Circle of Lies (A Tom Kagan Novel)

By Mark Young

Only the truth will set Tom Kagan free.

Suspicion is cast upon police intelligence officer Tom Kagan when a protected witness turns up dead. Caught in a Circle of Lies, he frantically searches for two witnesses who might clear his name—but they are murdered. A deadly trap, built by unseen hands, begins to tighten around Tom’s life, endangering everyone he loves and his own freedom.

This Kafkaesque nightmare begins when an out-of-state detective tells Kagan his good friend has been killed in an armored truck heist in Seattle. Kagan—working for the Santa Rosa Police Department in California—offers to investigate a lead in his own county. As Kagan peels backs the layers of lies, trouble erupts at every turn. An FBI agent with questionable motives shows up to exert pressure on Kagan’s investigation. A shadowy figure, calling himself Paladin, zeros in on Kagan as a conspiracy unfolds. A beautiful female prosecutor tries to help, but her relationship to Kagan creates suspicion in his own marriage.

Disturbing questions begin to surface as Kagan unravels facts about the case. Everything hinges upon finding out the truth but a Circle of Lies turns his world upside down. Who can he trust? Will he survive? Kagan must risk everything to save those he loves and gain his own freedom in this race-to-the-finish mystery thriller.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Young
• Release date: Oct 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311824219

Mark Young

In the “real” world Mark Young makes a living as a multiple Emmy winner who has written and produced the animated TV shows for Netflix, Disney, Nick Jr., ABC, CBS, and NBC. However, in his “inner” world, Mark believes that Franken-Sci High isn’t actually his creation but a real school where budding mad scientists learn how to create synthetic eyeballs, travel to different dimensions, try gravity gum, and design inflatable pets. Mark lives in Southern California with his wife. Between them, they have four amazing kids. More about Mark at MarkYoung.co.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Seattle, Washington

Tapping his steering wheel, Jason Strickland hummed the music to The Thrill Is Gone as he waited for his partner to return with the last load of money. His iPod fed him B. B. King’s version of the song through an earbud—a direct violation of company policy.

Jason could care less.

He turned up the volume of the portable radio linking him to his partner inside the bank as The King of Blues crooned about a love gone sour with foot-tapping emotion that stirred Jason’s soul. He struggled to see through the armored truck’s windows as raindrop bullets pelted the windshield.

Jason wiped his uniform sleeve across the side window as the heater churned out enough warmth to fog up the glass. Outside, dusk wrapped its gloomy arms around the city, fighting against an illumination invasion: beaming headlights, a rainbow of flashing neon signs, and the ever-changing red-yellow-green traffic signals.

When was his partner coming back? Jason shook his head. So this was how far he’d fallen. After thirty years as a cop, he had been relegated to jockeying an armored car around Seattle instead of racing to emergency calls in a black-and-white. Sure, he needed the extra money to supplement his retirement and an excuse to get him out of the house before boredom drove him into an early grave. But this—a glorified delivery boy for the banks?

Still a cop at heart, he searched for any hints of danger. They could not take that away from him. Bad guys still tried to take out armored trucks, like the heists back east in the last few months he read about.

He started singing the words to the Thrill song. The music took him back to a particular day when he and Tom Kagan had worked adjacent patrol zones on the city’s south side. They decided to meet for a beer after work one night they’d made a great bust together. Jason found this song on the jukebox and played B. B. King’s version over and over until Kagan threatened to unplug the machine.

What’s wrong with country music? Kagan said, perched on a bar stool, looking like his patience had been stretched as tight as a lariat in a calf-roping contest.

I’m trying to give you a little black music history, mah brother. Pushing a little rhythm and blues into your cowboy soul. I’m gonna school y’all about my people.

Kagan shook his head. Your people? Give me a break. He took another sip of beer. And if you keep playing that song at home, Charlene’s gonna think you’re trying to tell her something’s gone wrong between you two.

I gotta keep playing this song. Jason slapped his hand over his heart. These words move me to another level.

Kagan motioned for the bartender to set them up again. "Too much drama for my taste. I’m gonna move myself to the head. Pay the man when he brings the beer, will ya?"

As the rain beat down outside, Jason smiled, remembering the good times they had shared over the years. He missed that old cowboy.

He almost missed a white van creeping past the armored truck as if the driver sought a parking place. An uneasy feeling made him glance in the side mirror as a dark-colored suburban pulled up behind him. The van cut across his lane several car lengths in front as his radio came alive.

Coming out. Be there in a sec. Pete would exit the bank loaded down with cash. There should have been a second guard with him, but they ran short on people due to illness.

