Free The Sentry by Robert Crais

him about the child, and now, when she stepped back, he felt compelled to do the same.
    “What Button said—Button doesn’t know anything about me.”
    Pike fell silent, thinking how best to explain about the way he had lived his life and the choices he had made. Rescuing a businessman’s family from Nicaraguan narco-terrorists. Stopping the bandits who looted farms and villages in Central Africa. Pike had chosen his jobs as a military contractor carefully, and speaking about them now seemed pretentious and self-serving. He finally gave up.
    “I tried to help people. I’m good at it.”
    Pike couldn’t think of anything else to say. He let it go at that, and felt embarrassed for bringing it up.
    Then Dru laid her palm on his chest, and it felt like she touched his heart.
    “I’ll bet you are.”
    She climbed into her car, then looked up at him.
    “Do you ever take off those sunglasses?”
    Pike took off his sunglasses. The light made him squint, but he fought it to let her see.
    She studied his eyes for a moment.
    “Good. Very good.”
    She started her car and gave him a parting smile.
    “If you’re going to be dangerous, you might as well be dangerous for me.”
    Pike watched her drive away, then scanned the length of the alley. Nothing.
    He put on the sunglasses, then walked around the end of the building and returned to his Jeep. Reaching the door, he saw what looked like a flyer wedged under the windshield wiper. Closer, he saw it was not a flyer, but a folded piece of paper. Pike clocked the surroundings again, and now his inner radar pinged with the weight of eyes.
    He lifted out the paper and unfolded it.
     
    GREEN MALIBU
FOUR SPOTS AHEAD
     
    Pike saw the green Malibu parked four spots ahead just as the man in the orange shirt stepped from the secondhand clothing store. The man pointed a thumb at the Malibu. Jerry Button pushed out of the passenger door. A second man got out of the driver’s door. He was all hard angles and edges, like a mirror that had been broken and taped back together. He looked impatient, and studied Pike with thoughtful eyes as they walked over.
    Button said, “This is Joe Pike. Pike, this is Jack Straw. He’s with the FBI.”
    Straw said, “You’re screwing me up, brother. That has to stop.”

8
    T he man in the orange shirt walked away when Button and Straw got out of the car. He did not look at them or Pike again.
    Button said, “Let’s take a ride. Better if we’re not seen.”
    The Malibu was a brand-new rental, but smelled of cigarettes. Pike sat in back, with Straw behind the wheel and Button in the shotgun seat. Button twisted to see Pike as they pulled from the curb. He looked as if he had hoped never to see Pike again, but here they were, and now he was irritated.
    “That business between you and me, we have to forget that now, okay? Special Agent Straw is out of the Houston Field Office. Turns out he has an investigation running, and we’ve stepped into the middle of it, thanks to you.”
    Pike looked into the mirror and found Straw watching him.
    “The man in the orange shirt.”
    “I’m going to tell you some things I’d rather not, but I can’t divulge where I have people placed. You understand why?”
    “We’ll see.”
    “Okay. Hang on, and let me get pulled over. Easier to talk.”
    Straw drove three short blocks inland and parked behind a row of upscale beachwear shops. The moment they stopped, he rolled down his window and lit a Marlboro. Pike and Button rolled down their windows, too.
    Straw turned to face Pike, and showed his credentials. Special Agent R. Jack Straw. Federal Bureau of Investigation.
    “Okay?”
    Pike nodded, wondering what this was about.
    Straw tucked away his badge case and considered Pike through the smoke.
    “What did you think of Mikie Azzara?”
    Pike was surprised, though he showed no expression.
    Straw read his silence anyway, and smiled.
    “Not your traditional Mexican Mafioso, is he, all sleeved-out and nasty?