Fun and Games Read online

  Which actually wasn’t a bad idea.

  Climbing up onto a roof with a chest wound, a barely functioning left hand, and a head full of junk—all while trying not to make a sound? Not recommended.

  Hardie made it up, anyway, using a metal hose fixture as a foothold. He put his upper arms on the slanted tile roof, then swung his left knee up and caught the edge. Heaved himself up once; didn’t make it. Heaved again, then rolled over onto the roof. Hardie took a deep breath, then cautiously made it to his feet and started up the slanting roof.

  The delivery van was still out front, but someone had moved it off to the side. It sat behind a white van now. Nobody in either vehicle, far as Hardie could tell. Up here he had a better view of the castle up on the hill. He could make out a name, too: smiley, someone had carved into the stone face. There was scaffolding covering the structure; the owner must have work in progress. Nobody in the windows; no signs of life whatsoever.

  Hardie turned to face the opposite direction and… hallelujah, the topless chick with the phone was still there. She had a phone. Her mouth was moving. That meant she had service.

  Thank you, God.

  Please ignore the bad shit I’ve said about you over the years.

  Mann, awaiting confirmation, glanced up at the house. This was taking way too long. Her eye burned and itched like fuck. It had been a long night without a break. Time for all of this to be over.

  And then she saw him.

  Charles Hardie, standing on the roof, looking down at her.

  Hardie knew this moment wouldn’t last forever. Any second now the faceless fuckers who’d put him in a body bag could show up, or the woman could go back inside, or an earthquake could start rumbling, or a wildfire could break out… so he had to move now. He could either go back down into the house and do something really stupid and heroic…

  Or he could be smart for a chance and call for help.

  Be smart, you idiot.

  Quietly as he could, he eased himself down the slope of the roof and jumped down to the driveway. He took great care to bend his knees as he landed to cushion the blow. He fell over, anyway. Picked himself up, then scrambled out onto Alta Brea and followed it back down to Durand until he was level with the third floor of the Lowenbruck home. Hardie glanced over at it, wondering if Lane Madden was dead or alive. He couldn’t do anything about that except get to this woman and have her call 911 and wait for the cavalry to arrive.

  Right?

  Hardie reminded himself:

  You’ve been stabbed. You’re in no condition for a close-quarters brawl with god knows how many people.

  You are not equipped to save people. You are not in the hero business. Remember, this is what got you in trouble three years ago. You’re no good.

  You had thought you might be a hero once, but you were wrong. People stronger and smarter and more ruthless taught you that. You are nothing. You’re one of those people in movies who gets killed in the first act. A nameless hood. Someone the screenwriter didn’t even bother to name.

  Don’t pretend to be what you’re not.

  Hardie hurriedly stumbled down the path toward the nice naked lady with the phone and braced himself for a scream.

  He really, really hoped she wouldn’t scream.

  Because if she screamed, then he’d have to somehow convince her to go inside and make the phone call, because those faceless cocksuckers could pop their heads out of a window and start shooting at the both of them. A million bad film-noir scenes flashed through his head—guys slapping their meaty palms over the mouths of screaming dames, their leading-man eyes reassuring them that Hey, I’m the good guy, everything will be okay. Of course, this was not the way it happened in the real world. Hardie fully expected the woman to attempt to bite off his thumb and then knee him in the balls, then go ahead and scream, anyway.

  Hardie took a few more quick steps, trying to project the most nonthreatening and peaceable version of himself. Hands out—look, see, no weapons.

  The woman remained perfectly still, as if she’d fallen asleep and was completely unaware of the bleeding, trembling man barreling toward her. Not like this kind of thing happens every day in L.A. Or does it?

  She continued her conversation. Hardie caught the tail end of it:

  “… you know me. I like constant updates. Hang on a second.”

  Finally Hardie caught her attention, because she turned her head slowly to face him. It was impossible to read her reaction behind her sunglasses. She said calmly:

  “Let me get back to you.”

  The woman wiggled a little until she’d propped herself up on her elbows. Her breasts hung full and wide from her tight, athletic frame.

  “Uh, miss… please don’t panic. I need you to call the police. It’s an emergency.”

  “Hi, Charlie,” the woman said.

  10

  No, no, I sock ’em in the jaw and yell pop goes the weasel.

  —Samuel L. Jackson, The Long Kiss Goodnight

  HARDIE STOPPED moving. Dropped his hands. Felt a rush of blood to his head.

  “Gotta say, I’m a little surprised to see you up and moving around,” the woman said. “But I guess that was a miscalculation, splitting the dose between two grown men. Usually we load those things with enough for just one. Have to make a note for next time, I suppose.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” Hardie asked.

  “Interesting you didn’t run for it. In fact, you came down here to borrow a phone and call for help. You probably consider yourself the hero type. So if I tell you to just walk away and pretend like none of this happened, you couldn’t, am I right? You just couldn’t. It would run counter to your very DNA.”

  Hardie stared at her.

  “Well, don’t be rude,” the woman said. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

  Hardie could think of nothing to say to that, other than:

  “You have very nice tits.”

  The woman smiled.

  “You like them?”

  “Anybody would like them.”

