Private L.A. (Private 6)
Nice guys. Harmless, actually.
But N.P. felt not a lick of pity for them.
Two
“N.P.?” SANDY SAID, wiping his eyes. “Whazzat stand for, anyway? N.P.?”
“No Prisoners,” N.P. said, hands back in the hoodie’s pouch again.
“No Prisoners?” Grinder snorted. “That some kind of M.C. rap star tag? You famous or what behind them glasses?”
N.P. smiled again. “It’s my war name. Sorry, dogs and bros, but a few people have to take it the hard way for people to start listening to us.”
He drew two suppressed Glock 9mms from the pouch of his hoodie.
Wilson saw them first. Soldier instinct took over. The Iraq vet rolled, scrambled, tried to get out of Dodge.
N.P. had figured Wilson would be the one. So he shot him first, at ten yards, a double whack to the base of the head where it met the spine. The vet buckled to the san
d, quivered in his own blood.
“What the …?” Sandy screamed before the next round caught him in the throat, flattening him.
“Frick, bro,” Grinder moaned as N.P. turned the guns on him. The surfer’s hands turned to prayer. “Don’t blaze me, bro.”
The killer’s expression revealed nothing as he pulled the trigger of each gun once, punching holes in Grinder’s chest.
“You mother-loving son of a …!”
Hunter lunged to tackle him. N.P. stepped off the line of his attack, shot him in the left temple from less than eight inches away. Hunter crashed into the fire, began to burn.
The killer glanced up at the closest homes. Still dark. He pocketed the guns. The wind blew northwest, hard off the Pacific, swirled the beach sand, stung his cheeks as he dragged the other three corpses to the fire and threw them in, facedown. The smell was like when you singe hair, only much, much worse. But that would do it, a nice touch, increase the panic.
N.P. got a plastic sandwich bag from his pocket. He crouched, opened it, and shook out what looked like a business card. It landed facedown in the sand. He kicked it under Sandy’s leg, picked up six empty 9mm shells, and pocketed them. His beer bottle he took to the ocean, wiped it down, and hurled it out into the water.
Satisfied, he snapped the underside of his Lakers cap, waded into the surf up to his knees. He walked parallel to the beach, toward Pacific Coast Highway, head down into the wind, the salt spray, and the gathering storm.
PART ONE
A VANISHING ACT
Chapter 1
SHORTLY AFTER MIDNIGHT, as the first real storm of the season intensified outside, the lovely Guin Scott-Evans and I were sitting on the couch at my place, watching a gas fire, drinking a first-class bottle of Cabernet, and good-naturedly bantering over our nominees for sexiest movie scene ever.
For the record, Guin brought the subject up.
“The Postman Always Rings Twice,” she announced. “Remake.”
“Of all the movies ever made?” I asked.
“Certainly,” she said, all seriousness. “Hands down.”
“Care to defend your nomination?”
She crossed her arms, nodded, smiled. “With great pleasure, Mr. Morgan.”
I liked Guin. The last time I’d seen her, back in January, the actress had been in trouble, and I had served as her escort and guard at the Golden Globes the night she won Best Performance by an Actress in a Supporting Role. Despite the danger she was in, or perhaps because of it, a nice chemistry had developed between us. But at the time, relationships were not clear-cut in her life or mine, and nothing beyond mutual admiration had developed.