faded off, probably when his mom did his laundry.
'Hey, Carface,' Bear said, slapping his badge across the laid-open Paintball 2 Xtremes magazine. 'Who's in the preserve? Right now.' Bear snapped his fingers in front of the guy's face to jerk his focus from their handcuffed sidekick.
'A…uh, handful of guys. And Afternoon D-Lite.'
'How many guys?'
'I think three.'
'You think?' Tim pointed to equipment hanging from pegs near the lockers. 'Can you count the missing vests?'
'They brought their own.' The worker flipped a binder out from the row and showed Tim three names, none of which meant anything to him.
Xavier spit on the floor. 'How 'bout I sit down?'
Bear said, 'Believe me, your presence at this moment is no fucking treat for us either.'
A movement caught Tim's eye through the side window-Wes Dieter pulling up to his marked space by the entrance. Dressed in pseudo-combat gear, he climbed out of his Cutlass Supreme.
Tim turned back to the worker. 'Have you seen this guy?' A head shake at Walker's picture. 'How about him?' Tim snapped open his phone and showed the photograph of Caden.
'Yeah, that guy was here a minute ago. At the bar, maybe?'
Tim scanned the lounge again, and then his eyes pulled to the gauze curtain. He said to Bear, 'He's in the preserve. Hunting.'
Bear unsnapped his holster strap. 'Or waiting.'
Tim said, 'Could he have snuck in without your seeing?'
'Shit, I don't know,' the worker said. 'I guess someone could cut the net anywhere at the perimeter and slip through, they really wanted to.'
Which Walker may well have done earlier to set up for Tess's killer. Tim said, 'Let me see the schedule for the rest of the night. Now.'
The worker fumbled at the computer. Wes entered to a stir, exchanging high fives with a few zealous clients. He cued to the tense vibe, spotted Tim, Bear, and Xavier, and approached. 'Hey guys, what's the 411 here?'
Tim said, 'We think whoever killed Tess Jameson is on the premises. We were told he had an appointment here, right now.' He didn't add that Tess's murderer might have drawn Walker Jameson on site for the kill, or that an Aryan Brotherhood hit man, in turn, was pursuing Walker.
'I see.' Wes rocked on his heels, then said, 'Hey, Kenny, I need you to unload the paintball units from my backseat.' He aimed his key chain at the window, and, outside, the soft top on his convertible retracted, a custom feature that must have cost thousands. 'I'll help these gents.'
Kenny offered an annoyed look, then headed out.
Wes said in a fierce whisper. 'I thought we had a deal. You can't be hauling perps through here.'
Tim said, 'We need tonight's schedule.'
Wes fought a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed sweat from his forehead but made no move toward the computer. 'Come on, guys. Come back after hours, I'll get you whatever you need. But you're freaking my clients. Again.'
Outside, Kenny waited for the sluggish soft top to accordion out of his way, then hefted a crate from Wes's car. Wes crossed his arms, ready to cause a scene. Bear shoved past him, stepping around the counter. The tabby stuck her head up from the Cutlass's passenger seat, then jumped up onto the hood, her orange coat rippling.
Wes shook his head at Bear's rudeness, then said, 'The schedule's on the clipboard by the preserve entrance.' He went to get it, mumbling.
The cat padded across the front of the Cutlass, her breath wisping, then curled at the end of the hood above the warmth of the engine.
The oversize hood ornament.
Bear looked up from the monitor, brow twisted with consternation. 'This says the next appointment's a hunt-off. Metal Jacket and-'
The clues aligned at once, pulling together in the instant Tim's hand dove for his Smith amp; Wesson. The low-rider-the Cutlass with the top peeled back. Wes's own words-I'm a computer guy at heart. He'd posed as the Piper in one of the chat rooms-ones that guys like us can't even find-and snaked the contract. The hit itself-highly competent but not meticulous, the imperfect work of a well-read and — practiced wannabe.
Before Bear could utter his name, Wes Dieter slipped through the gauze, disappearing into the green-tinted shadows of the preserve. The four-time course champion, trying for a getaway but inadvertently heading into the lion's den. Given the recent fallout from Tess's murder, Tim had to assume that a real gun lurked in one of Wes's innumerable holsters and cargo pockets.
Bear seized Xavier, steering him for the door. Tim ran for the curtain, shouting over his shoulder, 'Clear the whole building! When backup gets here, have them seal off the preserve's perimeter!'
He slipped through, dropping low on a knee, his revolver clutched tight in both hands. A muddy trail went a few feet before splitting in three directions. Fronds fluttered. Cottonwood, sagebrush, willow, and coyote bush broke his sight line. A coarse cawing. The silhouette of a great white egret scanned across the roof of the black netting, strobe-flickering against the dark gray sky beyond. The netting encasing the fifteen-acre preserve brought a kind of night-within-night. Tim eased forward, boots shoving into the mud, then stepped off the trail. He turned down the volume on his radio, cutting himself off from his backup. Noises all around.
Tim melded into the imported foliage, listening for the sounds of human movement-headlong progress through brush, metallic clinks, leaves whispering across fabric. He and Walker were like sharks squaring off in a kiddy pool.
Advancing on hands and knees could help him reduce his noise signature, but it would also slow him down. Since concealment options were copious, there was no need to maintain a low-to-ground profile. He was within an enclosed space with three potentially armed men, all of them killers, all of them hunting and being hunted. Time was of the essence if he wanted to play a role in the outcome. And prevent the naked corpse of a well-siliconed woman from making tomorrow's page one. To strike the balance between caution and pursuit, he opted for a slow upright patrol, stop-move-stop.
He paused, getting down on a knee in the tules to listen and feel the air.
Walker likely didn't know that Tim and Caden were present. If he had come, he'd set up to wait for the Piper. If Tim had some luck, Walker didn't realize yet that that meant this nickel-badge-wearing keyboard jockey. What would be the best tactical spot from which to observe, and execute a shot? Tim would have chosen the highest ground. A rise in the northwest quadrant seemed the best bet. Tim started to forge in that direction, through the dark heart of the preserve. If he heard anyone moving, odds were it was Caden, Wes, the girl, or one of the paintballers. Tim's first priority would be to reach the nonsuspects and direct them to safety. Then he'd try to latch on to Caden and trail and outflank him for an ambush, or stalk Wes until he drew Walker from cover.
Someone large lumbered up the trail to Tim's right, and he whipped his gun over, waiting to see who appeared. An excessively camoed man with a beer gut charged around the bend, slipping to a halt. He smiled at Tim, raised his paintball gun. 'Pow.' His eyes changed when he took in Tim's expression and the steel gleam of the Smith amp; Wesson. Tim flicked his barrel toward the exit to keep the guy moving; he was only too happy to comply.
In the blackness up ahead, a woman shouted, 'Who the hell are you?' She yelped, and Tim ducked into the foliage. A few moments later, she ran past, naked and screaming, Afternoon no longer D-Lited.
To his left he heard two bodies startle in the leaves, then move for the exit also, the panicked movements and shouted directives telling him they were the last two paintballers. Bear could deal with them and the girl once they spilled through the curtain.
Moving briskly, Tim closed in on the area of foliage in which the regulars had stumbled upon an uninvited guest. The band of dense, shoulder-high bush crossed the base of the slope where Tim thought Walker might be bedded down. Tim steered clear of the loose rocks composing the waterfall's base, picking quiet footholds around the mud wallow. Another theme-park addition, a camouflaged heavy bag, creaked on its chain, its sway more than the net-blocked wind could have generated. Someone had shouldered it on his way past.
Tim inched upslope, letting the branches bend slowly against him to avoid snaps and backwhips. A stout
