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  ‘Just closed on a farm, up on the forty-two.’

  ‘Nice for you,’ said Gallen.

  ‘Maybe nice for you, eh Gerry? A new class of neighbour? ‘

  ‘I’m sorry . . . ?’

  Holst’s eyebrows rose and fell and he licked his lips. ‘Sold the Fenton place to guess who?’

  ‘Have no idea, Frank.’

  ‘Yvonne McKenzie. Remember her?’

  Gallen’s ears roared. ‘Yvonne?’

  ‘Yep. Didn’t you hear?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘Divorced that football player. She’s coming home.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Gallen.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ leered Frank Holst. ‘Y-vonne!’

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER 6

  Gallen moved off the United flight with the foot traffic, towards the arrivals concourse at T3. Fifty feet ahead of him he could see Kenny Winter’s short blond hair moving past the shopping malls and cell phone kiosks of LAX.

  ‘Move to your four and wait for contact,’ said Gallen into his cell phone earpiece. ‘I just want to know about the cavalry.’

  ‘Got it, boss.’ Winter’s head moved through the crowds to the right of the milling area. Gallen remained on the upper level, looking down on the concourse as Winter moved into it.

  ‘See the big bald guy near the doors?’ asked Gallen, hiding behind a flag-like marketing installation for Verizon.

  ‘Got him,’ said Winter. ‘Sign says “Clearmont”.’

  ‘On the other side of the entry doors, check the Anglo male reading the magazine. I’ve got him as a spook.’

  ‘Copy that,’ said Winter, and Gallen watched his employee slip behind a group of Koreans.

  ‘I think that’s all we have in the concourse,’ said Gallen, scanning the vast hall, his old instincts coming back to him fast. Special forces wasn’t anything like it was in the movies. Ninety-five per cent of the gigs were pure recon missions: get in, mind someone else’s business, and then get out. And do it clean.

  ‘If we assume they’re fixed, I might look on the apron,’ said Winter.

  ‘Assume they’re fixed for now,’ said Gallen, getting cover from a businessman on his BlackBerry. ‘Move down to the south entry and have a look for nondescript Crown Vics with UPIs.’

  ‘That’s a broad description, boss,’ said Winter, his head moving south.

  ‘You’ll know it if you see it. Like every blank Crown Vic you ever saw in the Army.’

  ‘Filled with clipboards, you mean?’ Winter was referring to the military managers who usually rode in such cars.

  Gallen had bought a ticket for Winter and flown him down on the same flight that Paul Mulligan had booked him on. Gallen wanted to do basic surveillance on Mulligan before trusting him.

  ‘I’m getting our parcel,’ said Gallen. ‘RV here ten minutes, can do?’

  ‘Can do, boss,’ said Winter, disappearing behind the Hertz office.

  ~ * ~

  The woman behind the counter didn’t ask too many questions, just wanted his driver’s licence and a signature.

  Taking the FedEx box that he’d sent the previous afternoon, Gallen made for the men’s washroom on the ground level of T3, took a booth and slowed his breathing as he waited for noises out of pattern.

  After forty seconds of waiting—listening to the consequences of bad food, stress and flying—Gallen ran his thumbnail down the end of the purple and white box, and opened it. Putting his hand inside, he pulled out the Ruger automatic that usually lived under the seat of the Ford, and checked the full spare clip that was held to it by a rubber band. The second weapon was smaller but with bigger firepower: a chromed Colt Defender that shot .45 ACP loads. It looked like a pop-gun but it could put a hole in a man if you knew what you were doing.

  Standing, he shoved the guns into his jeans waistband and pulled the hem of the plain black hoodie low over his hips. Whoever had invented the hooded sweatshirt probably never factored in how useful it would be for people like Gerry Gallen.

  Pulling his off-white cap down to hide his eyes, Gallen flushed the toilet and walked to the hand basin, keeping his face down to dodge the security camera. He kept his eyes on the ground as he dried off at the paper-towel dispenser, then exited and moved back to the concourse.