  “You probably don’t think they’re real.” She let a fake sigh escape her lips and threw her head back wearily. “Nobody thinks they’re real.”

  Hardie shook his head, something approximating a confused smile on his face.

  “I honestly don’t think I’m the best judge of what’s real and not real. What happened to your eye?”

  “Let’s not talk about my body parts, okay? Let’s talk about our situation. Usually, my inclination is to throw money at the problem. It’s easy, clean, and has been proven to truly motivate people. But I don’t think I can bribe you. Sure, you might go along with it, buy yourself some time. Or maybe you think, worst-case scenario, you can always track me down and seek your revenge later. Because that’s what tough guys do. Still, even if I believed you’d take the bribe and keep your mouth shut, it’s a loose end, and I’m not in the business of loose ends.”

  Hardie said, “What about the dead delivery dude in a plastic bag? Was he another loose end?”

  The woman smiled. “That’s a sad story, actually. He used to be a comic-book artist, but he had trouble making ends meet. He joined the delivery service a few months ago. About a half hour from now, he’ll be found in North Hollywood, bullet through his brain, victim of a carjacking.”

  “That is really sad.”

  The woman lowered her head slightly. “Would it help if I told you the woman up in that house—the one you think you’re protecting—deserves to die?”

  “What girl?”

  The woman smiled.

  “What girl. Good one, Charlie. But believe me, she’s pretty fucking far from innocent and deserves everything she’s got coming. If you knew what she did, you might even help us. Hold her down while we finish her off.”

  Hardie had one of his usual take-stock-of-your-current-situation moments and realized he was standing on a downward slope of the Hollywood Hills, surrounded by multimillion-dollar upside-down homes, talking to a topl
ess vigilante / killer. Okay. Just wanted to make sure he had it right.

  “What about the dead delivery guy in the plastic bag? Did he deserve it?”

  The woman sighed, shook her head. “No, he didn’t. Just like you, he’s an innocent victim, caught up in a tragic yet hopeless situation.”

  A barking laugh exploded out of Hardie.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.”

  The woman wrinkled her nose, then reached to her side and started to root through her bag. Here it comes, Hardie thought. Maybe a little snub-nosed revolver. Maybe a Taser. Maybe a cross-bow with flaming arrow, for all he knew. He took a step back…

  The woman sat up and held out a fat plastic tube. “Here. Would you do the honors?”

  The tube was sunblock. Ordinary brand-name, SPF 25.

  “You want me to rub this on you?” Hardie asked.

  “If you don’t mind.”

  Hardie looked at the tube in her hands, then back up at the woman, trying hard not to make eye contact with her breasts. Anywhere but her breasts. Even when you’re negotiating with a killer, you had to have some standards.

  “Where?”

  “Where do you think? You’ve been staring at them long enough. The girls could use another coat. Come on, don’t be shy. Kneel down next to me.”

  Hardie’s brain screamed: She has a weapon! She has a weapon! Still, Hardie found himself kneeling down. The only other option was to run, and if she did have a weapon, then what good would running do? This way, at the very least, he was closer to her phone. And if he could somehow grab her phone…

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. “You have the strangest look on your face.”

  “I think I’m having what they call an existential moment.”

  “You don’t need to make this complicated. Just open the top and squeeze into your hands, and let nature take its course.”

  “You know what? I think I’ll pass for now.”

  Hardie held the tube out for her.

  The woman smiled. The edges of the bandage that covered her right eye—under the sunglasses—crinkled a little.

  “Still the faithful husband. Which is really impressive considering how long since you’ve seen them.”

  Hardie said nothing.

  “Oh, don’t be coy about it. You’re still wearing the ring, and I know all about your wife, Kendra, and your son, Charlie Jr., who live at 255 Dana Street in Abington, Pennsylvania.”

  A cold little ball formed in Hardie’s stomach. The address. God, she knew the address. How the hell did she know the address? How long had he been here—couldn’t be more than an hour and a half? And yet she knew the fucking address?

  “Here’s the thing—and honestly, I’m done toying with you. Either we end this now or somebody will pay your wife and son a visit in the very immediate future. You can end this in a matter of seconds, or this can go on and on.”

  This stranger knew the address, even though only two people in the world were supposed to know that address. What else did she know?

  The woman pulled a syringe out of a small bag sitting next to her. They were so close, Hardie could just reach out and touch her. The sun was hot on his back.

  She said, “Do you understand?”

  Hardie nodded.

  “You’re not going to make this difficult, are you?”

  Hardie shook his head no.

  “Show me your forearm.”

  “What’s in that?”

  “Does it really matter? I promise you, it’s painless. Think about your family.”

  “I hate needles.”

  “Don’t be a baby.”

  She took the protective plastic cap off the syringe. Hardie made a fist with his left hand, pumped it a few times, then smashed it into her right eye. The lens of her sunglasses shattered. The force of the blow sent some of the plastic shards directly into her eye.

  The good one.