Jason tensed as a sliding door opened on the van’s right side. A figure wearing a ski mask and carrying an Army-green satchel emerged. Jason had a moment to key in on the object before the masked man flung it under the armored truck and pointed to his right hand. The man drew closer and held what looked like a triggering device.

A chill shot through him. The man had tossed a satchel of C-4 under the truck. We’re toast! Jason keyed his mike, trying to raise his partner. No response.

A second guy—also wearing a mask and carrying an automatic rifle—hurled out of the driver’s side and hurried toward Jason. He couldn’t tell if these bulked-up masked figures—maybe concealing body armor—were men or women. The guy aimed his rifle at him. Open up the cab and come outside!

Jason hesitated for a moment as thoughts of his wife and twin daughters—both entering college this year—flashed across his mind. They don’t pay me enough to take this kind of risk. He opened the door and climbed out, raising his hands.

Jason glanced toward the bank. His partner lay sprawled on the sidewalk, either unconscious or dead, a third gunman standing over him. From this distance he couldn’t tell which, although no gunshots had been fired. The robber lugged bags of money to the suburban behind the armored truck.

The man who motioned for Jason to climb out walked up and pointed a semiauto at his face. I knew you didn’t have enough guts to take us on.

Let’s be cool here. Jason feared he had more on his mind than robbery. You got the money.

The man sneered. You should have gone back to Africa when you had a chance, boy.

His anger spiked and Jason struggled to remain calm. Jason knew what would happen next. Baby, I’ll see you on the other side. He winced as the guy’s trigger finger moved.

Then darkness swallowed him up.

Chapter 2

Santa Rosa, California

This filthy kitchen is a terrible place to die. Tom’s stomach tightened at the gun’s metallic click. Hammer pulled back and cocked. He winced, listening to the gunman’s labored breathing somewhere behind him. He dared not turn around for fear of triggering the man’s hand.

A mother and child cringed in front of him, alarm looming in their eyes as they stared at the danger. A baby cried in the next room, and the stench of dirty diapers mingled with the stink of booze.

Daddy was home, drunk as a skunk—a violent skunk. To make matters worse, he’d armed himself. Tom could see the man reflected in an oval mirror on the kitchen counter. He looked confused.

Tom resisted the urge to face him. Glancing at the police radio lying on the table in front of him, he reached down and pressed the orange emergency button before twisting the volume button to its lowest level. He didn’t want Daddy listening to the cops’ plan of action. His distress signal would reach Dispatch in seconds identifying his radio. Patrol units would scream his way any moment with blue uniforms crashing through the front door if he didn’t answer up.

Tom raised his hands as he turned. Daddy towered in the kitchen doorway a few feet away, pointing his gun at Tom’s face. The man’s wispy mustache was wet with snot, a wife-beater T-shirt stretched taut over a basketball-sized gut. He rose several inches above Tom’s six-foot-two frame.

Whatcha doing with my woman?

Wife beater. Child molester. Drunk with a gun. All the ingredients for disaster found in one creep. Tom edged toward the kitchen counter two steps to his left. The gun barrel followed. Good. Mother and daughter no longer in the line of fire. Time to talk Daddy off the ledge.

Mr. Ryder, I’m Detective Kagan of the Santa Rosa Police Department. Put the gun down.

Ryder’s beady eyes, bloodshot and rheumy, stared at Tom across the room with dullness and incomprehension. He wiped his brow with the back of his meaty arm. The man’s upper limbs looked the size of a howitzer. Whats’cha doing here? This is my ’ouse.

Just checking on your family.

Ryder glowered. We’re fine. Now—get out!

I can’t leave while you’re pointing a gun at me, sir.

The weapon dipped and weaved as Ryder swayed in place, his trigger finger thrust through the gun well. A slight squeeze and the weapon would fire.

Three long steps from the gunman. No matter how fast he reacted, Tom could not beat Ryder’s ability to pull the trigger. Tom studied the threat He must narrow the distance to Ryder before making his move. Tom lowered his hands, feeling the kitchen counter on his backside.

A car door slammed. First unit on scene. This would be the last time he’d do anyone a favor like this. A detective from the Domestic Violence Unit asked him to do a low-keyed welfare check on the wife and child in plain clothes. In and out. And here he stood with a gun in his face.

This was one reason he hated domestic violence investigations Love, sex, and children? A deadly combination when things went bad.

Banging sounded on the front door. Police. Open Up!

In about two seconds there would be a wood-splitting kick as the officer booted the door when backup arrived.