  Assuming his position on the upper level, he looked down, saw Winter moving back from the south entry.

  ‘How we looking?’ said Gallen, liking that Bald and Magazine had held their positions.

  ‘Dark blue Crown Vic, parked in the VIP set-down,’ said Winter. ‘Security asked the driver something—my guess is, driver told him to fuck himself.’

  ‘Driver?’ said Gallen.

  ‘Late twenties, Anglo, dark hair. Has a suture plaster over his left eye—no one in back.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Gallen. ‘Seats at your six. Take the middle one and I’ll leave something for you. Then find a cab, wait for me to get in that Crown Vic, and follow us. Can do?’

  ‘Can do, boss.’

  Gallen seated himself one chair away from Winter and put a motorcycle magazine on the seat between them. Winter’s hand dropped on the magazine and he was gone, now armed with a Ruger .38 and a spare clip.

  ~ * ~

  The bald greeter with the sign called himself Toby and was pleasant enough for someone who might wish Gallen harm. The sun was warm as they walked to the VIP set-down and Gallen knew he’d overdressed with the hooded sweatshirt.

  As he reached the Crown Vic, Gallen saw the driver—the same one he’d hit at the motel in Red Butte. Gallen gave him a quick nod of recognition and received a sneer in response.

  ‘This is Aaron,’ said Toby, indicating Magazine.

  ‘Hi, Aaron,’ said Gallen, smiling at the anonymous face beneath accountant’s hair. Over Aaron’s shoulder, Winter’s cab was waiting sixty yards down the apron.

  ‘Don’t mind, do ya?’ said Aaron, moving for a pat-down without Gallen’s consent.

  Grabbing the outstretched right hand, Gallen moved his body at Aaron’s, twisting the wrist behind the man’s back as he wrapped his right hand around the back of Aaron’s neck, slamming his unguarded face on the Crown Vic’s hood. Pulling the head back with a handful of hair just before Aaron’s nose made contact, Gallen threw his arm around the man from behind and whipped the handgun from his hip rig.

  Pulling back in shock, Aaron slapped at his empty holster.

  ‘This what you looking for?’ Gallen held the Beretta down at his groin, unclipping the magazine and flipping the loads onto the concrete apron.

  ‘The fuck?!’ said Aaron.

  ‘Your question,’ said Gallen, returning the Beretta, stock first.

  ‘My what?’ said Aaron, mouth hanging open.

  ‘Answer’s yes—I do mind.’

  ~ * ~

  They moved through the LA traffic, headed north along Sepulveda and then Lincoln. Gallen remembered LA well enough to know that if you avoided the freeways when leaving LAX northbound, then you were probably headed for the beach suburbs of Venice and Santa Monica.

  ‘You always attack your employers?’ said Aaron, blowing on the rescued 9mm cartridges and reinserting them into the clip.

  ‘You always touch a man you just met?’

  Aaron gave the driver a sideways look, like Who the fuck is this guy?

  ‘Didn’t touch you, Gallen,’ said Aaron, speaking over his shoulder.

  ‘Rather my good management than my bad luck.’

  Beside him, Toby laughed softly. ‘Five minutes, guys. Hold off five minutes.’

  Passing Marina Del Rey Hospital, the driver took a left across traffic and they were wending their way along the canal systems behind Venice Beach.

  Pulling into a palm tree-shaded parking lot behind a large apartment complex, the car stopped and Gallen got out, keeping his eyes off the street where he knew Winter would soon be pulling up.

