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  “And I got to find a doctor for your puta friend, Jaime.”

  “What’s up with Jaime?”

  “No, never mind. I tell you later. Do what I say.” He ended the call and took stock of his sorry crew.

  Julio glanced up through one eye, the other swollen shut. Jaime rocked back and forth, pale and sweaty. So close. Cruz’d had the killer in his sights, looked directly into the man’s eyes. I will see that pendejo truck driver again. And the next time, won’t be some bitch with a gun around to save his ass.

  Scattering gravel, Cruz pulled back onto the highway. He made a U-turn and gunned the engine.

  Sullivan’s Steakhouse

  Austin, Texas

  Dr. Steven Buchanan’s cell phone vibrated right at the crucial moment of his pitch. The downtown steakhouse buzzed with lunchtime traffic, waiters in white shirts pinballing from table to table. His pair of fish—Dr. and Mrs. Dodson—diddled over their Irish coffee while he checked the display.

  Charlie. His ex. She was probably letting him know she’d made it to St. Louis.

  Good. Convincing her to go had been easier than he thought. Steven mentally crossed his fingers. Please, Lord, don’t fuck things up now. If Charlie figured out what he was doing, she’d…

  Steven tapped Ignore with his thumb and kept the rhythm of his patter going, using the potential distraction to sweeten the pot. “Sorry, that was my research lead texting me. We’ve gotten a really good response on the NOX4 inhibitors.”

  “NOX4?” Mrs. Dodson, gray hair piled in a beauty-shop perm and fixed in place with a spray-on lacquer, blinked wet eyes then fixed her doughy husband with a befuddled look. After two pre-lunch gin and tonics, red wine with her meal, and a second Irish coffee, the woman was listing slightly to one side.

  “It’s an oxygen-sensing enzyme that plays a role in inhibiting reactive oxygen species, or ROS,” Steven explained. “Usually… well, let me say it this way: limiting ROS is a good thing, and our NOX inhibitors are going to do exactly that.”

  “All the more reason,” Dr. Dodson rumbled, “you should let me in on this deal, Stevie.”

  Steven leaned back in his seat and picked up his cup of coffee—regular, not Irish. It was time to play hard to get. But not too hard. The patter never varied. He could practically turn on a mental tape recorder, hit Play, and not even have to think about what came out next. “I don’t know, Gene…” Steve grimaced and rubbed his chin, staring at the table. “The pot’s pretty full already. I mean, look at it this way: My investors are expecting to hit it big. The more money in the pool, the lower everybody’s dividend when the FDA approval hits. We go public with Phase One trials, and—boom!—stock will skyrocket.”

  “So you’re thinking what, six hundred percent return?” Dr. Gene Dodson had a beefy face and a triple-bypass body. When they played golf, the man had to stop for a breather—and a beer—after nine holes. “My little bitty chunka change can’t make that much difference.”

  “Gene—”

  “I mean, make it easy on yourself. How much can I buy in for and not rock the boat? Fifty K? A hundred?”

  And there it was. Every time a fish bit the hook and jerked the float underwater, a zinger of electricity shot through Steven’s chest. Better than sex. Better than a perfect tee shot. Better than when he made his first legit million. Or mostly legit.

  “All right, Gene. You win.” Steven sighed and signaled the waiter for another round. “Looks like we may be here awhile. Let me call my office and have ’em courier over some paperwork.”

  Dodson slapped the table. “There you go! That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  “Congratulations, Mrs. Dodson,” Steven told the owl-eyed woman. “Your husband has bought you a piece of a medical miracle.”

  Dallas, Texas

  Harlan King picked up Warren “Skeeter” Davis at the corner of Commerce and Industrial, outside the Lew Sterrett Justice Center. Downtown Dallas jutted up on the other side of the freeway, glass buildings baking in the afternoon sun. Diesel fumes and the toxic smell of the Trinity River drifted on the air.

  Skeeter wasn’t hard to spot, standing on the corner like a piece of chewed-up beef jerky that had been left to dry on the sidewalk. After half his life in prison, he stood slightly stooped, like a human praying mantis.

  “Yo, dog,” Harlan said when the mantis dropped into the Challenger’s passenger seat.

