A FEW MINUTES BEFORE AUSTIN CALLED THE TROUTS, HE had driven past the Corvette parked near the Eden Center clock tower and thought that Zavala must have had a good reason to leave his pride and joy unattended. He drove onto Wilson Boulevard and joined the traffic that moved at an agonizing crawl. Eventually, the suburban malls and neighborhoods petered out, and he was moving through an industrial-commercial area.

The GPS unit indicated that he was about a block from his goal. Reasoning that a turquoise Cherokee might attract unwanted attention, Austin parked it in an alley between two buildings. He made his way on foot to the front gate of the Good Luck Fortune Cookie Company. The parking lot was empty, and the only light came from above the door to the office.

The gate was locked. Austin walked the perimeter of the chain-link fence to the rear gate. He pushed the gate open and made his way to a rear loading dock lit by a single bulb. He kept to the shadows as much as possible.

He wondered if he had the right address. Those doubts vanished when a figure stepped out from behind a Dumpster and blinded Austin with a powerful flashlight.

A deep voice said, “Hold it right there, soldier. Put your hands in the air.”

Austin stopped in his tracks and did as he was told. He sensed rather than saw someone creeping up behind him and felt his pistol slip from its holster.

“That’s better,” said the voice. “Turn around . . . real slow. I’m giving you friendly warning. These guys call themselves Ghost Devils, and they mean it. I wouldn’t screw with them.”

At least a half dozen other figures had materialized from the shadows.

“Are you a ghost or a devil?” Austin asked.

The man stepped closer.

“Just a guy doing his job. The name is Phelps.” He turned the flashlight beam up to show his face, the angle turning his droopy smile into a Halloween mask. “This place is loaded with cameras. A moth couldn’t get close without being picked up. We’ve been watching you ever since you showed up at the front door. Thanks for making my work so easy.”

“My pleasure. But how do you know I didn’t let myself get caught on purpose?”

“I don’t, which is why we’re being real careful handling you.”

“Where’s Joe?” Austin asked.

Phelps pointed his flashlight at the loading-dock door.

“That way,” he said.

The door slid up. Phelps led the way up the stairs to the dock and herded Austin through the door into the dark warehouse. Phelps hit a switch, and the interior was flooded with light. The big space was empty except for a pile of smashed cardboard cartons against one wall and two chairs side by side facing a screen.

“Fortune cookie business must not be very good,” Austin said.