Free Trial by Ice and Fire by Clinton McKinzie

speaker. Through the hiss I can hear a distant clunking sound, probably a drawer being slammed shut.
    Leaning into the driver's-side window, I reach over the man and slide the gun from under the paper. Incredibly, he doesn't wake up. I hold the 9-mm Glock pistol at an angle in front of his face then slam back the chamber so the bullet inside leaps into the man's gaping mouth.
    He comes awake with a loud squawk—“Aack!”—and throws himself away from me, across the seat. Then he recognizes me through blurry eyes. “God!” He spits the bullet onto the dashboard.
    “I'm not, Jim, but McGee and I will make sure you burn in hell if anything's happened to the girl.”
    He rubs his face. “Hey, I'm sorry, Anton. It got hot in the sun and she wasn't doing anything anyway—said she was going to take a nap, and I guess I just—”
    We both look at the speaker as the sound of a woman's humming grows louder for a moment before it fades away.
    “Where did you put the transceiver?”
    “In her living room. Look, man, I told her all she had to do was scream and I'd come running.”
    “If we were in the Army, Ross McGee would shoot you for falling asleep at your post. This guy came after her with duct tape and a stun gun. It's serious, so stay awake when you're watching her. Understand?”
    “Yeah, man. Look, I'm sorry—” Jim says, staring down at his lap as I treat him like a misbehaving child.
    “Shut up, Jim.”
    Then I get a little more control over myself. “Listen, this guy's for real. And it's possible he's a cop.” I tell him about how Cali had broken up with a sergeant in the Sheriff's Office only a month ago, and that he hadn't taken it well. I describe Wokowski, too, saying he's a big, blond guy with an attitude and a face like a pit bull's. Jim will know what I mean if he sees him.
    “Go back to your plane or wherever you're staying and get some sleep. I might need you to take over again later tonight. Leave your cell phone on.”
    Even though Jim is ten years older than me, I've been senior to him since my second year as a DCI agent. People I've talked to say he's a good guy but suspect he's spent too much time under cover, hanging around with low-life producers of methamphetamine. Their lifestyle has infected him, reducing his ambitions and eliminating his cop's zeal. They say he's perpetually trying to get the men he informs on—his friends, as he's come to see it—special deals with the state's prosecutors. And he's often too chickenshit to take part in the arrests. McGee should have fired him years ago but McGee is as loyal to his agents as they are to him. At least until there is evidence that they've committed a crime.
    Jim pulls himself together and drives away without looking back at me.
    Watching his taillights turn the corner, I feel a little less angry but diminished in some way. I'm not cut out for bullying. I stand in the street for a minute, breathing deep, willing myself to lighten up.
    The upper windows of Cali's house are all bright. Lace curtains prevent me from seeing much inside, but I'm reassured by the ornate iron bars that have been bolted to the downstairs windows and the outdoor floodlight that clicks on crisply as I push through the wooden gate between the tall hedges.
    I walk up onto the porch. An illuminated alarm keypad has been installed to the right of the door. I notice that it's turned on—the red light is lit, indicating it's armed. While Jim might not be very good security, the alarm system is. Before I have a chance to knock the door swings open.
    Cali stands just inside, wearing a sleeveless black sheath dress that reaches almost to her knees. Black cowboy boots cover her feet and ankles. Her short blonde hair is curlier than it had been earlier. There are diamonds in her ears and, in concession to the party's Western theme, a red bandanna folded and tied around her neck. It appears she's even wearing makeup. She couldn't look more different from our ski trip in the