The Arrangement. Suzanne Forster

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СКАЧАТЬ was dead, too, but Tony wrote it off to the cost of doing business. This was a private range, and the owner knew Tony was good for the repairs, but probably wouldn’t charge him. The law enforcement gig still got him a few perks. Maybe he’d donate the Glock to Goodwill. He didn’t give second chances to guns—or women—who screwed him over.

      He holstered his pistol and grabbed a towel to mop his brow. He’d stopped using Quantico’s firing ranges. The Bureau took a dim view of their agents killing the equipment, and they’d started docking his pay. Anyone else probably would have been disciplined, but Tony was this year’s top gun. Even outside law enforcement circles, he was known as the agent who’d tracked down Robert Starr, a cunning and deadly Uni-bomber copycat. He’d also been key in averting another Waco-like tragedy in a religious cult in Oregon.

      Yeah, the Bureau loved Tony Bogart these days, so much so that they’d just put him on six weeks’administrative leave and strongly suggested he take anger management classes. And all because he’d been working his ass off trying to convince them to admit him to the training program for the Bureau’s elite crisis response team.

      CIRG, the Critical Incident Response Group, was roughly the equivalent of the army’s Special Forces. Tony had the physical skills, but lacked the temperament, according to the psychologist who’d evaluated him. She’d diagnosed him with intermittent explosive disorder. And why? Just because he’d taken offense at some of her snide and insinuating questions and called her a free-associating bitch? She’d accused him of having a flagrant disregard for the rules. Ha. When was the last time she’d danced to the tune of a submachine gun’s bullets? The rules were great until they got you killed.

      In his whole life, Tony had only wanted a couple things really badly—and he’d been denied both times. CIRG was one. A woman from his past was the other. He’d grabbed for the gold ring twice, and it had been snatched away both times. But sometimes fate threw you a bone, even years later, and it looked like he might have another chance at the woman.

      He grabbed his bag of gear and stuffed the towel inside.

      She would never know what hit her.

      After ten years of “stellar service,” according to his performance reviews, Tony was taking an enforced leave of absence. The only good news was that it coincided with an opportunity that was deeply personal. For the last two weeks, he’d been receiving anonymous messages on his cell phone, informing him that he had the wrong suspect in the unsolved murder of his younger brother.

      Butch had died a grotesque death six months ago of multiple wounds from a pitchfork, and Tony had vowed to bring the monster who killed him to justice. In his last voice mail, the snitch had been kind enough to reveal some vital information about the crime, and Tony had finally decided it wasn’t a hoax.

      Tony banged out the door of the firing range and into the muggy Virginia heat. Tonight, he was on his way back to Mirage Bay to catch a cold-blooded murderer. He just had time to drop by his apartment, take a quick shower, grab his already packed bags and catch his flight to LAX.

      He was looking forward to this trip, and not just because it was a chance to avenge his little brother. Butch had always been a nasty piece of work, a big tough kid who enjoyed pushing his weight around, and Tony wasn’t surprised that he’d had enemies. Butch had deserved a good pounding, maybe more than one, but he hadn’t deserved to die.

      Tony had that other score to settle in Mirage Bay, and thanks to his voice-mail snitch, he might be able to get two birds with one bullet. He liked complicated cases and dealing with clever psychopaths. In this case, he might just have both.

      He certainly had no other reason to revisit the town where he’d grown up. He had no family there now. He and Butch had lost their mother in a freak accident that may have been suicide. She’d driven her car up a freeway exit and into oncoming traffic with her two young sons in the back seat. Nobody could explain why she’d done it, although postpartum depression was suggested. She’d been killed instantly. Tony and Butch had been protected by seat belts. They hadn’t suffered a scratch. The scars were all internal.

      Their father had raised them, though not well. He’d tried to exert control over both his sons, but in different ways. He’d used brute force on Tony, who’d been openly defiant. Butch, he’d spoiled with bribes and overindulgence. After Butch’s murder he’d moved away, probably because the memories were too painful. Tony had already left years before to become a G-man, only to be rejected for not having a college degree. He’d stayed in Virginia, found himself a night job, attended school during the day, doubled up on his coursework and reapplied two years later, degree in hand. After the Bureau’s traditional thirteen weeks of training, he’d been on his way to amassing one of the most impressive records of any rookie agent in years.

      His fervor to be a Fed had shocked everyone who knew him. He’d shocked himself most. He didn’t like kids or dogs. He was admittedly antisocial. And in school he’d been voted most likely to end up in San Quentin. None of that had changed, but he had excelled at catching criminals and deviants, the more deviant the better. Maybe because he knew how they thought.

      The collar of his cotton shirt was damp with sweat by the time he got to his car. He was looking forward to California’s dry heat. He wondered what the odds were that anyone or anything in the sunshine state was looking forward to his visit.

      Bad. Really bad.

      A smile compressed his lips again. This was going to be a good trip.

      3

      Alison paced her bedroom, the cell phone pressed to her ear as she listened to the incessant drone at the other end of the line. No one was answering. She’d been trying at various times of the day and night for the last two weeks, but no one had picked up, and that worried her terribly. She didn’t know what she would do if something had happened to the one person in Mirage Bay she actually cared about.

      She couldn’t tell whether the phone was out of service, accidentally unplugged or no one was home, but she couldn’t wait any longer for the answer. None of Andrew’s arguments had been as powerful as this one, unanswered phone call.

      For her, Mirage Bay was hell on earth, a watery graveyard where all her ghosts’ demons lay in wait. But like dream monsters, ghosts and demons had to be confronted or they would give you no peace. When you ran from them, they howled at your heels for eternity.

      Like about ninety percent of the men in America under thirty with computers and Internet connections, Bret Fairmont had a special affinity for cyber porn. He preferred the video streaming sites, but unlike most other aficionados, he made no attempt to hide his dirty little habit. He liked to leave it on the screen for the whole world to see, and his mother in particular.

      He had fantasies of her going as white as the diet pills she popped, and nearly choking on her own revulsion. Not that it was ever going to happen. She was a beady-eyed barracuda beneath the facade of perfect manners and designer clothing. But just once he wanted to see his mother fall to pieces. He could hardly imagine anything better.

      Sad, Bret, sad. How old are you now? Twenty-five going on two?

      He yawned and stretched, deeply encased in the belly of the backyard hammock. As he gazed up at the boughs of the giant sycamore overhead, boredom burned through him. Lethargy had its own special kind of ache. He’d been lying around all morning in a T-shirt and swim trunks, sipping iced lattes, and he had no plans to do anything else.

      He knew how she hated sloth.

      And speaking of Julia Fairmont, where was the prize СКАЧАТЬ