Solitude Creek (Kathryn Dance 4)

"Who's that big boy out there?"

Dance said, "He's with us, the Bureau of Investigation."

He returned. "Hey, there, Officer... Or, no, it's agent. Have to remember that. Si, Agent Dance. I enjoyed our conversation in the room, that interrogation room there. Always like talking to a beautiful woman. Too bad no cervezas. You get more confessions you open a bar there. Patron, Herradura, a little rum. No, I know! Hire a puta. Give somebody head, they confess fast."

Dance said evenly, "You're in a bad situation here."

He smiled.

Foster said impatiently, "Look, Serrano, whatever you have in mind, nothing good's going to come from killing law."

"That's your opinion, whoever you are. Were you one of those watching me in the goldfish bowl the other day?"

"Yes."

"Fooled you pretty good, didn't I?" he gloated.

Dance said, "Yes, you did. But my colleague's right. It's not going to work out how you want."

The young man said evenly, "You said nothing good comes from killing law. Well, you know what? I'm thinking a lot of good'll come of it. You been on my ass since Wednesday. I been hiding here, hiding there. That's a pain I don't need. So I think a lot of good is going to come from having you both fucking dead. Okay. Enough."

Dance said, "You shoot us and you think the agent out there won't hear? If he doesn't nail your ass, he'll keep you pinned down until a TAC team..."

Fishing in his back pocket, Serrano pulled a silencer out and screwed it onto the muzzle of his weapon. "I like the way you say 'ass.'"

Dance glanced at Foster, whose expression remained placid.

"So. Here. I'm a religious man. You take a few seconds to make your peace. Pray. You have something you want to say? Somebody up there you want to say it to?"

Her voice ominous, Dance said defiantly, "You're not thinking, Joaquin. Our boss knows we're here, a dozen others. I could get a call any minute. I don't pick up and there'll be a dozen TAC officers here in ten minutes, combing the area. Lockdown on the roads. You'll never get away."

"Yeah, I think I take my chances."

"Work with me and I can keep you alive. You walk out that door and you're a dead man."

"Work with you?" He laughed. "You got nothing. What they say in football, I mean soccer? Nil. You've got nil to offer."

The gun was already racked. He lifted it toward Foster, who said, "Lamont."

The young man frowned. "What?"

"Lamont Howard."

A confused look. "What're you saying?"

"Don't act stupid." Foster shook his head.

"Fuck you saying to me, asshole?"

Foster seemed merely inconvenienced, not the least intimidated. Or scared. "I'm saying to you, asshole, the name Lamont Howard." When there was no response he continued, "You know Lamont, right?"

The Latino's eyes scanned their faces uncertainly. Then: "Lamont, the OG run the Four Seven Bloods in Oakland. What about him?"

Dance said, "Steve?"

Foster: "You been to his house in Village Bottoms?"

A blink.