  She didn’t scream, to her credit. Instead, she sucked in a fortifying gulp of air and gritted her teeth and jabbed at Hardie with the syringe. But he anticipated the move and grabbed her wrist, freezing it mid-jab. Then Hardie punched her in the face again, knocking her earpiece loose. Hardie saw it bobbling there, half in, half out. He snatched it and tossed it down the hill. Now she screamed, a blast of sheer, angry red-hot rage, then turned and went scrambling, nearly naked, down the side of the hill. While she was distracted, Hardie grabbed her phone.

  Hardie stood up. Maybe it was the knockout drugs, maybe it was the lack of oxygen to his brain, but he felt like the world had come to a screeching halt.

  Kendra and Charlie.

  Fuck.

  Despite everything—the separation, the exile, the lack of communication, the precautions. They were in as much danger as they would have been if they had gone on living together, in their old row house—the one with all the bullet holes caulked over and repainted. All of the past three years had been for fucking nothing. The crazy topless killer bitch knew the address!

  Not the address, thank God. Hardie didn’t even know it, and Deacon Clark had made the arrangements with the help of some buddies in WITSEC. They weren’t in witness protection; they’d “gone ghost,” which is what Deke and the rest of the FBI called it these days.

  However, 255 Dana Street was Deacon Clark’s address—where Hardie sent all his checks and birthday cards and gifts. And if these creepy bastards could get to Clark, then it was only a matter of time before they would get to Kendra and Charlie. And that couldn’t happen.

  Hardie staggered back up the hill toward the house.

  11

  Buddy, you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  —Willem Dafoe, To Live and Die in L.A.

  THEY HAD the actress cornered.

  She had nowhere to run. First floor—clear. Second floor—clear. Third floor—everything clear except the bedroom closet. Only place left she could be hiding. So they braced themselves and prepared for her to go totally bugfuck when they opened the door. O’Neal took one side, A.D. the other. A.D. put his hand on the knob, looked over at O’Neal. O’Neal gave it the old one, two… NOW.

  A.D. opened the door. O’Neal aimed his Taser at—

  Nothing.

  O’Neal pushed aside dress shirts, jeans. Kicked a pile of shoes. The closet was one hundred percent devoid of people. Where the fuck was she? She couldn’t just disappear. Unless they were somehow wrong and she had never entered the house in the first place.

  No no no. She was hiding somewhere.

  A.D. signaled with his hands: an invisible cell phone to his ear. Meaning: Should we contact Mann?

  O’Neal shook his head. Not yet.

  This didn’t make sense.

  O’Neal and A.D. had had the front covered; Mann had had the back. Nobody had left. They had secured the house carefully, methodically. O’Neal replayed the scene in his mind.

  The moment the interloper—Charles Hardie—opened the front door, the wasp’s nest did its thing. Both men were down in a matter of seconds. Hardie fell inside. The deliveryman dropped his clipboard, staggered back a few steps like he was on a dance floor, then collapsed. The beauty of the poison spray was that it would finish things off for them. First it stuns, then it kills. All they had to do was bag the bodies, keep them out of sight, then go find the target. O’Neal and A.D. put on their gas masks, grabbed a bunch of plastic body bags, and sprang into action.

  Bagged the bodies, the suitcase, the clipboard, anything that belonged to either man. A cleaning team would be sent in later to make sure every stray microbe was removed from the premises, but protocol remained: bag it now.

  O’Neal slapped a proximity sensor on the front door. If the girl somehow eluded them and went out the front door, they’d know it instantly.

  They split up. Both were equipped with Tasers and jab pens. The former wouldn’t leave a mark; the latter wouldn’t matter, because one jab stick on a body covered in scrapes and bruises wouldn’t be detected. O’Neal s
coped out the downstairs, ready to unleash the Taser, then follow through with the pen.

  They had checked every inch of the studio. Under the mixing boards, in closets. The bathroom. Tapped the ceilings, the walls. Nothing. It didn’t make sense.

  Fatigue was setting in big time; there were too few of them, and they’d been on the job for way too many hours. For fuck’s sake, this was supposed to be over last night. Mann should have rotated another team in here, started fresh. O’Neal knew Mann was injecting a little bit of the personal into the equation. He’d never say that to her face—wasn’t worth it. Still, if he were running things…

  In the middle of hazy nothing, Mann heard her earpiece purring. God bless whoever’s calling me. She scrambled through the grass, blinking away blood, and her fingers found the piece. She put it to her ear.

  It was Factboy.

  “Hey, I found something you should know,” he said.

  “Not fucking now,” Mann said.

  The plan was to go in all stealth.

  Hardie reasoned that they didn’t know he was coming. The topless lady in the sunglasses would be busy digging around the bushes for at least another few minutes, trying to find her stupid hands-free thing. (Good luck with that, honey.) It wasn’t too late. Lane was still alive. Topless had confirmed as much:

  You know me. I like constant updates. Keep searching.

  And Lane Madden knew who these people were, what they were all about. Hardie didn’t have to stop them. He didn’t have to solve the case. Which was never his strong suit, anyway. He didn’t have to root out corruption at the highest levels of government, or dismantle the nuke, or any of that crazy hero shit. He just needed to find out who these fuckers were, and then dutifully report it to Deacon Clark, who would get the FBI up their asses sideways.

  So…