  Emerging from an elevator at the third floor, Gallen followed the trio through air-conditioned stuc
co corridors and into apartment 312. The dark hallway opened into a huge living room that looked over a swimming pool and barbecue area, then over a canal to the white flash of Venice Beach and out to the glistening Pacific. Gallen gaped momentarily: he’d seen this sight on his honeymoon, long ago when his Marines crew had chipped in to buy him a package to Peurto Vallarta; he and Marcia had been hot and tired after delayed flights, and then he’d walked through the condo to the balcony and looked over the Pacific Ocean in the brilliance of early afternoon and he’d been floored. He remembered just standing there, not wanting to speak, amazed that such a sight existed—finally understanding that when people said the Pacific, it was beyond simply a thing.

  ‘Need a drink, Gerry?’ Toby moved into a large kitchen. ‘Juice? Soda?’

  ‘Sprite, thanks,’ said Gallen.

  Aaron walked onto the sun-bleached balcony where Paul Mulligan sat beneath a Miller beer sun umbrella. Mulligan put his cordless phone to his chest for a second while Aaron spoke, then Aaron came back into the room.

  ‘You’re up,’ he said, flicking his head.

  Moving past him into the heat, Gallen smiled as he patted his pockets. ‘I’d tip you if I had some change.’

  Taking a seat in the shade, Gallen drank the Sprite. Mulligan put a hand up to apologise for the phone call and started yelling into his handset. ‘Sevi, I don’t care if your crew’s afraid of the dark, honest to God—that section along the canal has to be recce’d by clearance divers at least once every twenty-four hours and any tampering advised to me immediately, understand?’

  Mulligan lit a smoke as the excuses poured in from wherever Sevi was at. Gallen guessed southern Thailand.

  ‘No, no, no. Listen to me, buddy, and write this down,’ said Mulligan. ‘Pipelines that cost half a billion real US dollars are not assets that we allow to take care of themselves, okay?’

  Sevi must have interrupted, because Mulligan sucked on his smoke like he was going to have a heart attack. ‘Are you kidding me, Sevi? Is that it?’

  Gallen could hear the other man’s voice pouring out of the cordless.

  ‘Listen, okay,’ said Mulligan. ‘Look at your contract, Sevi. It stipulates total pipeline coverage for a fifty-mile segment, and that includes the canal section. If you were a bad guy who wanted to destroy Oasis oil flows, you’d probably hit the pipe where it goes underwater, right?’

  Mulligan stood, nodding and trying to smile. ‘Okay, Sevi. Good talking as always. I’m transferring you to Aaron and you two can find a couple clearance divers, okay?’ He fiddled with the handset and a phone rang inside the apartment. Mulligan yelled, ‘Aaron! Sevi needs some divers. Just deal with it.’

  Sitting again, Mulligan reached over and shook Gallen’s hand. ‘Chrissakes. Sorry, Gerry.’

  ‘Got a security crew doesn’t like the water?’

  ‘What is it with soldiers? They see a bit of action, take a bit of shit, and then as soon as they go civvie there’s this list of things they won’t do.’

  Gallen smiled. ‘Nothing like taking shit to swear you’ll never do it again.’

  Mulligan drank European water from a bottle and eased back in his chair, the dark sunglasses concealing his expression. ‘Got your wish list, Gerry. Looks okay.’

  ‘They’re all proven.’

  ‘This Dale,’ said Mulligan. ‘Your gunnie in Afghanistan, right?’

  Gallen nodded.

  ‘Ern Dale’s boy?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Gallen. Ern Dale was a Vietnam veteran who’d come back to the States, started selling used cars and transformed himself into a multimillionaire with Dale Auto City car lots all over Colorado, Wyoming and Nebraska. Ern Dale called himself the King of Chevrolet and he’d done everything he could to keep his son in college and out of the military.

  Mulligan pushed. ‘Those special forces gunnery sergeants are pretty hard boys.’

  ‘Bren’s a good 2IC. He picks up where I let down.’

  Nodding, Mulligan looked out to sea. ‘There’s never the perfect profile for protecting a man.’

  Gallen lit a smoke, hunching from habit into a wind that didn’t exist. ‘No?’

