Thirty

They parked across the street from the address Sabrina’d rattled off to Ben and watched the parade of navy-clad unis streaming in and out of the brick building that housed Robert Elm’s offices.

They’d made plans on the drive over—what to do about Lark, how best to handle Sabrina. Neither one of them wanted her involved, but they were past that now.

She appeared across the street, marching a trussed-up Lark out the door, her SIG stowed snuggly in his ear. Strickland was a few steps behind.

“You’re up. I’ll take the boy; you go get our little runaway,” Ben said. “Meet me back at the house.”

Michael exited the car without saying a word and crossed the street, walking toward her. When Lark saw him, he smiled but stayed quiet. Sabrina had him double cuffed, two pairs strung together to accommodate his massive frame, as well as a pair of waist chains. A third set of cuffs locked his wrists to the chains wrapped around his middle. There was an enormous lump just above his left temple, oozing blood. She used the gun in his ear to push him forward.

“Your prisoner, Agent Payne,” she said for the benefit of anyone who might be watching the exchange.

He opened the rear door of her unmarked and shoved Lark into the back of it. “I’d appreciate help transferring him back to my field office, Inspector,” he said, securing Lark’s seat belt and locking it in place before sliding into the passenger seat.

She stood on the sidewalk, looking at him for a moment before turning toward her partner. She spoke in low tones he couldn’t make out, but whatever she said pissed Strickland off.

“This is bullshit.” Strickland leaned down and pushed his face through the open car window, within inches of his, looking directly at him. “You could probably kill me with a fuckin’ toothpick—I know that. But if you think for one goddamn second that I’m gonna let—”

Sabrina hauled him back. “Shut up. Shut your mouth right now, Strickland.” She looked around to ensure that no one was listening. “I have to do this. Do you understand what I’m saying? I don’t have a choice. I’m in this—”

“Then so am I.” Strickland said it like it was the simplest thing in the world … and for him it probably was. He had no idea what he was buying into; but Sabrina did. Michael could see fear for her partner written plainly on her face.

“Sorry, partner. Like you said, it’s a bit above your pay grade,” she said before rounding the front of the car and yanking the door open. She slid behind the wheel and started the engine.

“How’d you get him cuffed?”

She shrugged. “He cuffed himself. And then I knocked him out with a fifty-pound paperweight off Elm’s desk.”

“Pussy move,” Lark said from the back seat, the laughter in his voice barely suppressed. “What’s the matter, Lady Cop? Does the big black man scare you?”

Sabrina said nothing. Instead she slammed on the brakes, sending Lark’s enormous body flying forward, choking him against the shoulder strap of his seat belt.

She accelerated again, relieving the pressure the belt put on Lark’s throat. A thin ribbon of blood welled against his mocha-colored skin, but he just chuckled. “How ’bout you pull over, sweetheart, and cut me loose. These cuffs are starting to chafe.”

“How about you shut up,” Sabrina said.

Michael looked out the window, waiting for the landscape to change from busy downtown to desolate waterfront before speaking. “Pull over.”

“What?” She shot him a look. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. Pull over. Now.” He turned in his seat and glared at the man in the back seat. He waited for Sabrina to kill the engine before he spoke again. “Did you kill Elm?”

Lark sighed. “No. Like I told your girlfriend, I found him and the rest of them like that about thirty seconds before her numb-nuts partner told me to reach for the sky.”

“Then who?” The possibilities were endless. Reyes. Shaw. Whoever managed to gain control of Cordova’s interests.

“Hell if I know. I forgot to pack my crystal ball,” Lark shot back, but he was lying. Michael could feel it.

“How did you know about him?” he said.

“Elm?” Lark shrugged. “You and the little prince got me holed up drinking tea and eating fucking crumpets with Old Mother Hubbard. I got bored,” he said.

“Yes. But that doesn’t tell me how you knew about him, does it?” He smiled. “Where did you get your information, asshole?”

“I got a computer. Information comes to me.” Lark smiled back for a moment before shifting his gaze toward Sabrina. “Like how those kids you pretend are yours started UC San Diego in August. The boy—what’s his name, Jason? He’s got a full ride baseball scholarship, and the girl lives off campus with a few girlfriends.” He flashed her his dimples. “She’s pretty.”

Sabrina sat frozen in her seat for a few seconds, galvanized by the words he threw at her. Suddenly she dove at him, and Michael let her. She rammed her fist into Lark’s face once, twice, three times—his head snapped back on his thick neck with each jab. She cocked back for a fourth, but Michael stopped her.

“Enough.” He caught her fist and held it. Rage stained her cheeks a deep ugly red and she jerked her hand back, glaring at him. He dropped his hand to reach into his breast pocket, pulling out a small metal box. Opening it, he removed one of three stainless-steel pellets, the size and shape of a pencil eraser. “Can you hold your gun on him without shooting him?”

“Probably not.” She lifted her SIG off her hip and pointed it at Lark’s face. “But what the hell—let’s find out.”

Lark grinned through the blood that trickled from his nose. “Pull it, sweetheart. I dare you.”

Michael showed him what he held in his hand. “Hey, asshole, you might want to focus. Things are about to get real interesting for you.”

Lark’s shit-eating grin disintegrated the second his gaze touched what he held in his hand. “You don’t have authorization for that,” he said.

“No, but my partner does.” He rolled the object between his thumb and index finger. “A gift from him … and I’m giving it to you. Open your mouth.”

Lark stared at him, shook his head in disbelief. “After everything I’ve done for you, you’d do this to me?”

“Looks like. Sabrina?” he said and was rewarded by the sound of her racking a bullet into the chamber of her SIG. “Open. Your. Mouth.”

Lark hesitated, but one look at Sabrina had him following orders. Michael tossed the metal pellet into Lark’s mouth, toward the back of his throat. Lunging forward, he reached across the seat to slap his hand across Lark’s face, covering his mouth and nose, while using the other to anchor his head in place.

“Swallow it.”

Lark thrashed against the back seat, trying to jerk his face out of his grasp, but it was no use. It was a thirty-second ride at best before Lark gave up trying to shake him loose. Instead he sat quietly, glaring at him in stubborn defiance. Nearly four minutes passed before he felt Lark’s throat begin to work in an involuntary response to the lack of oxygen. He’d always been able to hold his breath. But he couldn’t hold it forever.

Finally he swallowed the pellet, the hard knot of it moving down his throat. Michael unlocked his hands from around Lark’s face and sat back in his seat. “Show me.”

Defeated, Lark opened his mouth and lifted his tongue. His mouth was empty. “Congratulations, motherfucker. It’s done. Satisfied?”

“Not by a long shot.” He turned in his seat and stared out the window. “You can put the gun down now and drive.”

Sabrina dropped the gun onto the seat before starting the car. She let it idle for a moment and just watched him until he could practically feel the heat of her stare burn the side of his face. Finally she spoke. “What did you just do?”

Laughter, nasty and cold, welled up in his throat, and he let it out in one harsh bark. “What I always do: what needed to be done.”