Nine

31

Palmdale, California

Wednesday, May 21, 4:05 P.M.

Julio Santos was bored. He was used to seeing a lot of action when he was working as a bodyguard for Bernardo Adrianos, because somebody was always trying to kill that bastard. At first, he had enjoyed the high-intensity life, but nobody likes to live like that for long. Or gets to. That much was clear to him, and to his partner Ricky Calaban, even before they were contacted by their new employers.

The basics of the original deal had been appealing. Adrianos dead, Julio and Ricky alive and wealthy. None of Adrianos’s friends or associates knew where Julio and Ricky were. Most people figured the bodyguards had died trying to defend him. This is exactly what the strangers had told him would happen.

Then the strangers offered more-if Julio and Ricky agreed to come to work for the strangers’ private company for one year, they would earn five million each, and Ricky’s brother and Julio’s mother would each receive another million. If they wanted their family members relocated to a safer place, this would be arranged.

Julio asked what they would be required to do during that year.

It would be a dangerous job, the leader said, but not as dangerous as continuing to guard Bernardo Adrianos. They would each guard one man, and that man would be drugged most of the time. They would learn to do certain simple medical procedures involving narcotics and intravenous feedings. They did not need to learn how to do these gently, just effectively. In addition to the leader, three men would be allowed to visit the prisoner from time to time, but otherwise, they would be somewhat isolated.

Ricky, he learned later, had jumped at the offer. Julio had been more cautious but had ultimately accepted it. He didn’t have a lot of options.

At first, he thought it might all be some FBI setup, but so far, all the strangers had told him had been true. Julio’s mother now lived like a queen back in Mexico, and he had a bank account that was going to be much bigger in a few months. The man he was guarding here in this abandoned small factory in Palmdale was too heavily sedated to be a threat. He looked like a mean motherfucker, all right, but most of the time, he was completely out of it.

To the outside world, Julio appeared to be a watchman who was paid to keep an eye on a property that might be sold. The room Julio guarded and his own living quarters were concealed within the building. His quarters were extremely comfortable. He had music and magazines, electronic games, a satellite dish, and a phone-although they warned him that the phone was tapped and that the entire place was, in fact, full of listening devices. If he wanted to call his mother, they would pay for the call. Anywhere in the world. But they would be listening. They were sure, the leader said, that he could understand their desire to protect their investment.

They would send a whore to him whenever he wanted one, provided he never let her see the prisoner or even hinted that there was a prisoner being held there. And the whores were much classier hookers than the ones he had enjoyed while working with Adrianos. At first he had taken a lot of advantage of that perk, but even his appetite for whores seemed to be waning these days.

As happened on visiting days-when one of the four strangers would stop by-the prisoner’s morphine had been cut back. Sometimes, if he wasn’t waking up fast enough, Julio gave the prisoner a low-dosage injection of an amphetamine. That would counteract the morphine’s effects for a while. Julio was so tired of this routine, he was tempted to go in there and kill the prisoner himself, and tell whichever of his bosses who showed up today that the man had tried to escape. But he wasn’t going to blow five million-six, if you counted his mother’s share-by being impatient.

He heard the prisoner pacing. He watched him on a security camera. It had bothered him a little at first that he was going to spend time watching a naked guy night and day, but by now it hardly registered with him.

He understood the man’s restlessness. At first, whenever he was awake, the prisoner had ranted about wanting his lawyer. Julio wondered if the guy had finally figured out that it wasn’t the good old cops who had him now. Then again, where he came from, maybe this was the way the cops treated all their prisoners.

Watching the news, Julio figured he had a good idea what was going on. Adrianos had been on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. The prisoner was on it, too. His name was Farid Atvar, and he was one of those fucking terrorist assholes, one of the few who were on both the top ten and the special list for terrorists.

The day he had learned that, Julio, who was not unpatriotic, had been ready to go in there and fucking put Farid’s lights out permanently, and to hell with the money. He had no patience for these head cases, these so-called religious men who blew up buildings and shit like that in the name of God.

That was bullshit, anyway, Julio thought. Who the hell would be dumb enough to worship a god that wanted you to do senseless crap like that? You didn’t do shit like that because of God. Julio figured this kind of guy must embarrass the hell out Arabs who really did believe in Allah, the way some of those preachers on television embarrassed Christians.

Julio never would believe anybody bombed anything on account of God. No. You blew things up because you were a powerless little fuck who found another bunch of dickless wonders and let lunatics who hid themselves half a world away talk the group of you into being suicide attackers. You let them do it because they were good at mind games, and they knew exactly what you thought of yourself-that you and your useless life weren’t worth the paper you used to wipe your ass. Well, they got that part right, at least.

