The Final Twist, Jeffery Deaver [philippa perry book TXT] 📗

what harm could there be in selling a bit? A little double-dipping never hurt anyone. As White Shirt bent and lifted the wallet and started to go through it, Red Shirt offered the packet toward Shaw.

He said, “I’ll call you back.” And slipped the phone away.

Shaw gave an intrigued smile as he stared at the drugs. He approached to within six feet and stopped. BNG crew were often skilled at the devastating forms of martial arts known as Suntukan and Sikaran, punching and kicking. The Philippines were also home to several grappling styles of combat.

The banger could be thinking to lure Shaw close and mug him. After all, why sell your product when you can make off with both the cash and the drugs?

“What is it?” Shaw asked.

“Oxy.”

“How much?” He squinted at the bag.

“Twenty.”

“How many pills? I can’t see.”

The BNG held the packet higher.

Which is when Russell stepped into the mouth of the alley and came up behind White Shirt and Tased him in the kidney. He groaned, shivered and dropped.

Red Shirt spun and reached for his weapon, which Shaw, lunging forward, snagged with his left hand, while seating the muzzle of his Glock against the man’s ear.

“Mapanganib ito . . . Dangerous what you do!”

Shaw pulled Red Shirt’s silver revolver from his hand. His confrere had a Glock and a switchblade knife, both of which Russell pocketed. They took the men’s phones too.

Rising unsteadily and wincing against the pain in his back, White Shirt said in a thick accent, “You fucker, you die. You aren’t know.”

Russell picked up his wallet—emptied of ID and containing only cash—and slipped it back into his hip pocket. While Shaw covered both men, his brother plucked the barbs from White Shirt’s skin. Then he collected the man’s shoulder bag. Shaw gripped the strap of Red Shirt’s tote but the man held on to it hard and turned, looking up at Shaw with furious eyes. “You stupid. This danger shit. It get you cut.”

Russell had reloaded the Taser and was aiming. The man slumped and Shaw pulled the bag away.

“Run,” Shaw whispered.

The man glared once more and, after White Shirt picked up his sunglasses—as enraged at the scratches on the lenses as at the theft of the drugs and money—they strode off, looking back. For the second time that day the brothers received a single-finger salute.

“They’ll be stealing burners in five minutes and calling it in. We’ve got to go.” Russell nodded up the alley. They walked to the SUV and climbed in. Russell pulled into traffic and the heavy vehicle sped out of the TL.

Hawker’s Pass . . .

A battle between a settlement and a group of claim jumpers in Northern California during the Silver Rush days. The settlers planted a half-buried strongbox on the back road into the camp, and when the outlaws found it and started to dig it up, one group of settlers came in from the north side of the road, the other from the south and easily took the distracted jumpers. Shaw remembered sitting beside his father and brother and watching Ashton draw a map of the battle, as he lectured the boys about tactics.

Never attack an enemy directly when you can distract and flank . . .

So, no, Russell had not intended to leave. He had made stopping the BNGs his fight, as well as Shaw’s, and had come up with a good strategy to do it with no bloodshed.

They left the TL and Russell drove back to the waterfront at Hunters Point, where they pitched the drugs and the BNGs’ guns and phones and the knife into the Bay.

They returned to the safe house on Alvarez. Russell ran the plate of the van—it was not obscured, like the Caddy’s and the Rolls’s—and the information came back that it was registered to a corporation that was undoubtedly owned by an offshore entity. Russell sent the picture he’d taken of Mr. Rolls to someone—presumably Karin. Soon he received a text in return.

“Too far away for facial recognition.”

“Burlingame now. Nadler’s house.” The town was south of San Francisco, a working-class and commuter community, the home of San Francisco airport. Shaw had seen a picture of the house, which Mack had sent. It was a tidy one-story dwelling, painted yellow and set amid a small but well-tended garden.

Shaw was calling up the address when his phone dinged with an incoming email.

It was from Mack McKenzie. He read the message.

He said, “We have to make a stop on the way.”

31

Ghirardelli Square—part of the tourist magnet Fisherman’s Wharf—wasn’t busy on this cloudy day. Rain threatened.

Shaw and Russell were in the SUV, parked near the corner on which a man strummed a guitar. His case was open and people would occasionally toss coins or bills in. He was tall and lean and long blond hair flowed from beneath a cowboy hat with a tightly curled brim.

You could smell chocolate, exuding by chance or design from the Ghirardelli building. He explained to Russell how he’d come to take on the reward job to find Tessy Vasquez.

He then told him that his private investigator had, among her contractors, an audio analyst, to whom she’d sent Tessy’s message. The expert had filtered out the young woman’s voice and analyzed every sound on it.

The email Shaw had just received in the Tenderloin contained the results of that analysis. He called it up and the men read.

Music: Ambient music from outdoor café, recorded.

Music: Performers, including live guitar, drums, rap music and applause, possibly accompanying hip-hop dancers. Occasional breaks in vocal performances to say “Thanks” or “Thank you,” presumably in response to tips. Hence, street performers.

Sounds of children laughing and occasionally breathless: Playground.

Foghorns, decibel level suggesting distance of three to four miles. Echoing off tall structure nearby. Possibly Avnet Tower on California Street.

Ship horn 1: This matches the tone of the Marin Express, ferry with service from Pier 41 in the Embarcadero to Sausalito, approximately one mile away.

Ship horn 2: This matches the