Dangerous Ground 2: Old Poison (10 page)

“Ah.” Neutral.

“It's… Well, I had a slight mishap.”

“What's that mean?”

“I was in pursuit of a suspect, and I—” Will broke off to cough. He hadn't swallowed a lot of water, but enough that his lungs were still a bit foggy.

“And you
what
?”

“Fell in a swimming pool and knocked myself out.”

“You've got to be—Are you all right?” Taylor's voice was hard and terse.

Will reassured quickly. “I'm fine. But I don't think driving back tonight is a good idea.

Much as I want to.”

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63

The edge was noticeably sharper as Taylor questioned, “Where the fuck was Lt.

Commander Bradley during all this?”

“He was right there. He pulled me out of the pool.”

“If he'd been doing his job, you'd never have fallen
into
the pool.”

“Come on, MacAllister.”

“Don't 'come on, MacAllister' me, Brandt. He was supposed to be watching your back.”

“Nobody failed in their duty, nobody made any mistakes—except me slipping in the pool water.”

“It shouldn't have happened.”

This was touchy. The few times he'd tried to address this with Taylor, Taylor had shut him down fast. Will gentled his voice. “Shit happens, Tay. No one should know that better than you.”

Silence.

Taylor changed the subject. “You sure you're okay?”

“I'm okay. Swear to God.” Will added softly, “I'm disappointed too.”

Taylor let out a pent-up, irritable breath. “It's not that. Well, yeah, it is partly that, but…you could have been killed, Brandt, and here I am stuck babysitting East Africa's answer to Paris Hilton.”

“That bad?”

“Yes. And don't change the subject. Did you actually see a doctor, or did you just decide all on your own you didn't have a concussion?”

“Yes. I saw the base doctor. I just stunned myself for a few seconds. If I hadn't fallen into a swimming pool, it wouldn't have been worth mentioning.”

Taylor made a huffy sound that made Will's lips twitch into a grin he'd never dare have shown.

“On the bright side, we've wrapped our case up,” he offered.

“Yes?” Taylor sounded slightly mollified.

“Yep. I'm driving back first thing tomorrow morning, and we can spend tomorrow night together. Your place or mine, you can choose.” He planned on stopping off in Orange County 64

Josh Lanyon

and doing some more checking into the recent activities and general attitude of the Phu Fighters, but he wasn't going to mention that right now. Taylor was edgy enough.

“We've got one more day escorting Miss Congeniality around LA. Then they fly her off to San Francisco, and the gang on Pine Street get to amuse her for the next forty-eight hours.”

“So, tomorrow night. My house or yours?”

“Mine. I…want to show you something.”

“Oh yes?” Will said hopefully, suggestively.

There was a smile in Taylor's voice, but he sounded absent. “Will?”

“Right here.”

There was a pause. “When I was shot—”

Will's heart quickened; he wasn't even sure why. “Yeah?”

“It wasn't because of you…turning me down. It wasn't because my mind wasn't on the job.”

“No?”

“No. I know—at least, I think I do—that you thought you were somehow to blame for me getting nailed. It wasn't anything to do with you.” He heard Taylor sigh. “It was when I saw how young they were. Kids. And I hesitated. I hesitated a couple of seconds too long. That's all.”

Something inside Will relaxed, like the clutch of a child's hand on a balloon. The balloon went sailing free and happy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. So if you're, you know—you don't have to.”

“Huh?”

Taylor said carefully, painstakingly, “So, if you're
you know
—”

Will burst out laughing. He couldn't help it—not to save his life. “You are fucking insane, do you know that?”

“I beg your pardon?” Taylor said in outrage.

The formal words and indignant tone made it all the worse, and Will was already having a very hard time not roaring. He couldn't even explain why he felt so happy. “You think I'm with you out of guilt?”

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65

“No, you ass. Of course not. I just mean—”

“You're a nut, MacAllister. I'm with you because I love you.”

