Saturday, July 30^th

The pain in Trent’s knees was gone when he awoke on Saturday morning. The symptoms he had felt so far seemed to be temporary. Short-lived.

Christopher called to tell them he had arranged for the use of a private shooting range on the south side of the city. It was owned and operated by a friend of the detective who owed him a favor. He agreed to close the range to the public for two hours.

They arrived at the address Christopher gave him promptly at eleven o’clock. They knew their tail was following them. Trent figured there would be nothing new for the pair to learn today. They knew he and Darcey were married. They knew he was working with Christopher. The only thing they would learn today was they were armed. They would have to be thickheaded to not have assumed that already.

They met Christopher in the parking lot. Trent was not completely surprised to find Richmond Detective Sergeant Nancy Patrick with him.

Christopher, with a wide, proud grin, confirmed that his relationship with Nancy was good enough to ask for a favor. Nancy said she had already taken care of the matter.

Christopher took them through the retail gun shop to the owner’s office in the rear of the building. There they met Jess Hickok, sitting at his desk beneath a large reproduction photograph of the infamous gunfighter James Butler “Wild Bill” Hickok.

“No relation at all,” the affable shop owner said. “But the customers get a kick out of it.”

Inside the range, Trent was the first to lay his weapon on the shelf in front of his firing position.

Hickok whistled as he saw the Desert Eagle. “That’s a beauty. Mind if I take a look at it?”

“Not at all,” Trent said.

“Say, this is a .50 caliber. Not legal in California.”

Trent didn’t say anything.

“That can’t be right,” Christopher said, casting a steady glare at the gunsmith. “Looks like a .44 to me.”

Hickok caught on quick. “Oh yeah, I see my mistake now. Still it’s a beauty.”

If the Desert Eagle impressed Hickok, his eyes about popped out of his head when Darcey drew the M16 from her gym bag.

Hickok was no fool. “And I know that’s an AR-15 because M16s aren’t legal here. Another beauty.”

Christopher felt a little outclassed when he laid his Smith & Wesson on the shelf at his position. Even Nancy’s Ruger, with its 15 round magazine, out classed him.

“Say, that Ruger is aluminum. As I recall that means it’s one of the earlier of the P series. Maybe a P-85. They had some safety issues in the beginning but fixed them. Stopped making’em by the end of the century but they’re a good handgun.”

Donning ear protection, the five of them spent the next two hours blasting away at Hickok’s targets. The gunsmith himself even got a chance to try the Desert Eagle and M16.

By the end of their time, Trent was satisfied Darcey could handle the fully automatic weapon if she had to. Christopher was glad she was on their side.

Rossi stared out over his peaceful garden as he lunched on a variety of cheeses. There was Caciocavello, a sharp version of provolone. Gorgonzola Dolce, a sweet version of the strongly flavored cheese. The last was a La Tur, a unique mixture of cow’s milk, giving it a creamy texture; sheep’s milk, providing a buttery element; and goat cheese, adding a tangy quality at the end.

The cheeses he was eating on slices of Italian bread were the only thing satisfying about his day.

First the two men he had assigned to tail Marshall and Booth on Friday reported their failure. They couldn’t keep up with whatever car it was Marshall was driving. If it was helpful, they told Don Rossi, Marshall and Booth dodged them getting onto an interstate that would head them north toward Concord. Or maybe even Modesto.

Then the pair of would-be assassins supplied by his partners, the Barons of Lucifer, had let themselves become the victims. He couldn’t believe they had let that drunken slob of an ex-cop Steve Burgess outsmart them.

He didn’t like to use his own men for such jobs if he could avoid it. But he might have to do that.

Meanwhile, he had other business to attend. He picked up yet another prepaid cell phone and dialed a number

Burgess slept until well past noon. He had checked into another cheap, rundown apartment hotel located on a garbage-strewn block of Eddy Street at the edge of Little Saigon. He registered as John Hudson. He tried to keep his face down so the desk clerk wouldn’t get a good look at him. But the man was half asleep and more than half drunk. He wouldn’t remember what “John Hudson” looked like.

He awoke in a hebetudinous state. Even more lethargic than usual.

He needed a drink. But there was nothing in the apartment to drink. Nothing to eat. He would have to go out for groceries and booze. He thought it best if John Hudson stayed out of sight for a few days.

But first he wanted to see what he had taken from the bumbling hit men. Opening his duffel bag he found a lever action rifle. Working the action he popped out a shell. A Winchester .44-40 caliber. Like something he would expect to see in a western movie.

A revolver that looked like a 50 year old French police handgun and a 19^th century-style rifle. Their choice of weapons was puzzling. But at least he was armed. He would hide the rifle in the apartment. The hotel offered no maid service so it wouldn’t be found. The revolver he would carry concealed. He remembered he had taken 12 extra bullets for the revolver from Horatio’s pockets.