  “Yo, dawg?” Skeeter’s Alabama drawl came with a coating of tar and nicotine. “What’s ’is ‘yo, dawg’ shit? You ain’t no gang-bangin’ asshole. You’re a goddamn ghost-white surfer from goddamn Anaheim.”

  “I’m still a stone killah. Shit sounds cool, dude. Y’hear what I’m sayin’?”

  “Shee-it.” Skeeter hit the switch that put down the window and lit a cigarette.

  “Want something to eat?” Harlan asked.

  “Sure.” He drew it out, so it sounded like shore.

  Harlan cut a U-turn and headed to the McDonalds a block away. After they ordered burgers from the drive-thru, Harlan wheeled around to I-35, got confused by the street signs, and headed north, away from Dallas, toward Denton. He took the next exit and turned around. The smell of cheeseburgers and ketchup filled the car.

  Harlan ate one-handed, trying to keep from spilling hamburger gunk while he weaved through the stinking afternoon traffic. Sunlight hammered the bright orange Dodge, reflecting off concrete and chrome, sparkling and hot.

  March in Texas and already nine thousand degrees. Climate somewhere between Vegas and Hell.

  “So, how was your last day, Junior?” Harlan asked. “Teacher give you a good grade?” He steered around a lawn care truck, Mexicans in the back staring at the tinted glass of his windshield. “Look at these fucking dipshits. No more brains than to ride around in the heat and do shit work for no pay.”

  “Huh?” A sharp-faced man, leathery-skinned, with one eye cocked off in a different direction, Skeeter was all planes, angles, and jagged edges.

  “Last day in jail, dude. Did they give you a gold star for good behavior?” Harlan bit off a chunk of McBurger, ketchup dribbling down his palm. His light blond hair ruffled in the breeze from the hard-blowing air conditioning vent.

  Skeeter chewed for a bit then sucked down some soda. “Yeah, they give me a get-outta-jail-today card, that’s what they done. Three weeks was all they could keep me this time. Overcrowding.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Stalled in traffic, Harlan revved the engine, enjoying the rumble of the big Challenger. The new retro models didn’t rock like the original version, but the throaty sound could still give a man a woody. Skeeter rolled down the window again, letting a hot, dry wind blow into the car, and tossed his takeout bag out the window.

  “Jeez, dude,” Harland said. “Don’t be a litter bug.”

  “Fuck you. Didn’t know you was the Enron-mental Pollution Agency.” Skeeter lit another cigarette and blew smoke out the window. “So where we goin’?”

  “St. Louis.”

  “Stoney’s St. Louis deal going down? Whoo-wee. That right there’s retirement money.”

  Harlan gave him a lopsided smile. “Everything’s set. Just waiting for the last piece. We’re going to see Dmitri, make sure he does his part. We have to stop in Texarkana along the way, squeeze the nuts of one of Stone’s pet doctors. The guy’s all of a sudden got a conscience, and we need to correct that little defect.”

  “You brought guns?”

  “Dawg.” Harlan tried out his ghetto voice. “Who you talking to? I gots me ’nough hardware, brotha, we’s could take off da Pentagon.”

  Skeeter nodded, eyes crinkling as he squinted into the glare. “Good, cuz I feel like shootin’ somebody.”

  Big River Wholesale

  St. Louis, Missouri

  Charlie Buchanan had known Dareas Thompson for less than twenty minutes, and she already loathed him. He was fat enough to use a freight scale to weigh himself, and his body odor reminded her of rancid cheese. His teeth, when he
leered at her, were stained as dark as tea. And the strawberries in her cream? He exuded a self-satisfied arrogance that made her dig her nails into her palms to keep from screaming.

  Sweat beaded on the back of his neck and stained the collar of his Kobe jersey—size Huge?—as he led her into the Big River warehouse. She tried to breathe through her mouth in small sips as they went down a narrow hall and entered the warehouse proper. Once out of the confined space, she discreetly moved a few steps away. The warehouse was a cavern with metal racking to her right, open bay doors on her left, and a staging area in front of her. A forklift dropped a shrink-wrapped pallet at the opening of one of the bays and backed away, beeping a warning signal.