Man with a gun. Tom yelled loud enough to raise the dead across town. He heard the welcoming sound of an officer racking his shotgun. Message delivered. At least they knew what they faced inside. Maybe buy him a few minutes.

Ryder’s turn to show fear. How’d they know about this? Sweat continued to pour down his glistening brow. Man, the guy is a sweat machine.

Tom shrugged. Mr. Ryder. We’ve got us a little problem. I need you to relax. Everything will be fine. Let’s talk this out. Okay?

Ryder glared at Tom and told him where he could stick it.

So much for a peaceful resolution.

I’m not gonna jail, Ryder slurred, glancing toward the front door. This is my house. You got no right coming in here, talking to my woman.

You’re right. This is your house. But everything else you said is wrong, you twisted freak. And I’m going to take you to the slammer as soon as I can yank that gun out of your hands and screw it in your ear. I want you to put the gun down and talk to me, man to man.

I do that. You take me to jail. No way.

Tom heard more patrol cars braking to a stop. Sirens wailed in the distance. All available officers rushed to a Code 20. His Code 20. Officer needs help.

Tom glanced around the kitchen as he considered his next move. He leaned against the counter. A stove stood between him and the gunman. Look at me and tell me what you see.

Ryder blinked, slack jawed. I see a man messing with my woman. And I gotta gun on him.

Tom shook his head. "No. No. No. You’ve got this all wrong. Tell me what you see."

Ryder stared at him. I see a cop who’s a hundred years old and wants nothing better than to kick my butt.

Maybe this man’s not so drunk. I’m fifty-one years old, Mr. Ryder. And you?

Twenty-five. If you’re not old, how come you’re getting gray hair? He waved the gun at Tom’s face. You got wrinkles and your face looks like you forgot suntan lotion. You’re old, dude.

Hey, what can I say? I run a ranch on my days off. Keeps me outside a lot.

You a cowboy? I thought you’re a cop.

Tom sighed. Easier to herd cats than keep this drunk on track. Let me tell you what you see, sir. You see a man with a problem. A big problem.

Ryder eyed Tom like he was an escapee from a mental ward. "You’ve gotta problem? There’s a bunch of cops outside who wanna put a bullet in me—and you’re sniveling ’bout your problems?" Ryder switched the revolver to his right hand, closer to Tom.

Great. Now if he could just keep Ryder talking. Here’s my problem. First, my boss—who’s older than dirt and thinks he knows everything—will read me the riot act for letting this happen. He’ll blame everything on me.

Tell it to someone who gives a rip. Ryder kept glancing toward the front door.

After the boss chews me a new one, he’s going to order all the paperwork completed on this thing before I go home. It’ll take all night. You can’t believe all the—

Shut up! I wanna think.

I won’t get the reports done until late tonight. And my wife—

Your wife? What’s she gotta do with this? Ryder glared from Tom to his own wife crouching behind the table.

You don’t understand. My wife’s expecting to go to a special dinner tonight. If we can’t resolve this quickly, I’ll never make it on time. And Sara—she’s going to be ticked off. You know what it’s like to be in the doghouse, right?

And how’s that my problem? Ryder looked like he wanted another drink.

What I’m getting at, Mr. Ryder…you’re making my life really, really difficult. Let’s make a deal.

A deal? You outta your mind? Ryder wiped his brow, confusion evident in his eyes. I’m the guy with the gun. This is my house. Why would I make a deal?

Tom took another step toward the man during their conversation. Almost within striking distance. He stood next to the stove as Ryder eyed the front door. Tom’s left hand circled around the handle of a cast-iron skillet before the man turned his way.

I want to add one more thing, Mr. Ryder, and then I’ll shut up.

The man scowled. Promise?

You bet, pal. And here’s another promise. Tom smiled as Ryder glanced away. When you wake up— He swung the skillet and smacked the freak’s skull with a welcome thud. Tom grabbed the man’s gun hand with his right as Ryder slumped to the floor. —you’re going to have one heck of a headache. The man lay motionless at Tom’s feet.

He snatched the gun—a Smith and Wesson 30-cal revolver, fully loaded—from Ryder’s hand and jammed it in his waistband, then cuffed Ryder and searched for any other weapons. Satisfied the scene was safe, Tom raised the volume on the portable and listened for a break in traffic. Santa Rosa, Six-David-Fourteen. Code 4. Suspect in custody. Front door is open. A moment later officers entered the house.

He walked around the table and knelt beside the girl. He guessed she was about five years old. His nearness made her draw closer to her mother, her brown eyes pools of fear and pain. He’d seen this look before in other children and knew better than to get too close.

