Pike braked his Jeep facing the two vehicles. Blacker shapes moved behind the tinted Hummer glass, but Pike saw nothing within the limo. Pike was settling in to wait when Bud Flynn and another man appeared in the church door. This man was overweight, with a face like a block and lank hair he pushed from his eyes. He appeared nervous, and went back inside the church as Bud, smiling, came out, stepping into the dwindling sun across twenty years and two lifetimes.

Pike had not seen Bud since the day in the Shortstop Lounge when Pike resigned from the LAPD and wanted Bud to hear it manto-man, them being as close as they were. Bud had asked if Pike had another job lined up, and Pike told him, but Bud had not approved. He reacted like a disappointed father angered by his son’s choice, and that had been that. Pike had signed on with a professional military corporation out of London. He was going to work as a professional civilian soldier, he said-a security specialist. Bullshit, Bud said-no better than a goddamned criminal: a mercenary.

Now, seeing Bud, Pike felt the warm touch of earlier, better memories, and climbed out of the Jeep. Bud was older now, but still looked good to go.

Bud put out his hand.

“Good to see you, Officer Pike. Been too long.”

Pike pulled Bud close and hugged him, and Bud clapped Pike on the back.

“I’m in corporate investigations now, Joe. Fourteen years; fifteen this March. Business is good.”

“You use mercenaries as investigators?”

Bud looked uncomfortable and maybe embarrassed, both of them thinking about that day in the Shortstop, but he plowed on.

“Sometimes the investigation part leads to security work. A friend gave me Stone’s name. Stone has former Mossad and Secret Service agents on tap-people experienced with high-risk clients. I was looking for someone like that when he floated your name.”

Pike glanced at the Hummer. The low carriage showed the weight penalty that came with armor and bullet-resistant glass.

“The girl in there?”

Jon Stone had explained the bare bones of it when he called back with the directions: A young woman from a well-to-do family had survived three murder attempts and Bud Flynn had been hired to protect her. Period. Stone knew nothing else because-correctly, Pike thought-Bud Flynn felt Stone did not need to know more. It was enough for Stone to know the girl was rich. A person with Pike’s resumé could command top dollar, and Stone would bleed these people for every cent he could get.

Flynn ignored Pike’s question about the girl and turned toward the church.

“Let’s go inside. You can meet her father and I’ll explain what’s going on. If you decide you want to do this, we’ll meet the girl.”

Pike followed him, thinking, it’s already been decided.

The church smelled of sage and urine. Beer cans and magazines dotted the concrete floor, filthy from the sand blown through the broken walls, and faded by time. Pike guessed the urine smell was left by animals. The man with the lank hair was standing beside a lean man with the intelligent eyes of a businessman and a mouth cut into a permanent frown. A cordovan briefcase sat on the ground by the door. Pike wondered which owned the briefcase and which was the girl’s father. He positioned himself away from the windows.

Bud nodded toward the man with the lank hair.

“Joe, this is Conner Barkley. Mr. Barkley, Joe Pike.”

Barkley squeezed out an uncomfortable smile.

“Hello.”

Barkley was wearing a silk short-sleeved shirt that showed his belt bulge. The frowning man was tieless in an expensive charcoal sport coat. Pike was wearing a sleeveless grey sweatshirt, jeans, and New Balance running shoes.

The frowning man took folded papers and a pen from his coat.

“Mr. Pike, I’m Gordon Kline, Mr. Barkley’s attorney and an officer in his corporation. This is a confidentiality agreement, specifying that you may not repeat, relate, or in any way disclose anything about the Barkleys said today or while you are in the Barkleys’ employ. You’ll have to sign this.”

Kline held out the papers and pen, but Pike made no move to take them.

Bud said, “Gordon, why don’t we push on without that, considering.”

“He has to sign. Everyone has to sign.”

Pike watched Conner Barkley staring at the blocky red arrows inked across his deltoids. Pike was used to people staring. The arrows had been scribed into his arms before his first combat tour. They pointed forward. People stared at the tats and Pike’s faded sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, and saw what they wanted to see. Pike was good with that.

When Barkley looked up from the tats, his eyes were worried.

“This is the man you want to hire?”

“He’s the best in the business, Mr. Barkley. He’ll keep Larkin alive.”

Kline pushed out the papers.

“If you’ll just sign here, please.”

Pike said, “No.”

Barkley’s eyebrows bunched like nervous caterpillars.

“I think we’re all right here, Gordon. I think we can press on. Don’t you, Bud?”

Kline’s frown deepened, but he put away the papers, and Bud continued.

“Okay, here’s what we have: Mr. Barkley’s daughter is a federal witness. She’s set to offer testimony before the federal grand jury in two weeks. There have been three attempts on her life in the past ten days. That’s three deals for the black ace in a week and a half, and all three were close. I have no choice but to think outside the box.”

“Me.”

Pike shifted just enough to see the limo. The desert had filled with red light from the settling sun. He felt the temperature dropping. At night up here, the air would be sharp and clean.

“Why isn’t she in a protection program?”

Barkley spoke up, pushing the hair from his eyes.

“She was. They almost got her killed.”

Gordon Kline crossed his arms as if the entire United States government was a waste of taxpayer money.

“Incompetents.”

Bud said, “Larkin was in a traffic accident eleven days ago-three A. M., she T-boned a Mercedes-”

Barkley interrupted again.

“You don’t expect to run into these kinds of people driving your car-”

Gordon Kline said, “Conner-”

“Look where we are-up here in these ruins running for our lives. A traffic accident-”

Barkley pushed his hair from his face again, and this time Pike saw his hand tremble. Bud went on about the Mercedes.

“There were three people onboard. A married couple, George and Elaine King, it was their car; with a male passenger in the rear. You know the name, George King?”

Pike shook his head, so Bud explained.

“A real estate developer, squeaky clean, no wants, warrants, or priors. George was bleeding, so Larkin got out to help. The second man was hurt, too, but he left the scene on foot. Then George pulled himself together enough to drive away, but Larkin got their plate. Next day, the Kings told the police a different story-they say they were alone. A couple of days later, agents from the Justice Department contacted Larkin with a sketch artist. A couple of hundred pictures later, Larkin ID’d the missing man as one Alexander Liman Meesh, an indicted murderer the feds believed to be living in Bogotá, Colombia. I have an NCIC file on him I can give you.”

Pike glanced at the limo again.

“How did a traffic accident become a federal investigation?”

Kline moved between Pike and the limo, but no longer seemed upset that Pike hadn’t signed the papers.