Bestiary

CHAPTER SEVEN

Greer stood with his legs slightly apart and both hands on the pistol grip. He raised the gun, sighted, and squeezed the trigger.

A neat round hole appeared just to the left of center on the silhouette.

He adjusted his grip, aimed, and fired again — the barrel of the gun burst into orange flame, the gun gave a short recoil, and, as the smoke dispersed, he saw another hole, this one dead center in the light green silhouette of the man on the target fifty feet away.

He still had it. He’d been the best shot in basic training and the best in the field. And the Beretta 92FS — or, as it was known in the military, the M9—remained his weapon of choice. A lightweight semiautomatic with an aluminum alloy frame, it also featured a delayed locking block system, which provided a faster cycle time and exceptional accuracy. The reversible magazine release, positioned next to the trigger guard, gave a rightie or a leftie the same chance to drop the spent magazine clear and reload rapidly. More than once in Iraq, that little feature had come in handy.

Of course, the only times he carried this gun now (a duplicate of the one the army had issued him) was when he went on his home burglaries, and so far he’d been careful enough that he’d never had to use it. He only hoped things stayed that way.

Greer had never been to this place — the Liberty Indoor Firing Range — before. Sadowski had suggested they meet there, and to blow off steam Greer arrived early, and checked into lane 1 against the far wall. That way, he’d have nobody firing on his left side; ever since sustaining the damage to his left leg, he liked to keep things clear on that side of his body.

He fired a few more rounds, and when the extractor no longer protruded, he released the empty magazine and slapped a new magazine into the chamber. That was another good thing about the M9—you could feel for that protruding extractor even in the dark, and if you didn’t feel it, you knew it was time to reload.

The door to the rear of the shooting gallery opened, and in walked Sadowski, wearing yellow goggle-style eye protectors, matching yellow noise-suppressing headphones, and carrying — why was Greer not surprised — a CX4 Storm. A state-of-the-art carbine, the CX4 was the perfect step up for any army vet who’d served in the Middle East. It took the standard Beretta pistol magazines, and the controls were immediately familiar to anyone who’d ever used the M9 models. But Sadowski’s rifle, Greer could see, had a few extra options, like a vertical grip, a fore-end rail, and tactical lights attached on top. This guy was equipped to take on a whole SWAT team.

“You got time?” Sadowski hollered to Greer. “I want to do some shooting.”

Greer nodded. He had some ammunition left himself, and he wasn’t in any rush; there’d be plenty of time to ream out Sadowski afterward.

Sadowski, who’d set up in lane 2, clamped his target up, then pressed the button that sent it fluttering down the rails past the twelve-foot line, past the twenty-one-foot line, past the fifty, and all the way down to the far end of the range. Seventy-five feet. Greer might have expected that.

There was a dull popping noise from the only other shooter on the range, a Latino in lane 10, whose pants, Greer had noticed on the way in, were perilously close to falling off altogether.

Then Sadowski opened fire; even through his headphones, Greer could hear the loud bark of the semiautomatic and see the bright muzzle flash. He couldn’t make out the target through the drifting smoke, but with all the extra sights and lights and whatever else Sadowski had attached to the gun, it would be hard to imagine him missing.

Greer finished off his own ammo, recalled his target — he’d shot a perfect little heart shape into the center of the silhouette — and went to wait inside the shop. There were glass display cases loaded with everything from holsters to hunting knives, racks of gun videos, stacks of boxes of small arms ammunition. Across from the restrooms — Greer had to wonder how much use the ladies’ room got here — there was a combination classroom and lounge. At the front of the room a few folding chairs had been set up, facing a poster outlining the basic rules of gun safety. In the back, under a hand-lettered sign that said KUNG FU MY ASS — TRY TO KARATE CHOP A BULLET, there were a couple of beaten-up sofas and a coffee table covered with catalogues and dog-eared copies of Field and Stream.

Greer was leafing through one of them when Sadowski came in, his CX4 nestled away in a custom leather carrying case.

