Fire Point (2 page)

4

Krank could only watch as the Honda braked hard and, seconds before it came to a complete stop, the girl bailed. She landed hard on one knee. For a second she didn’t move, and he had hope. The van was right behind. They could scoop her up and spirit her away before anyone saw what was happening.

She rose, one hand clutching her knee. She moved toward the sidewalk, shaking off the pain, adrenalin finally kicking in. She broke into a run that was half jog half hobble.

Krank pulled up directly behind the Honda. If the cops showed now, he could make out like it was a fender bender. The girl wasn’t going to hang around to contradict him. She was already a hundred yards away. Still catchable but he needed to check something first.

He got to the driver’s door. ‘What happened?’ he demanded.

The driver looked up, hands balled into fists that rubbed furiously at his eyes, a toddler fighting sleep. ‘She pepper-sprayed me. The bitch pepper-sprayed me.’

‘Can you drive?’ Krank asked him.

‘Maybe,’ the driver said, blinking.

Krank waved at the van. Loser got out, looking, as he always did, like a slightly better-dressed version of Shaggy from the
Scooby Doo
cartoons. ‘We need to find her. We’ll give it fifteen minutes. If we haven’t found her by then, we’ll split,’ he said to Loser.

Krank climbed back into the BMW. The engine turned over. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to visualize the girl in his mind’s eye.

He had a sense that she would try to hide. A bad strategy. The worst. Her best chance at escape was distance from them and staying where she might be seen by others. Hiders tended to find the nearest spot they could and stay there, out of their pursuers’ gaze but out of everyone else’s too.

5

She was still so shaken from what had just happened that she almost missed it. She had never heard of the place. She had thought that the two guys standing next to the door were dealers who had found a doorway to ply their trade. It was only when the door they were standing in front of opened, and two men stumbled out, arms around each other’s waists, that she realized what it was.

Oh, thank God
.

She slowed to a walk, and tried to catch her breath. It had all happened so fast. One minute she was getting into a car to be driven home, the next . . . Being kidnapped? Raped? Killed?

And they were still out there. Looking for her.

Meanwhile the two doormen were staring at her, arms folded. Doing her best to appear calm and composed, Kristina walked over to them, took a deep breath, trying to find the words that best described what had just happened. It didn’t work. The words tumbled out of her.

‘I need your help. I just almost got killed. I ordered a cab and the guy that turned up, well, he wasn’t a cab. I got in, and he was going to drive me off.’

The slightly shorter of the two doormen smirked. ‘You ordered a cab, and he drove you off. That’s usually what cabs do, honey.’

‘No ‒ I mean he was kidnapping me. He grabbed my phone and threw it out the window and I had to—’

She stopped. They were both looking at her like she was crazy. She needed to row back. Spare them the details. ‘Do you have a phone I could use to call someone?’ she asked.

The bigger guy made a big show of patting himself down. ‘Must have left it at home. Now, keep walking. We got enough crazies inside,’ he said, hooking a thumb toward the door.

‘Didn’t you listen to what I just said? I was attacked.’

The shorter one stepped toward her. She could feel the menace as he flexed his biceps. ‘Look, sweetie, we’re not the cops. Now, you walk one block that way it puts you on Verdugo. LAPD usually have a patrol in that area. Go tell them your story. We don’t get paid for this kind of shit.’

Just her luck to find the most asshole-ish nightclub doormen in downtown. The way they were staring at her, she knew they wouldn’t help. But as long as she could see them she didn’t think anyone would try to snatch her off the street. If she walked toward Verdugo, there would likely be people. She could flag down a patrol car. They would have to help her.

‘Thanks for nothing.’

The short doorman with the big biceps gave her a fey little wave that was all fingers. ‘Bye-bye.’

She started walking.

6

Engine dead, headlights switched off, Krank watched the girl walk away from the nightclub door. He tapped the screen of his phone, waited for the others to pick up.

‘She’s heading your way. Soon as she turns the corner, do it. Fast and rough as it takes. RV back at the usual place.’

The usual place was a small, beaten-up wood-framed house on two acres near Mulholland Drive in the Hollywood Hills, a short distance from the 101 freeway. It had belonged to Krank’s grandfather, who had left it to him as part of a trust. It came with the condition that it could not be sold for at least thirty years after transfer. As far as Krank was concerned, it was a classic move that typified his relationship with his family. Leave him something that was worth enough money to change his life, but make sure that he couldn’t actually use it to do that. Turn a windfall into a millstone. Yeah, that was his family, all right.