Opening the saddle bags he was pleasantly surprised to find a thick stack of bills. He counted $2,000. That was probably what they were paid to take him out. It was what his life was worth.

There was also a box of cartridges for the rifle. Nothing else.

He had enough money to live for a few weeks at the hotel he was in with some left over for food and booze if he was careful. At least the two bikers had bought him some time with their lives.

Jordan Baron called from New Orleans in the afternoon. He had the results of the tests on the DNA samples Nancy had sent him.

“She went by the name of Piper Hodgins down here, Trent. She was arrested more than a dozen times for prostitution, drugs. Nothing big. I was the last one to arrest her. She solicited me in front of the casino with witnesses. I don’t work vice but given the situation I didn’t have a choice. I helped her get into a rehab program run by a friend of mine. The last I heard she had cleaned up and left the city.”

“She was working here in our building and doing well, Jordan,” Trent said. “Everyone liked her. And she was staying clean. I have no doubt about that. Folks out here think it was a coincidence that she and I both came from New Orleans, and that she wound up working in this building. That was no coincidence. Darcey told me she mentioned the opening on the concierge staff to you.”

“Yeah, and here’s something else some might try to explain away as coincidence. Nine of her arrests were made by an old friend of yours. Steve Burgess. Charges were dismissed each time because the arresting officer failed to follow up.”

“Where’s Burgess now?”

“Not sure. He disappeared not long after his ill-fated attempt to shoot you.”

“Something tells me he’s in San Francisco. If I’m right he found Alexis. That means he was staking out our building. Can you get Burgess’ fingerprints up to Sergeant Patrick?”

“I’ll get’em to her right away. In fact, I’ll get her a full report on him.”

“Thanks, Jordan.”

“So how’s married life?” the New Orleans detective asked.

“Great most of the time,” Trent said. “But she makes me watch rom-coms with her.”

“What’s a rom-com?”

“You don’t want to know.” He laughed as Darcey slugged him on the shoulder.

Scott Douglas felt the dread flow through him when the phone rang. It was a blocked number. He knew who blocked it.

He never should have become involved with Rossi and his allies. It started with a few favors that weren’t exactly illegal but Scott knew were marginal. It didn’t take long before he was deeply involved in Rossi’s elaborate money laundering scheme. It became easier to look the other way as he facilitated many off the books transactions. He became a criminal.

Scott answered the call on the third ring. It wasn’t smart to keep Rossi waiting. He wasn’t a patient man.

“Yes, Mr. Rossi. How can I help you?”

Rossi said it was necessary to make a large transfer of cash. He wanted Scott to take care of it immediately. The funds were to be delivered to an organization called Al Dawla al-Islamyia fil Iraq wa’al Sham, which was headquartered in Iraq. Scott didn’t recall ever being ordered to transfer funds to this organization. Anything to do with the Middle Eastern group in the alliance went directly to offices of the Scourge.

Something about this transaction didn’t seem right. As he listened to Rossi’s instructions, he opened his laptop and googled the organization. He felt a chill go through him when he read that the acronym for this organization was Daish. This was ISIS. The Islamic State of Iraq and Sham. Sham being the Arabic name for Syria.

Scott knew what he had become. He had not refused his own share of the profits for what he had done. He could live with stepping over the line in financial transactions. He would not become a traitor to his country. He told Rossi he wouldn’t do it.

There was silence. Long seconds passed. Finally, Rossi spoke.

“You are refusing to do as I ask? Do I understand you correctly?”

“Yes, Mr. Rossi.”

“Do you understand what this means?”

“Do what you have to do, Mr. Rossi. I am many things. I’m not proud of what I have become. But I will not betray my country and that’s what you’re asking me to do.”

“I see. The consequences will be serious.”

That was the last thing Scott heard before the line went dead. He could only assume he would also soon be dead.

Rossi was thinking differently. He needed Douglas. It wouldn’t do to lose him now. He had become integral to Rossi’s organization. He had to think of a way to keep Douglas alive, even healthy, yet convince him to follow orders.

Trent and Christopher decided it was no longer necessary to avoid letting their adversaries see them together. They were savvy enough to know they weren’t hiding anything from the bad guys. Having decided that, they determined to enjoy a pleasant evening together.

The four of them were sitting on the terrace of the Nob Hill condo enjoying an excellent Prosecco, the Italian equivalent of Champagne. Trent had briefed them on what Jordan reported and the likelihood that Steve Burgess was the man Nancy was looking for. He told her Jordan was sending her Burgess’ prints and anything else he thought might be helpful.

They had dined on ribeyes that Trent and Christopher grilled accompanied by a delicious sweet and spicy dish of sautéed beets, fennel and radishes that Darcey had prepared. Nancy was a novice cook but anxious to learn. Darcey thought they would become friends.

They sipped the Prosecco and looked out over the city. So beautiful. From where they sat it seemed so peaceful.

All four of them knew the peace was deceiving.