“You still using an M9?” Sadowski asked as he popped some coins into one of the vending machines. A Sprite clattered down. “You want a soda, Captain?”

“No, I do not want a soda.”

Sadowski, still determined to pretend everything was right with the world, plopped down on the opposite sofa. The cushion bulged up on the other end.

“You want to tell me why?” Greer asked.

Sadowski took a sip of his Sprite. “Why what?”

“Why was there a dog-sitter in that house? Why was her boyfriend in that house? And most of all, why didn’t I know there were going to be people in that house?”

“I didn’t know either,” Sadowski protested. “That doctor hadn’t put anything like that in the file. I checked.”

“You checked. When? After I nearly had to drown that kid?”

“He’s gonna be okay. We got a full report from the cops.”

Greer snorted, and was about to continue when the guy from behind the front counter, who’d checked Greer’s ID, waddled in; he was a fat guy dressed for the beach in flip-flops and shorts. He unlocked a vending machine, took out a few candy bars, and stuck them in the side pockets of his Hawaiian shirt.

Sadowski jumped at him like he was a life preserver. “Say, Burt, this is the guy I was wanting you to meet. Captain Greer, my old officer in Iraq.”

The fat man came over and extended his hand. “Burt Pitt,” he said, before adding, “no relation to Brad Pitt, in case you were wondering about the resemblance.”

Sadowski laughed, and looked from Greer to Pitt, to make sure they had hit it off. “Burt owns this place,” Sadowski said.

“So I gathered when he stole the candy bars,” Greer replied.

“Stan’s told me a lot about you.”

Oh yeah, Greer thought — although he never used it, Sadowski did have a first name.

“Said you were the best commander he’d had in Iraq.” He unwrapped a Twix bar and took a bite. “Said you took a hit over there, too. That why your left leg is sticking out straight?”

Greer didn’t answer.

“You shoulda said something at the desk. I give a ten percent discount to vets.”

Greer noticed that he had a Liberty Bell tattooed on his right arm.

“Stan tell you about our group?” Burt asked.

“Not much,” Greer said. Was this guy ever going to leave? He wasn’t done chewing out Sadowski. Stan.

“He ought to. You might be interested.”

“I’m not what you call a joiner.”

“You don’t know till you hear. Stan, I’ll give you some papers on your way out. You try to get your pal here to look ’em over.”

“I will, Burt, I will.”

“Nice meetin’ you,” he said, and Greer waited for the sound of his flip-flops to recede before starting up with Sadowski.

But he had no sooner begun than Sadowski raised a hand to stop him and said, “Captain, I’ve gotta tell you, I’ve got something you’re really going to want to hear. Trust me.”

“If it’s about this fuckin’ group of yours — the Nazi Brethren or whatever — I don’t want to hear.”

“No, no, you’re gonna like this.”

Greer sat back and waited.

“Remember, in Iraq, that little mission we went on?”

“God damn it, Sadowski—”

“And that palace we went to?”

“There’s no one else here. Just spit it out.”

“Well, Silver Bear just bought out another security firm.”

“So? What’s that got to do with Iraq?”

“So guess who one of their clients is? Who’s now one of ours?”

Greer waited, but Sadowski, the idiot, was clearly expecting him to guess. “George Bush.”

“Better. Remember the name of the guy who owned the palace?”

“Yes,” Greer said, getting interested now. “His name was al-Kalli.”

Sadowski just grinned.

“He’s a Silver Bear client?”

Sadowski nodded his head yes.

Greer’s mind was racing. “He lives here?”

“Top of Bel-Air, biggest fucking house up there.”

Greer had to admit, he was taken by surprise. He sat up too quickly, and his leg suddenly twanged like a guitar string. Al-Kalli, here? In L.A.?

“He’s got more land than anyone else up there, too.”

What do you know, Greer thought. Sadowski had actually said something that might prove useful for a change; it was enough to make him forget about that little fiasco in Brentwood. And although he hadn’t yet figured out how it was going to play out, he felt as though he had just heard the distinct sound of opportunity knocking.