Using it like this was Krank’s way of subverting his grandpa’s wishes.
You want me to keep the house?
Okay, Pops. I will. But I’ll make sure that by the time I’m done no one will ever want to live there.

As a place to bring people like the girl, it was perfect: tucked in close to the freeway, with easy access to the Sunset Strip, but still secluded; plenty of room out the rear that didn’t back onto any other homes. Krank had added extra height to the wall at the front and put in electric gates but those were the only changes he’d made.

He hit the clicker, and the BMW slid through, then up the winding, weed-infested driveway. He
parked
in back. The others were already there. The Honda was
at an
angle, and the white van was tucked in tight next to the external steps that led down into the barn his grandfather had used to store his collection of classic cars.

Krank crossed to the main house. The door that led into the kitchen was open. MG was there, head over the sink, dousing his eyes with water. Krank pulled open the refrigerator door and took out a carton of milk. ‘Water just makes it worse. Use this.’

He had to place the carton in MG’s hand. He’d be amazed if he didn’t have to wipe the kid’s ass some day. He wondered why he bothered. Then he reminded himself that he had been like MG. It was just that he was further ahead on his journey than the kid.

‘Thanks,’ MG said, cupping some milk in hands that still trembled from the adrenalin dump of his screwed-up abduction. He splashed his eyes, which were like red slits that had been carved into his face.

Krank had to hand it to her: she’d got MG good. It was something he would use later with MG as a teachable moment. Showing mercy, hesitating in the fight, could only end badly for everyone. Now what would have been a quick death had been prolonged.

He leaned against the kitchen island, with its knife block and red granite top, and watched MG get cleaned up. Finally, he said: ‘You ready?’

MG looked at him, or as best he could with his eyes like that. ‘I don’t know.’

Krank advanced on him. He reached across and tapped MG’s left temple with his knuckle. ‘You’re thinking too much. Thinking time’s over.’ He dug out a Nietzsche quote he’d used before in this kind of situation. ‘“When faced by unpleasant consequences, one is too ready to abandon the proper standpoint from which an action ought to be considered.”’

MG ran a hand through his dense mop of hair and gave a little nod. Krank slapped him on the back. ‘First one’s the hardest. It gets easier after that.’

PART TWO

7

Even though he wasn’t a father, Ryan Lock understood the power of children to change people. Some of the biggest idiots he’d met ‒ and, in his line of work, he’d met plenty ‒ could often set aside their own self-obsession and egomania, albeit temporarily, when they became parents. Around their children, they were different people. Sometimes for the better, other times for the worse.

Becoming a parent increased your surface area, and made you more vulnerable. A child’s pain was yours. Its failings tracked back in many parents’ minds to some failure on their part. Was there something you could have done differently? Had you been too harsh when a softer approach would have worked better? Had you been too soft when a little discipline was needed?

There were no easy answers. People did their best. It was just that sometimes their best wasn’t enough. Tarian Griffiths was just a mom trying to do her best. When the dust settled, and the body count had been tallied, that fact would be lost. But it was the truth.

Ryan Lock handed the keys of his new car, a custom up-armored, metallic grey Audi S6, to the valet parking attendant standing outside Café Del Rey. Along with the keys he also palmed the man his usual hefty gratuity, along with the instructions that went with the cash: ‘Keep my car up front, parked facing out and ready to go.’

The valet accepted the cash with a smile. ‘Certainly, sir.’

Lock walked into the restaurant that looked out over the marina. It was early evening on a Tuesday. The place was quiet. This was a meeting he had agreed to with reluctance. From the initial conversation it had sounded a lot like babysitting. Not that a babysitting gig was unusual, far from it. Much of the time bodyguarding could be described as babysitting, but with guns.

Over his years working high-end private security, Ryan Lock had realized that it was a hell of a lot easier to save someone from an external threat than from themselves. Stalkers, kidnappers, blackmailers could all be dealt with. Headed off. Arrested. Scared. If it came down to the wire, and they presented a clear and present danger to life, they could be killed. But a principal who was determined to screw up their life? Or to place themselves in a bad situation? That was a whole other deal.

The challenge of the job was managing the individual you were charged with protecting, your principal, whether they be a politician who liked to plunge into the crowd or a rock star with a taste for the low-life. Then you had to factor in the wishes of the client ‒ the person or organization who was picking up the tab.