There it was, out. Three little words. Three of the most common words in the world, but string them together and they were more powerful than any warrant, any extradition papers, or even treaty. Stronger than any magical spell. Had he really never said them aloud to Taylor?

Something in the ringing silence that followed made him think he maybe hadn't.

It was a relief when Taylor said, at last, in that irritable voice that always signified nerves or great emotion, “That's fine. I just thought you should know.”

“I love you,” Will repeated firmly, having got the hang of it. “I'll see you tomorrow night, you lunatic.”

“Love you,” Taylor said tersely and hung up.

* * * *

If he was spending the night by himself, he'd have preferred to be between his own sheets.

Somehow it felt lonelier in Will's bed without Will. And it was hotter and smoggier here than in Ventura, and the street outside Will's place was noisier than his own neighborhood.

He left his .357 SIG on the nightstand within grabbing distance.

Even Riley seemed uneasy without Will, jumping up and growling at phantom shadows a couple of times during the long night.

“Easy, Riley,” Taylor muttered, and each time the dog curled up next to the bed, grumbling under his breath. He lay, head raised, panting softly in the gloom, ears twitching at every sound.

Taylor wasn't much better. He wasn't nervous, but every time he started to relax into sleep, he'd remember something and jerk back to full consciousness. At first the memories were good: Will saying he loved him. Not that he didn't already know this, but if Will was saying it out loud, saying it so casually, acceptingly, they had turned some corner.

The laughter, the affectionate exasperation in Will's voice was…well, the best birthday present he could have received.

But then the memories grew darker. Things he had forgotten, tried to forget, came back to him. His shooting. The subsequent trip to the High Sierras when Will had been taken hostage.

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Josh Lanyon

When he'd feared Will was dead. Other memories, older memories. Other friends, other losses and failures.

Japan.

A long time since he'd let himself think about Japan, let himself remember. No point to it.

Nothing productive was going to come out of raking over those memories. Better, healthier, to forget.

Not that there weren't good memories too. A lot of good memories. Even if he wasn't ready to face them yet.

It was the cobra in the bottle that had started him remembering. Old poison.

Weird.

There couldn't be a connection. It was nearly a decade ago.

But equally he had trouble believing that the Orange County Phu Fighters were still gunning for him. He couldn't even picture them coming after Will, let alone him.

And that note:
Old poison slays as swiftly as new
. Vietnamese gangbangers were not going to leave notes in Japanese kanji. If they wrote anything at all, which would be doubtful, it would be in their own Romanized national language—or English. But the fact was, they wouldn't leave notes; they wouldn't send cobras pickled in rice wine or try to set booby traps with Japanese fireworks. They'd shoot him when he walked out his door one morning.

By the same logic, he dismissed the idea of the punks in the Red Dragon parking lot. To start with, the cobra in the bottle had been sent before the altercation in the parking lot. And that little dustup couldn't have been staged, because no one but Will knew where they were headed that night. Secondly, Mexican gangstas were even less likely to leave notes in Japanese than Vietnamese gangs. Thirdly, this whole complicated threat scenario was out of character. Out of character for both the Latino and the Vietnamese gangs. Wine with cobras? Cryptic notes?

Bombs made out of fireworks? It was just too involved.

Convoluted.

Personal.

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Granted, he and Will pissed people off in the normal course of their duties, but Taylor just couldn't see the forgers and counterfeiters they typically went after lashing back with this kind of scenario.

It was sort of, well, theatrical. Like those Noh dramas Inori had dragged him to see.

Taylor was tempted to dismiss it as a joke, but there was no reason anyone would be joking about Japan to him. Ninety bucks for a giant firecracker and another ninety bucks for a bottle of imported rice-and-cobra wine was a fairly expensive joke.

No, there was something not right.

Nothing he couldn't handle, but maybe he did need to talk to Will about Japan. He didn't want to. He could think of few conversations he wanted to have less. But Will had brought it up, and he deserved to hear the truth.