  “You wanted the Wiley and the Harper nonfiction stuff?” Coupled with his careless attention to personal hygiene, Thompson possessed the customer service skills of a Russian waiter. “Mostly it’s in them racks there.” He pointed down an aisle, the flesh under his arm sagging. “Go’wan and take a look, see what you want. Write down the skid number.”

  “Thanks,” she said, grateful to get away from him.

  But he trailed after her, no doubt eyeing her ass as she walked where he pointed. Knowing she would be digging around in a warehouse, she had put on jeans and an SMU T-shirt, a relic from her college days, along with her New Balance running shoes. Not an outfit designed to attract men, but Mr. Thompson seemed undeterred.

  Charlie had learned to ignore a man’s sexual interest before she graduated high school, but Thompson was the type who wouldn’t be deflected by subtlety. A ribbon-thin band of fear clamped her throat, making it hard to breathe. She would have to get her nerve up and somehow manage to shut him down.

  Pull a gun on him, she thought. Just like at the rest stop.

  That experience seemed so surreal. Why did I do that? She’d asked herself that a thousand times since, and no good answer had come to her. She was a conciliator, a facilitator, the one who settled arguments with cool words and a quick joke. So why had she acted all Chuck Norris and stuck her nose into that situation?

  She dug into the skids, which were pallet-loads of books dumped haphazardly, chest high, into a cardboard box held together with shrink wrap and hope. The books were remainders, overstocks, and returns from major bookstores or publishing houses. Charlie bought an average of five tractor-trailer loads of remainders per year, from a variety of suppliers. Her current trip was her first, and probably last, visit to Big River.

  “That’s a good skid, right there,” Thompson said, leaning on a rack, bald head gleaming in the yellowish overhead lights.

  “Mm-hmm.” Maybe he would get bored and leave if she didn’t interact.

  Charlie used a miniature barcode scanner attached to a PDA to check the current online price of each title. In every skid, some would be crap, and some would be gold, the trick being to find more gold than crap.

  “Be a lotta fast movers in there.”

  Charlie ignored him and moved to the next skid.

  “How’d you come to find us?” Thompson asked.

  “My ex-husband, the doctor, believe it or not.” She regretted using the term ex as soon as it left her mouth. “He met the owner somewhere and said I really should check you guys out.”

  “Where ya staying?” Thompson waddled a little closer. “You in a hotel?”

  “No, heading out today.” Charlie fought hard not to wrinkle her nose, but her eyes watered.

  “Hey, Mr. D!” Saved by a scrawny worker with a Slavic accent. Thompson turned to see the guy on the forklift idling at the end of the aisle. “Where you want I put this?”

  “I done tol’ you, dumbass!” Turning back to Charlie, Thompson said, “Man, the guys I have to put up with. ’Scuse me jus’ a minute.”

  “Sure,” Charlie said. “No problem. Please. Take your time.”

  As she dug through the skids, she knew some of the books would end up in her retail shop, while the rest would go through her online division. In her retail store, a customer could find anything from the latest Nora Roberts to first-edition Hemingways and Faulkners, titles that had long since glutted the online marketplace. Her warehouse operation sold through sites like Amazon, eBay, Alibris, and her own website. Online sales demanded a keen eye for value, for prices fell quickly as dealers undermined each other for the lowest price.

  Unbelievable. Steven was right, for once. There really is a lot of good stuff in these pallets. I may be forced to buy from Thompson, after all. How lucky can a girl be?

  Interstate 57

  60 miles south of Chicago, Illinois

  Yeager didn’t see the black Lexus, El Jefe, or any other potential troublemakers, which meant absolutely nothing. A tail on the Interstate could be pretty hard to spot. Drivers often saw the same cars for miles, sometimes leapfrogging each other as one or the other stopped for fuel, food, or facilities.

  The PetSmart trailer from the rest area had followed him for the first hundred miles or so. Mr. PetSmart even pulled into the same fuel stop where Yeager stopped to top off his tanks, hit the john, and refill his thermos. The entire time Yeager was in the restroom, he tried to hurry, conscious of what had happened the last time he took a pee break. He didn’t need another confrontation with hijackers. When Yeager pulled out, the PetSmart driver stayed behind, and Yeager saw nothing more of him.

