Free The Sentry by Robert Crais Page B

crime so I can jam them. If I jam them up bad, I can use them as informants.”
    Button nodded along, still scowling at Pike.
    “Smith isn’t the only guy these turds are trying to milk, Pike. It’s not like he’s in this alone. Straw and his people are watching five or six shops—”
    Pike leaned toward Straw.
    “You were watching his place and let him get a concussion. You watched a brick go through his window.”
    Straw hit Button with a glance so hard it could have knocked him out of the car.
    “We didn’t allow those things. They just happened, and now we’ll cover him better.”
    “I won’t leave these people hanging.”
    “You’re not. I have it covered.”
    “You had it covered when he got a concussion.”
    “We’ll cover him better .”
    Straw suddenly opened his door.
    “Pike, step out for a moment. Excuse us, Detective.”
    Pike pushed out, leaving Button alone. Straw came around the car to meet Pike on the sidewalk. Straw’s lips were pursed tight, but he lit another cigarette, and lighting it seemed to relax him. He fanned at the smoke.
    “We fucked up, okay? We’re still learning how these guys do things, but we’re learning. Just back away. That’s what I’m asking.”
    Pike studied the man. Straw had serious eyes, but he also looked nervous. Like he had a lot riding on this, and might lose it all.
    Pike said, “If I tell Wilson and Dru, you’re done.”
    “You won’t tell.”
    “You have no idea what I’ll do.”
    “Maybe not. But I did some checking. You worked for top-flight PMCs. Even did some work for the government, time to time, though no one’s supposed to know. They don’t give those clearances to people who can’t keep it wrapped.”
    Straw looked at Pike, out from under his eyebrows, and now the smile was back.
    “Surprising what a guy like me can find out, isn’t it?”
    Pike didn’t respond, so Straw shrugged again.
    “Listen, you want these people safe? Brother, so do I, and I guarantee you my way is best. Wilson Smith could’ve sunk these guys right in the ER, but he didn’t. He’s scared. He’s just some poor bastard who wants to fry oysters. You let me get what I need from Azzara, I can help him for real.”
    Pike didn’t like any of it, and he didn’t like Straw or the Malibu stinking of smoke.
    “How long?”
    “Two or three weeks. Maybe less.”
    Pike scanned both sides of the street, wondering if the man in the orange shirt was watching.
    Straw said, “You think about it. In the meantime, don’t say anything to Smith or his niece. They need to act natural. If you tell them we’re watching, you know what will happen. I might as well head back to Texas.”
    Pike said, “Man in the orange shirt, he’s good.”
    Straw squinted at Pike through more smoke.
    “What man in the orange shirt?”
    Straw turned back to his car.
    “C’mon. I’ll give you a lift back.”
    “I’m good.”
    Pike walked.

9
    L ater that night, just after ten, the air was cool as Pike jogged toward home through Santa Monica, wearing the forty-pound pack. Pike was a runner. He had been a runner since he was a boy, and ran every day. He sometimes ran twice a day, once in the morning and again at night, and three or four times every week he carried a pack bearing four ten-pound bags of flour. Not nearly so much as the ninety pounds he rucked as a young Force Recon Marine, but it got his heart going.
    That night, he ran the Fourth Street steps. One hundred eighty-nine concrete steps climbing the steep bluff from the bottom of Santa Monica Canyon to San Vicente Boulevard. One hundred eighty-nine steps was as tall as a nine-story building, and Pike ran them twenty times, taking them two to a stride. He preferred running at night.
    During the day, the steps were clotted with hard-core fitness zealots, marathoners, aerobics instructors, and ordinary trudgers who were trying to get into shape. But at night in the dark when the footing was dangerous, the steps were deserted, and