Chapters (46)
- COVER PAGE
- PRAISE
- DEDICATION
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- SNEAK PEEK: EXIT .45
Vincent walked out and went back downstairs to his ground-floor apartment. He’d left the stereo on, playing music via his phone and as he came in Urge Overkill sang, ‘Girl, you’ll be a woman soon …’
He turned on the TV and channel surfed. Sport, sport, more sport, news and then:
Huh, how about that? Lamar’s daughter, Erin Jones, on CNN.
It was a short, no-sound clip. Shots of Erin talking, intercut with that burning library in Claremont. The banner at the bottom said, ERIN JONES: INVADING IRAN NOW AN OPTION. He watched her for a moment with the sound off. She was promoting some book she’d written: Moral War: Failed States, Foreign Interventions—and something else. They flashed the cover too fast for him to read the whole subtitle.
He found his phone but couldn’t get a signal. The property’s highpoint was at the road. He went out past the pool and followed a path up beside the house to the driveway. The gate was sliding open as he got there. Headlight dazzle, and then Erin Jones’s black Range Rover nosed in off the street. Tanner was at the wheel, and Erin was up front beside him, looking studio-fresh: blonde hair sleek and combed just so, lipstick sharp and bright. She smiled at Vincent as the car passed, one hand raised in a sort of royal wave, fingers moving in sequence, and he realised this was the first time he’d seen a TV face come to life a moment later.
He stepped out through the gate as it was closing and stood looking at the street as he dialled Bluesmoke—Beauden Ash’s private line. Beauden didn’t answer. The voicemail came on with a beep, and Vincent said, ‘Let’s do some more background on these guys. Something’s off.’
FOUR
FOUR
Andre bought his guns from a guy named Lynch Buller.
Lynch was recently divorced and obviously lonely, because the deal was they had to sit down for a meal if Andre wanted to buy anything. That had been the arrangement a few times now. They’d meet at a diner somewhere, order food—Lynch always had a cheeseburger, rare—and Andre would sit there for thirty minutes saying ‘uh-huh’ while Lynch talked at him with his mouth full: mortgage payments and the PSA count on his blood test, that kind of thing. Then Lynch would pay, and finally Andre would get to see some product.