  Still, as he rode the concrete ribbon of Interstate through the heartland of the country, uneasiness settled in his stomach and wouldn’t go away. He spent Monday night in the sleeper behind his cab, snoozing with one eye open.

  Late Tuesday morning, hitting the thickening network of towns outside of Chicago, Yeager finally gave in to paranoia. He dug his cell phone out of the clutter on the seat beside him, powered it up, and hit the speed dial for Victor Ruiz. It rang a half dozen times before a familiar voice answered.

  “My favorite gringo! Wassup, my truck drivin’ frien’?”

  “Hey, Por Que.” Yeager had anointed Victor with the nickname long ago, because every time someone told young Victor that he was not allowed to do something, Victor would look at Yeager and say “Por que no?” Why not? “All the parts of your Huey still flying more or less in the same direction these days?”

  “What?” Victor sounded hurt. He could sound hurt better than anyone Yeager knew, including his own mother. “No small talk? No how you doin’, my best friend, since forever? I not only nurture you and protect you from all the evil bullies at McAllen High School and drag your sorry ass out of the brush in Afghanistan, but I also give you my sister in marriage?”

  “Yeah, let’s not bring that last one up, okay?”

  “Okay. Good point.”

  “Listen, buddy, I need some help.” Yeager related the hijacking attempt in rapid-fire bursts of words, as if giving a military briefing. “I have a bad feeling about these assholes. Nothing I can place, but I’m getting the willies.”

  “Oh no!” Victor could also sound dramatic better than anyone Yeager knew. “I know jus’ wha’ happens, you get the willies. It means some bad shit’s about to rain down.”

  “So can you glue the rotor back on your antique helicopter and bring me some stuff?”

  “Por que no, eh?”

  That simple phrase had landed them in hot water more times than Yeager cared to count. Rumor had it that teachers, principals, and local law enforcement held a secret celebration party on the day Yeager and Ruiz graduated high school. When they returned to McAllen after their stints in the military, there was talk of holding a prayer vigil.

  “For you, not only will I glue the rotor back on,” Victor continued, “I will also go buy a compass from the Walmart. I think I can get one for two, three dollars, maybe.”

  “Yeah, spare no expense. Can you find Chicago with it?”

  “No problem! Is that somewhere near Matamoros?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  Victor could wear him out, playing the dumb Mexican. About the only time he had ever been serious was on the day Yeager married Martina R
uiz, Victor’s sister. Victor stood next to him, swaying slightly, monstrously hung over, and dug in his pocket for the ring while the guests watched from the pews. He looked as though he wanted to die or fall down, and it didn’t matter which. He stayed serious the entire ceremony. At least until the reception.

  “Listen, mi amigo. You want me to get to Chicago in a Huey, you know I’ll have to fuel like a hundred times. I’ll get Cujo to fly me up there.”

  “Does Cujo still have a pilot’s license?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Kind of.” After a moment of silence, Victor added, “Don’ worry. We’ll fly very quietly.”

  “I need some stuff from my house,” Yeager said. “Get a crayon and write this down.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Big River Wholesale

  St. Louis, Missouri

  Dareas Thompson told the boneheaded forklift driver, Dmitri, where to put the pallet. Again. The skinny Russian annoyed the crap out of him, always underfoot, asking stupid questions, getting in the way. At least the dimwit brought coffee every day.

  Thompson mopped sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand and flicked it off, spattering the warehouse floor. He was wet as hell but still chilly. Hope it’s not a damn cold. Being sick would really screw up his chance to talk that fine-looking redhead into staying in town and maybe having a little lunch with him. Or some afternoon delight?

  His cell phone rang, not his regular one, but the special one. The fucking Mexicans. Thompson answered. He always answered.

  “We want to place an order.” No small talk, no jokes, no how’s the weather bullshit. Which was fine with Thompson.

  “Sure,” Thompson said. “I got six skids of books, wrapped and ready. Usual place?”

  “Sí.”

  “Okay, when?”

  “The truck will be there Thursday.”

  Two days away. “Got it.”

  The phone went dead. He watched the redhead bend over, digging through a skid. Tasty. Skinny, moderate rack, but a fine, fine ass.