“Paranoia is what’s going to keep us alive, Sebastian.”

“Look. You’re the one who’s been all Team Anton since the beginning—and everything keeps pointing to he’s still on our side of the fence. As for Faye Simpson—and I’m using your words here—she hasn’t done a single thing to indicate she’s working for anyone but us.”

Frank said nothing. What can he say? Sebastian thought. He knows I’m right.

“Besides,” Sebastian said, “Faye doesn’t have access to our blood clients, and she has no idea where our donors are housed. In other words, she doesn’t know anything valuable.”

“She knows the building belongs to us.”

“Which is all the more reason why we’re to keep the guys we have at the Celebrity Center. That’s our prime asset. You want to go play spy, you’ll have to do it alone.”

“I’ll come by and pick you up. It’ll do both of us good to get out.”

“I have to go see Maya.”

Frank didn’t ask what it was about; he knew.

Sebastian hung up, thinking about the explosion. Again. It was always there, what had happened, a thorn stuck in the brain.

Early on, he and Frank had considered the possibility of Paul trying to take them out with a mail bomb delivered to the home or office. Such bombs were easy to make, provided you knew what you were doing, and it stood to reason that Paul and Guidry did, given their military training. Sebastian had taken the necessary steps, diverting all of his mail to a post office box, where one of Ron’s men picked it up and brought it to a place where the mail was x-rayed. They had never once considered the possibility of Paul leading them into a trap, one involving an IED.

These past few months, he’d assumed—arrogantly, as it turned out—that Paul was simply a boy, and not a bright one at that. Sebastian had underestimated him. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

* * *

The Celebrity Center’s official, public name was the Los Angeles Health and Wellness Center. The building sat tucked back from the main street, another boring, vanilla structure of light gray concrete. It had ten floors, with nice views of the city and the ocean, but its main attraction was the private parking garage, with its private elevator access. Celebrities and other high-profile clients looking for a nip/tuck or to treat dermatological issues could come here and not risk being spotted by the paparazzi or anyone else; they were guaranteed privacy.

The same would be true for blood clients. They would be driven here and brought up separately, to the tenth floor, where they would wake up in private, hidden treatment rooms to receive their Pandora transfusions.

The master key he carried was the size of a credit card and fit neatly in his front suit pocket. It also acted as a garage door opener. As Sebastian approached the private, locked garage, the door opened automatically and, after he entered, slid closed. The only car he saw was Maya’s Jeep Grand Cherokee.