For starters, he and Danica had been dumped into a kind of custody limbo—free to go, but strongly encouraged to stay in FBI hands. Early on, there were practical reasons for that—security reasons. While everyone agreed that Ellis Pierce was indeed the arms dealer Whiskey Four, his death did not immediately remove the threat posed by his organization. For close to a month, Dryden and Danica lived in an FBI safe house in the San Fernando Valley, half the time playing board games with their protective detail, the other half answering questions for random investigators who dropped by.

It was mid-October before the Bureau felt confident the danger had passed. Whiskey’s network of associates had been nullified, as one agent phrased it. Dryden liked the word. It was a neat way of saying hung upside-down in the bilge compartment of a ship and used for a punching bag until you started talking. Whatever the case, those people were out of the picture for good.

The FBI had let him and Danica go home then, but only after a long, unpleasant talk about discretion, and how it wouldn’t be helpful if any of this got out into the public sphere. None of it had made the news so far—not even the attack on the FBI personnel in Ashland. The Bureau seemed eager to keep it that way.

I’m sure you can appreciate our stance on this, an agent had said. I mean, you’ve got the same incentives we do. Who wants the hassle of dealing with reporters, right?

I don’t know, Dryden said. It’s kind of a shame not to tell this story. Think of the endorsement deal I could get from Glock.

The agent stared at him, unsure whether that was a joke.

If you really want to shut us up, Dryden said, there’s a drug cocktail they used to make. I’m told it’s safe—they’ve even used it on kids.

That’s not funny, Mr. Dryden.

I’m not laughing.

The agent frowned and said, You seem to be bargaining for something.

I seem to be.

Okay, are we talking about money? Because we don’t really—

No, we’re not talking about money.

What, then?

At which point he and Danica had told him what they wanted. The agent leaned back and rubbed his eyes and said, That’s going to take time.

Take all you need. Just get it done.

Outside the villa, the night wind off the ocean picked up. Dryden listened to it coursing over the barrel tiles on the roof. He stood in the master bedroom, which overlooked the motorcourt from the second floor. The room was dark and the French doors to the balcony stood open. He stepped out onto it, crossed to the rail, and wrapped his arms around Danica’s waist.