

Pike held up Pitman’s badge. He had gone through Pitman’s pockets for his credentials.

“This was never about the Kings, Pitman. This is about Vahnich. You put a target on her to bag the terrorist. Or protect him.”

“That’s insane. I’m not trying to protect him.”

“You told her Khali Vahnich was Alex Meesh.”

“We had to protect the case.”

“You told her he was trying to kill her to protect his investment with the Kings, but the Kings were dead. There was no one to protect.”

“We didn’t know they were dead until yesterday, Pike! We didn’t know! We thought he was helping them-”

“There’s no ‘we’ here, Pitman. It’s on you. The Kings are dead, so why would Vahnich want to kill her?”

“I don’t know!”

“I think you killed them and sold out the girl to help Vahnich.”

Pike raised his pistol again, and Pitman jerked hard against the plastic.

“We didn’t know! That’s the God’s honest truth! Listen to me-we knew they were in business, Vahnich and the Kings, but we didn’t know Vahnich was in L.A. until just before the accident. Look in the trunk-my briefcase is in the trunk. Look at it, Pike! I’m telling the truth-”

Pike studied Pitman, getting the read, then took the keys and found an oversize briefcase in the trunk. The briefcase was locked. He brought it back to the front seat.

Pitman said, “Key’s in my pocket-”

Pike didn’t bother with the key. He slit open the case with his knife. Letters, memos, and files bearing Department of Justice and Homeland Security letterheads were jammed together in no particular order.

Pike said, “You aren’t with Organized Crime.”

“Homeland Security. Look at my notes-”

“Shut up, Pitman.”

Many of the pages were marked CONFIDENTIAL. Pike saw memos about financial transactions and surveillances on the Kings, and other memos connecting Vahnich with Barone and numerous named and unnamed third parties in South America. Many of the memos described Khali Vahnich’s movements both here and abroad.

Pike read until he understood.

“Vahnich makes money for terrorists.”

Pitman nodded.

“That’s the short version. The single biggest source of funding for organized terror outside of state-sponsored contributions in the Middle East is dope. They buy it, sell it, invest in it-and take the profit. These fuckers are rich, Pike. Not the lunatics blowing themselves up, but the organizations. Like every other war machine on the planet, they eat money, and they want more. That’s what Vahnich does. He’s an investment banker for these fuckers. Invests their funds, turns a profit, then feeds it back to the machine.”

“With the Kings?”

“Economics works the same for everybody-Republicans and Democrats, drug lords and Al Qaeda. You limit your risk by diversification. The Kings are golden in real estate, and Vahnich wants to diversify. He put a hundred twenty million into play with the Kings-sixty from the cartels, but sixty was straight out of the war zone. My job is to isolate and capture that money.”

“Money.”

“Terrorist money. We don’t want it going back to train suicide bombers.”

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know. The Kings accepted the transfer into a foreign account, but the money was moved that same day and we don’t know where it went. Maybe that’s why Vahnich killed them. Maybe he wanted the money back.”

“So all of this is about real estate.”

Pitman laughed, but it was cynical and dry.

“Everything happening in the world today is about real estate, Pike. Don’t you read the newspaper?”

Pike thought about Khali Vahnich and the Kings and all those boys come up from Ecuador. Outside, the bridge hissed with passing cars and the fence hummed. Pike thought about Larkin in the Echo Park house, cut off from her friends and her life, with a man like Khali Vahnich wanting her dead.