She looked confused.

“Who’s Mr. Darko?”

“Doesn’t matter. He’ll still get the message.”

“You don’t want gas?”

“No. I’m going to adjust the pumps.”

“They didn’t tell me about this.”

“Mr. Darko will explain.”

The emergency cutoff switch for the pumps was on the wall outside the door. Pike cut the power, then pry-barred the cover off each pump register. They didn’t come easily, leaving the metal bent. The woman behind the glass expressed no surprise when she saw what he was doing. She simply picked up her phone as if something like this happened three or four times each day, and made a calm call.

Six pumps, two sides to each pump, twelve card readers.

The skimmer sleeves were obvious, having been fixed around the white plastic reader track with duct tape. Every time a customer slipped a credit or debit card into the reader, the card also tracked through the skimmer, which read all the same information, storing it in a green circuit board wired to the sleeve. Pike tore off the sleeves and circuit boards, and stowed them in a plastic bag. He left the pump registers broken and open.

A woman driving a silver Lexus SUV pulled up while Pike was working.

He said, “The pumps are being serviced.”

She drove away.

Eight minutes later, the skimmers were stripped from the pumps and Pike was finished.

They could wait around to see who would show up, but Pike wanted to maintain the pressure. He wanted to flush them into his sights.

They took a long break for breakfast, and hit the next station three hours later. Down Home Petroleum (proudly independent!) was a cheesy little station in North Hollywood that was older and smaller than the All-American Best Price, and so dirty it looked like a smudge.

Cole and Stone rolled in first, just as they had before, and this time it was Stone who spoke in his ear.

“Two dudes inside, bro.”

“Soldiers?”

“Dunno. Young, white, and skinny, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t packing.”

Cole, listening in on the conference, said, “Surrounding streets clear.”

“I’m in.”

Pike rolled, once more pulling up to the pumps.

The Down Home was too low-rent for a glass barrier. A tall Anglo kid sat behind a counter, unshaven, shaggy, and looking as if he’d rather be having surgery. Had a friend keeping him company. A shorter, stockier guy about the same age kicked back in a chair propped against the wall. Pike heard them talking when he entered, and recognized accents similar to Rina’s, though not as pronounced. A flicker of recognition flashed in their eyes when he mentioned Darko, and the kid behind the counter raised his hands.

“Hey, man, I just work here.”

His friend smiled stupidly, incredulous.

“Dude. Are you robbing us?”

The counter kid glared lasers at the friend.

“Shut up before you get us killed.”

Civilians, or so far out of the loop they might as well have been.

Six pumps, twelve skimmers, eight keypads rigged to steal PIN numbers. Pike figured they knew the pumps were rigged, or knew enough to guess, but neither tried to interfere. Pike was gone in seven minutes, and met up with Cole and Stone at the Studio City park.

When Stone saw the number of skimmers Pike had collected, he whistled.

“Man, we should bill LAPD for this.”

They killed the next two hours at Cole’s house, then rolled down through the canyons to Hollywood. Super Star Service was located on a seedy part of Western Avenue, just north of Sunset. It was smaller than the Tarzana station, having only four pumps split between two pump islands, and shared its property with a taco stand. The stand was doing a vigorous business.

As Pike waited for Cole and Stone to recon the area, it occurred to him this was their last target. If Darko’s enforcers didn’t show, they would have to come up with something else. That’s when Cole spoke in his ear.

“Well, Joseph, I think we have company.”

“What do you see?”

“Dark blue Navigator parked across the street and a silver BMW alongside a little taco stand they have here.”

Stone’s voice came in.

“I make two men in the Beemer, and at least two in the Nav.”

Pike said, “What about the station personnel?”

Cole again.

“One male at the counter, but he’s nothing like the last kids. This guy’s all sharp corners. I don’t think you get out of the car this time.”

“No?”

“These boys are ready. I don’t know if they’ll try to take you here or follow you out, but I say we don’t give them the chance. Come in. Let them see you. Then leave. Make them follow you. Don’t give them another choice.”

“Rog. I’m rolling.”

Pike slipped his.357 from its holster, and set it between his legs.

Pike approached the station slowly, seeing both the Navigator and the BMW in his peripheral vision without looking directly at them. They had to believe he did not suspect they were waiting.

Elvis said, “Looking good.”

Stone echoed him.

“All good.”

Pike eased into the station, but stopped short of the pumps. He counted to ten, then slowly turned back to the street and out into traffic. He didn’t speed away, didn’t punch it, and never once looked in his mirror.

Cole said, “Here we go. Nav’s pulling out.”

Pike glanced in his rearview and saw the dark blue Navigator swing through a hard one-eighty, looping into the gas station and out, jumping into traffic four or five cars behind him. The BMW followed the Navigator, cutting across oncoming traffic as the oncoming cars jammed their brakes and fired off their horns.

Stone said, “Groovy. This is gonna be like shooting fish, bro.”

Pike’s mouth twitched.

“Shoot them later. Right now, watch them.”

30

PIKE DIDN’T WANT THEM to realize he knew they were behind him, so he didn’t speed up when he decided to lose them, he slowed down. Pike led them into a bottleneck where construction had forced three lanes of traffic into two. When Pike popped out the other side, they were trapped by the quicksand of congestion. Pike simply drove away, and waited at a nearby IHOP.

A few minutes later, Cole reported.

“The one dude jumped out and chased after you on foot. That didn’t work so well.”

“What are they doing?”

“They split up. I’m with the Navigator, northbound on Vine. Jon’s with the Beemer.”

Stone said, “Beemer’s north on Gower. We’re probably heading for the same place.”

Pike said, “I’ll catch up.”

This was what Pike wanted. The authority men had sent the enforcers, and now the enforcers had to explain how they blew it. They would lead Pike to an authority man, and might even lead him to Darko.

Pike caught sight of Stone’s Rover at the bottom of Laurel Canyon, just as it turned past a pair of pretentious Greek columns to enter the Mount Olympus planned development.

Cole, three cars ahead of Stone and already climbing the side of the canyon, called again to warn that their caravan would stand out in the residential neighborhood.

Cole said, “I’m approaching a construction site here on the right. Let’s dump two of these cars.”

“Rog.”

Pike sped up, trying to close the distance. He and Cole left their cars at the construction site and jumped into Stone’s Rover. Stone barreled away, hurrying to make up lost ground before they lost their targets.

Palatial homes of dubious architecture lined the steep streets, none of them worthy of the Greek gods the streets were named for. Mount Olympus led to Oceanus, then to Hercules and Achilles. They climbed hard, catching glimpses of the cars they followed higher on the mountain.

They reached the crest of the ridge, rounded a tight curve, and saw the Navigator and Beemer parked outside a dark gray home on the downhill side of the street. The cars were empty, suggesting the occupants were inside the house. Like every other home in Mount Olympus, the house was set on the curb with almost no setback. Low-slung and contemporary, the face of the house was a windowless, monolithic wall with a buffed-steel entry and a matching three-car garage. Gates and walls on either side of the house blocked any view to the rear.