Julio had no respect for them at all. He had done his share of killing, but he had killed to live, because his life was worth something. Somebody came toward the man he was protecting, he knew it, he was there. He was ready for you-bring it on.

At least, that’s the way it was before. Now, who knew what he’d do when he was done with this job?

Well, he’d deal with that when the time came. But no matter what happened to him, he’d never blame God. The way Julio figured it, God was this guy at the show, and when it was your time to leave the stage, adiós. While you were on the stage, go for it, but just keep in mind you weren’t writing the play-He was. And He loved a good laugh. As for encores, well, Julio would wait and see.

He’d had a lot of time to think about these things lately, whenever he wasn’t playing video games or watching porn.

He watched the news, too, which was usually just about as repetitive as the porn. When he kept hearing about the dead guys from the Most Wanted list, he figured he was fly to the time of day. His new bosses were sick of the cops being so lame. They were rich boys trying to prove they had balls. He wasn’t sure they were all that different from the prisoner. Really, didn’t they get that there were just going to be ten more brand-spanking-new assholes on the Most Wanted list? There were already new ones taking the places of Adrianos and the others. What did they think was going to happen-the country would run out of criminals?

Crazy.

But he didn’t mind taking their money to help them do their bit while they were front and center stage. No one was going to connect him with it, or by the time they did, he’d be long gone. Even if he was caught, what could they accuse him of-holding this guy hostage? A guy who planted a bomb on an Oceanside bus-a bus that he knew young marines often took to get back to Camp Pendleton at the end of leave? Who killed three kids and half a dozen retirees at the same time? Shit, Julio thought. More likely he’d get a medal for keeping the bastard from planning some other fucking bombing.

He was pretty sure his bosses would get away with it somehow, too-they had money. He hadn’t seen a hell of a lot of wealthy people punished in his day, unless they fucked with other wealthy people. These guys were killing people everybody hated.

To keep himself from going in and killing Farid just to make God laugh His ass off, Julio always tried to call Farid “the prisoner” in his mind. He figured he earned his five mil by self-restraint.

He stood up and stretched, and got ready for a visit from one of the four. Chill-his name for the boss of them all, as cold a bastard as he had ever met-had called but hadn’t said who would be coming by. He never did.

Julio went up to the roof. The prisoner didn’t have a prayer-no matter who he prayed it to-of getting out of his cell, and there wasn’t a thing in there that could be used for a suicide attempt. But Julio took a little portable monitor with him anyway.

He watched until he saw a van approaching. It wasn’t the usual one, but he caught a glimpse of the driver and recognized him. So, it was the Surfer this time. Julio went downstairs.

The Surfer was wearing a suit, looking exactly like a guy who puts on suits only for funerals and weddings. But Julio didn’t think that was what was bothering him as he watched the prisoner on the monitor.

His voice was kind of high-pitched when he said, “I thought he was supposed to be drugged.”

“My instructions were to sober him up,” Julio said.

The kid-really, he was no more than a kid-looked at him, and Julio saw that he was scared shitless.

“What’s supposed to happen here?” Julio asked, his tone inviting confidences.

“I’m supposed to kill him.”

God, the kid looked like he was gonna barf just saying it.

“You ever done anything like that before?”

He thought he knew the answer, but the kid surprised him. “Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but-I just helped.”

Julio found himself suppressing an urge to laugh. “You want me to help you? It would be my pleasure.”

For a moment, he thought the kid was going to say yes, but in the end he shook his head.

“What would you like me to do?” Julio asked.

“Just let me in there, and-and watch. If there’s any trouble…”

“Help you out.”

“Yes.”

The entrance to the prisoner’s cell was through a triple set of doors, each with a short hall between them. The doors were heavily reinforced. Julio let the Surfer into the first door. The Surfer waited in the hallway while Julio closed and locked the first door.

Julio went over to the monitor closest to the door and watched.

The Surfer entered a code that released the electronic lock on the second door. He closed it behind him, and entered the code again, locking it. He stepped up to the third door.

On the days when he was not fed intravenously, the prisoner received his meager rations through a slot in this door. The Surfer leaned over and called through it, “Mr. Atvar? I’m an attorney with the ACLU.”

Julio wondered if it was the drugs that made the prisoner start crying. He was shouting some stuff that Julio thought might be prayers, and saying, “Help me, help me, please.”

“Maybe some of those people on that bus wished someone would help them,” Julio said.

But when the Surfer stepped into the room, the prisoner said, “You? You are no lawyer. You are too young.”

“Mr. Atvar, settle down, or I’m walking right back out of here.”

That put an end to Atvar’s rebellion. He began scratching himself. Over the ten weeks he’d been here, Julio had followed a program that had turned his prisoner into a morphine addict. Julio had no regrets about that.