At the restaurant reservations desk, Lock informed the hostess whom he was there to meet. She led him toward a table at the front of the long dining room that looked out over the boats in the marina. Tarian Griffiths was already seated, a glass of mineral water on the table in front of her. She tapped away at the screen of her iPhone with perfectly manicured fingers.

‘Ms Griffiths,’ said Lock, waving away the offer of a menu. ‘No, thank you,’ he said to the hostess. ‘Just some water, please.’

Tarian Griffiths didn’t get up but she did extend her hand. Lock shook it. With auburn hair, bright blue eyes, high cheekbones and a perfect smile, Tarian had been a successful soap actress back in New York, before she had met and married wealthy tech entrepreneur Peter Blake. They’d had one son together, Marcus, before divorcing a few years later. Peter Blake must have fallen hard because he’d married Tarian without a pre-nuptial agreement.

She had married again a few years ago, a fellow multi-millionaire she had met via her charity work. Teddy Griffiths came from Texas oil money, and to keep her happy he had re-located to LA, where she had continued to pursue her acting career, with mixed success. They’d had two children together ‒ a boy and a girl, both under ten ‒ and were a regular feature on the LA philanthropy circuit. But she was there to talk to Lock about Marcus.

When Lock had spoken to her the previous day, she had been deliberately vague about the specific problem. All he knew was that twenty-year-old Marcus Griffiths was having problems, and his mom didn’t want to go to the cops. If he’d had to guess, he’d have put his money on drugs. Maybe money owed to someone heavy, or a blackmail attempt that she wanted him to shut down.

Lock sat across from her. Outside on the dock an elderly guy was parking a sky blue Maserati next to one of the half-dozen wooden docks.

‘Thank you for seeing me, Mr Lock,’ said Tarian. She made strong eye contact. He understood why men fell for her. Not only was she beautiful but there seemed to be a real person there too, beneath the sheen of glamor.

With all that said, this wasn’t a date and Lock wanted to get down to business. ‘How can I help you?’

‘It’s my son, Marcus. He’s going through a difficult time at the moment, and . . .’ She sighed. ‘Well, I’m sure you know what kids are like when it comes to talking to their parents. I need someone to keep an eye on him for me.’

Lock flattened his hands palm down on the bright white linen tablecloth as a waiter brought his water. ‘Okay, first things first. Is there something specific you’re concerned about? Do you believe your son is being threatened by someone? Is he involved with drugs? Has he fallen in with a bad crowd? All easily done in this town.’

She swallowed hard. ‘No, nothing like that. No one is threatening him that I know of, and I very much doubt he’d be involved with drugs. It’s difficult to explain. He’s living on his own here in the Marina, and I’m just worried about him.’

Lock decided to change tack. Clearly something was wrong but she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, articulate it. When he first met a client it was often the case that they didn’t want to say flat out what the problem actually was. Some kind of trust had to be established first. ‘Okay. When you say keep an eye on him, are you thinking surveillance or security?’

She gave him a puzzled look. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Well,’ Lock said, ‘do you need someone to track him without him knowing? That kind of keeping an eye on? Or do you think he needs someone with him, offering close protection? Because if it’s the former, you’d save a lot of money just using a regular private detective rather than myself or my partner.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Oh, yes, I see. No, the latter. I want you to provide security. Be his bodyguard.’

They were finally getting somewhere. ‘And he needs a bodyguard, because . . .’ prompted Lock.

‘I can more than afford to pay your fee, Mr Lock,’ said Tarian.

Lock didn’t doubt it. ‘I’m sure you can. But that wasn’t what I was asking you. Why does your son need protection?’

‘I don’t know that he does,’ she said.

In future, for meetings like this, Lock was going to ask potential clients for money up front – some kind of consultation fee to offset time wasted. He took a breath. ‘Mrs Griffiths, if Marcus is caught up in something that you might not be comfortable telling, say, law enforcement, well, I’m not law enforcement so it goes no further. If he’s being blackmailed, and you don’t want information to become public—’

‘No, it’s nothing like that,’ she said, and lapsed back into silence.

Lock didn’t say anything for a good ten seconds. After that, he started to get up. She motioned for him to sit down.She was struggling with this. Perfect white teeth bit down on a plump lower lip. ‘I’m concerned that my son is either going to hurt himself or someone else.’

Lock wanted to be clear on what she was saying. ‘By hurt you mean physically harm?’

Tarian looked away. ‘Yes.’