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Josh Lanyon

Chapter Eight

Taylor woke early—very early—and was momentarily confused to find himself in Will's bed—minus Will.

He dealt briskly with missing Will. A hot shower and hotter coffee helped chase away the remaining fog. He fed Riley, put the dog out in the backyard, to Riley's evident disappointment.

He borrowed a pair of Will's briefs—every single pair pristine and conservative white—

and one of his clean shirts and dressed listening to the suburban birds in Will's well-kept backyard. He was still well ahead of schedule when he went out to try his car and found it dead.

It had been fine the day before, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. The Acura MDX

wasn't new. It wasn't the battery, though, because he'd replaced that the previous month, and the lights and CD player were operating just fine.

Taylor thought it over, went inside, and phoned Varga.

“My car won't start. You mind picking me up this morning?”

She did not sound pleased. “In
Ventura
?”

“I'm not in Ventura. I'm in Woodland Hills.”

“What are you doing in Woodland Hills?”

“We could talk about this on the way,” he pointed out.

She sighed. “All right. What's the address?”

He gave her the address, and she rang off.

Shortly before eight o'clock, Varga rang his cell to say her ETA was two minutes out—

clearly expecting him to be on the sidewalk waiting.

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Taylor rinsed his coffee cup, set it in the sink, locked Will's front door, and walked out to meet her, surprised to see a battered brown Chevy in the driveway, blocking his own disabled Acura.

Brown Chevy…

He registered this, registered that Riley was snarling and throwing himself at the chain-link gate, and instinctively Taylor's hand went to his shoulder holster, even as he opened his mouth to calm the dog. A woman was getting out of the driver's side. He didn't recognize her, but he recognized the nightmare expression on her face—so white she looked like she was painted for Kabuki theater: black holes for eyes, a slash of mouth, and ghost white skin. She had a gun in her hand, and it was pointed at him.

Too slow this time, MacAllister
. His main regret was Will; that this was happening on Will's home turf. Will was going to think he should have been here, should have stopped it.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

At the same instant, someone walked up behind him, someone who must have been waiting along the side of the house. Taylor felt the prod of something hard and cylindrical beneath his ribs. His hand froze, fingertips brushing the butt of his pistol.

“Drop it.”

“You've got to be kidding me,” Taylor said. “Do you know I'm a federal officer?”

“We know who you are.”

Okay. If he wasn't already dead, the odds in his favor were improving. He gingerly drew his weapon and dropped it to the grass.

“Walk,” a man's voice ordered. A toneless, empty voice. Accented? Seeing that there was a chance he might survive this, Taylor started taking mental notes.

The woman was scrambling to throw open the trunk of the Chevy. Brown hair, Caucasian, five-six or -seven, medium build, mid to late forties. He didn't know her. Did he? “Hurry!” she urged. “For God's sake, hurry up!”

A motor gunned from down the street. Varga's blue sedan roared up behind the Chevy, blocking it in. She must have seen what was happening, because she jumped out, drawing her weapon on the man who held Taylor.

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“Halt. Fed—”

Before she could finish identifying herself, the woman by the rear bumper of the car opened fire. The bullets hit Varga squarely in her chest, the white silk of her blouse turning red as she dropped to her knees. She discharged her weapon harmlessly into Will's lawn and sagged forward onto her face.

Taylor saw it out of the corner of his eye, and it was the last thing he saw; he had whipped around, grabbing for the gun, trying to disarm the man behind him, when there was an explosion in his head.

Hanabi
. A brilliant chrysanthemum burst of purple and red lights. Bloodred stars like chrysanthemum petals drifted, twinkling through the night. The lights went dark.

* * * *

Assistant Director Cooper came up as the Incredible Hulk on Will's phone screen.

Will made a face and stepped outside to take the call.

“Where are you?” Cooper bit out.

Sure he was about to get his ass reamed for taking time off to pursue his own investigation, Will hedged, “On my way back to LA.”