The Surfer started pacing. Get on with it, Julio silently urged. At the same moment, his attention was drawn away by the sound of a motor. He checked the monitor that gave him a view of the parking lot entrance. Someone else was approaching. He was driving a Maserati Bora.

No one comes around for a week, and now the whole world shows up. Damn it, he wondered, now what should he do?

He made certain that he had easy access to his weapon, but he was fairly sure that anyone approaching in a Maserati was one of the rich kids.

Julio turned back to the screen just in time to see the kid make his move-an awkward attempt to garrote the prisoner.

It wasn’t pretty, but he did get it around the prisoner’s neck, probably because the prisoner was in a weakened state. Still, Julio had to admit, the prisoner was fighting like hell. He bashed his head back into the Surfer’s, making his nose bleed. Julio almost went in at that, but the Surfer was holding on, even though the prisoner kicked and twisted.

Tighten it, kid. Pull on it!

The buzzer for the door rang, and Julio looked at one of the other screens and saw, to his relief, that it was one of his bosses. The dark-haired one. He was dressed in dark leather and was wearing driving gloves. Julio had mentally dubbed him the Mechanic, because he had seen his kind many times before. He figured this one had a love of his work that even Chill was missing.

He hurriedly let him in, then said, “I think your friend needs some help. Want me to go in?”

“No,” this one said. “That’s why I’m here.”

Julio opened the door for him, then locked it. On the monitor, he watched as the prisoner pissed himself. It got all over the Surfer’s suit. The Surfer swore and loosened his grip, and the prisoner took advantage of this to free himself. He had just thrown himself on the thin mattress on the floor when the door opened.

“Cameron?” the Surfer said. “What are you doing here?”

The prisoner began to stand up. Cameron-the Mechanic-pulled out a.38 and shot the prisoner in the kneecap.

Farid Atvar screamed.

Julio heard all of this over the monitor only. Even the shot had been nothing more than a slight popping sound. The cell was virtually soundproof.

Cameron walked calmly over to the Surfer and handed him the gun. “Finish your job.”

The Surfer said, “I thought I couldn’t use a gun.” Julio could barely hear him over the prisoner’s screams.

Cameron looked at him in exasperation. “Finish it, Morgan.”

Morgan-the Surfer-aimed the gun and fired. He hit the prisoner’s shoulder. More screams.

Cameron took the pistol from him, aimed, and fired a shot through Farid’s left eye.

The screaming stopped.

He watched as the one called Cameron holstered the weapon and then pulled out a big black marking pen. He bent over Farid’s skinny, bloody chest.

“Are we going to do all the rest of it?” Morgan asked.

“No time. If Freddy makes as big a mess of his assignment as you did of yours, he’ll be needing my help soon.”

Julio let them out again. He tried not to look at Morgan’s suit pants, which reeked of piss. The smell of gunpowder never bothered Julio, but he couldn’t stand the piss smell.

The Surfer was looking green again and wringing his hands like an old woman.

“Mr. Santos,” Cameron said, “I know he’s shorter than you are, but would you have a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt my associate could change into? I don’t think he’ll want to sit in these clothes in his Maserati.”

“You drove my Bora?” Morgan said in outrage.

“Shut up. Mr. Santos, we need to leave as soon as possible. The body can stay here. I’ll need you to drive the van to Malibu. We’ll pay you there and you can be on your way.”

“Sure,” Santos said, smiling and thinking that it really hadn’t been bad work for five million bucks. He had just started up the stairs toward his apartment when the old instincts kicked in-a moment too late.

He could swear he felt the bullet sting his back, then tear through the front of his chest even before he heard it, but maybe that was his own gun, going off too late. He was losing consciousness, his knees buckling, and he was suddenly struck by the thought that he must look ludicrous. He drew a painful last breath and called out to his laughing God, although he knew it came from his lips as little more than a whisper.

Cameron walked forward and felt for a pulse. There was none.

He turned and tossed the keys to the Bora to Morgan. “You drive the Maserati, I’ll drive the van. Follow me. We’re going to take Mulholland Highway.”

“Mulholland? Why?” He was shaking.

Cameron was distracted for a moment, unlocking a cabinet and removing tapes from the security cameras’ tape decks. But he answered, “We’ve got to meet Freddy there.”

“Don’t tell him about the piss, okay?”

“I won’t.”

“Or-or that I couldn’t do it.”

“You just need practice, that’s all.”

Morgan looked at Santos’s body and said, “Why did you kill him?”

Cameron hesitated, then said, “You said my name when I walked into the room.”

“You said mine.”

“After you spoke mine, it didn’t matter.”

“Oh.”

They began to walk out. Morgan took one last look at Santos. “What was it-at the end-what did he say?”

Cameron smiled. Morgan started shaking again.

But Cameron simply walked past him, saying, “Encore.”