That’s when he made the decision.

Donnie realized this life wasn’t going to work anymore. He had two ways to go. One was to go into his father’s dresser and get the little gun and put a bullet in the man’s head while he slept. And as good as that would feel—so good—it meant his brother and his mother’s life’d be fucked forever because Dad didn’t treat them quite as bad as Donnie got treated, and he may’ve been a prick but at least he paid the rent and put food on the table.

So, it was number two.

He’d take his father’s gun, go back to the Jew’s house, with his crew. After they got the bikes—evidence—he’d have the others keep an eye out for cops and he’d go inside, tie the asshole up, and get every penny the prick had in the house, watches, the wife’s jewelry. He had to be rich. Donnie’s dad said all Jews were.

He could get thousands, he was sure. Tens of thousands.

With the money, he’d leave. Head to San Francisco or L.A. Maybe Hollister, where they made all the clothes. He’d get something on, and not selling ice or grass. Something real. He could sell the D.A.R.E.S. game to somebody in Silicon Valley. It wasn’t that far away; maybe Tiff would visit.

Life would be good. At last. Life would be good. Donnie could almost taste it.

Chapter 87

Charles Overby, a man who loved the sun, who just felt good with a ruddy complexion, now walked toward the Guzman Connection task force room, deer level in CBI headquarters, and wasn’t pleased at what he saw.

It was late afternoon and the shade outside turned the glass to a dim mirror. He looked vampiric, which, if it wasn’t a word, should be. Too stressed, too busy, too much shit. From Sacramento all the way to Mexico with their smarmy, lawbreaking ally Commissioner Santos.

He stepped inside the room. Foster and Lu, Steve and Steve Two, were at one table, both on phones. DEA agent Carol Allerton sat at another, engrossed in her laptop. She seemed to prefer to play alone, Overby had noted. She didn’t even notice him, so lost was she in the e-mails scrolling past on her Samsung.

“Greetings, all.”

Allerton glanced at him. “Getting reports on that truck left Compton a day ago, the warehouse near the Four-oh-five. The Nazim Brothers. May have twenty ki’s. Meth.” This truck, Allerton explained, had been spotted on Highway 1.

Lu asked, “A semi? There? Jesus.”

The highway, between Santa Barbara and Half Moon, could be tricky to drive, even in a sports car. Narrow and winding.

“That’s right. I want to follow it. No reason for ’em to be taking that route, unless they’re going someplace connected with Pipeline.” Allerton then turned to Lu. “You free?”

Lu nodded. “Sure. Could use a hit of field.” The slim man rose and stretched.

Foster was lost in his phone conversation. “Really?” Impatient, sarcastic, moving his hand in a circle. Get to the point. “Let me be transparent. That’s not going to work.” Foster hung up. A gesture to the phone. “CIs. Jesus. There’s gotta be a union.” He turned to Allerton and Lu. The man’s mustache drooped asymmetrically. “Where’re you going?”