  Mulligan shook his head. ‘Tried cops, tried ex-SWAT, tried MPs and special forces guys. None of them cover it perfectly.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s the bodyguard who needs to be the first to draw and the last to shoot. See what I mean?’

  ‘I don’t like being touched, Paul,’ said Gallen, a little defensive about the airport scuffle. ‘Tell Aaron to keep his paws to himself.’

  ‘Aaron pat you down?’ laughed Mulligan. ‘Can he eat solids?’

  Gallen looked away, not enjoying the teasing; not ready to laugh at himself so close to the end of his last tour. ‘Just disarmed him . . .’

  ‘Hey, Gerry,’ said Mulligan, friendly. ‘I wasn’t talking about you.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, buddy. It’s this Kenny Winter.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘You really want him in your crew?’

  Gallen was confused.

  ‘Take a look.’ Mulligan pushed the manila folder at Gallen as he stood and took a note from Aaron. ‘Gotta go, Gerry. There’s an apartment on the next floor for you. Let’s talk tomorrow and get you on the job?’

  ‘What about Kenny?’ Gallen squinted into the sun.

  ‘If you’re happy, then I’m happy,’ said Mulligan. ‘But you know about the DD, right? ‘

  ‘No.’ Gallen looked at the folder like it was poison ivy. ‘For what?’

  ‘It’s all in there and I’m not having a hernia about it.’ Mulligan threw a linen sports coat over his arm. ‘It’s not unusual to end your career with a court martial when you do what Kenny did.’

  ‘What did Kenny do?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ said Mulligan as he got to the sliding doors. ‘Sergeant Kenny Winter was an assassin. Damn good one, too.’

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER 7

  The sunset lingered over the Pacific in a long blaze of orange as the waitress delivered two more Buds off the handle. Easing back from his surf ‘n’ turf, a specialty of the Pacific Mariners Yacht Club, Gallen wished he could light a smoke.

  He and Winter had spoken about life on the farm and how different things could have been if they’d been raised in southern California: no hockey fights, no rodeo hangovers, no hauling water in an ice-bound barn at six in the morning, getting tired before school even started.

  ‘Must be some drawback to living in this place,’ said Winter, wiping his fingers before grabbing his beer. ‘Just ain’t seen it yet.’

  Gallen knew the Canadian wanted to know about the gig so he got straight to the point. ‘Kenny, they raised something in your file.’

  ‘The DD?’ said Winter, expressionless.

  ‘Gave me a NATO-ISAF file,’ said Gallen, meaning the International Security Assistance Force fielded by NATO in Afghanistan. ‘You seconded from the Canadian Forces?’

  Winter gulped at the beer and looked out at the marina. ‘I’m not at liberty, Gerry. I stayed out of the stockade because I signed their goddamn NDA.’

  ‘ND what?’

  ‘Non-disclosure agreement,’ said Winter. ‘Said if I wrote a book about their fricking court martial they’d cut my benefits. Couldn’t do that to my kids, right? Ryan got teeth needing braces.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Gallen. ‘Could’ve told me this.’

  ‘Told you what?’ said Winter, ligaments straining in his bull neck. ‘That I got a dishonourable discharge but it was all horse shit? That those cocksuckers were passing the buck all the way down to the trigger-man earning sixty-eight grand?’ Throwing his napkin on the table, he stood.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Gallen, avoiding eye contact. ‘Please.’

  The Canadian stood over him, a classic hockey player from the prairies: six-two and built like a refrigerator; big farm-boy hands and arms like slabs of rock against the side of his chest. In a street fight, Gallen would
have two, maybe three seconds to immobilise someone like Kenny Winter before the sheer power overwhelmed him.

  Winter’s jaw muscles tensed and then relaxed. ‘Sorry ‘bout that, boss,’ he said, sitting and reaching for his beer.

  Drinking in silence, they watched the sunset fade to purple and yellow.

  Winter cleared his throat. ‘Can we just say I was a supplies corporal who screwed up?’