Tom whispered, Honey, I promise Daddy will never hurt you again. Ever.

This promise he hoped would come true.

The girl looked at him with distrust, probably from the hurt she carried inside from her own father. It filled him with sadness.

He stood as the first blue uniform came into the kitchen. Back to the business at hand.

He’d take this child’s distrust, this tragic life of mother and child, and thrust it deep into a place where no one would ever find it. He’d been doing this for thirty years, since the first day he pinned on the badge. Some days he felt this hidden reservoir would burst its banks, drowning him in darkness he could never shed.

He hoped that day never came.

Chapter 3

Lack of sleep made him as mentally agile as an Olympic swimmer floundering in a pool of Jell-O. Tom wearily pushed away from the desk after finishing his report on Ryder. He glanced at his watch and winced. Nine o’clock. He’d been here all night like he’d whined to Ryder. The view from a window above his desk did nothing to improve his spirits. Storm clouds ushered blustery winds through a cowering row of maple trees.

An early September rain pattered on the windowpanes like a thousand hands clapping, beads of water streaking down the glass. A few feet away, Henry Patterson slumped in his chair, talking to someone on the phone, while other detectives hunkered over their desks The raging storm must have stampeded these crime fighters to flee for the barn until fair weather prevailed.

Tom hoisted himself from the chair as his desk phone rang. Groaning, he sank back down and snatched up the receiver. A familiar southern twang filled his ear. Ralph Larson. The man’s drawl sparked memories of Seattle: a criminal intelligence conference; a ferry ride to Victoria, British Columbia; and seafood along the waterfront. Memories of drizzle and greenery and Larson drinking one too many beers.

This phone call would not be about old times.

An armored-truck driver was killed here in Seattle yesterday. Larson jumped right into the purpose for his call. The robbery crew got away with a cool two million.

Tom’s chair creaked as he leaned back and plopped tired feet on the desktop. Quite a haul—money traceable?

Not a dime. Old bills ready to be destroyed. On their way to wherever they burn up old money.

I take it you want something? Tom glanced over his shoulder toward the sergeant’s office. Light off. Door open. The sergeant was missing in action.

Larson coughed. Yeah, I want something. But first…

Don’t drag this out, Ralph. I’m tired and—

Tom, the dead guard? No easy way to put this. I just learned he’s a retired cop from your department. Jason Strickland. Know him?

Tom felt as if a giant steel band started to squeeze air from his lungs. Yeah. Jason and I go way back. We were… He could not bring himself to finish the sentence. What happened?

Wait a sec. Let me find my notes.

Tom heard Larson rustling papers in the background. The man’s desk was as tidy as Oscar Madison’s apartment in The Odd Couple. Larson needed a Felix Ungar to clean up after him.

Ah…here they are. Found my notes. More papers rustled. I spoke to the guard they knocked out. Said the driver is supposed to stay inside the truck while money is transferred. They must have forced Strickland to come outside, unless…

Unless what?

Larson coughed again. Unless he was the inside man.

And then they killed him?

Maybe to tie up loose ends. Maybe they wanted a bigger cut.

No way. Tom shook his head. He was a straight arrow. He’d never sell out. Any witnesses?

They’re useless. The bad guys wore masks and gloves, used automatic rifles and cop-killer ammo. The rounds blasted right through Strickland’s vest. They even policed their own brass before leaving the scene—like an assassin. No witnesses to speak of and little evidence.

Tom’s chair squeaked as he leaned back, staring out the window Oh, one other interesting bit of information. They blew up the armored truck. ATF is sniffing around the scene as we speak.

Military-grade explosives?

Maybe. Totally unnecessary. They had all the money—grabbed the keys off the other guard—and Strickland’s partner was no longer a risk. It’s like they wanted to make some kind of statement.

Tom remained quiet, trying to figure out why they’d kill his friend. They had what they came for. Why not walk away? Why risk murder with special circumstances? Made no sense.

Got a lead in y’alls jurisdiction, Larson said. Well, almost. I looked you fellas up. Appears Santa Rosa’s about an hour’s drive north of San Francisco near the coast, right? Wine country and great seafood? Just like us. Ralph’s drawl always made Tom think of fried chicken and gravy.

Yeah. Wine and seafood. A real paradise here in Sonoma County, except for a little murder and mayhem now and then.

Murder and mayhem? Give me a break, Kagan. Y’all come up here to the big city and see what real crime looks like. All those years in Seattle, and Larson still sounded like he’d never left the red-clay farms of Georgia. We got ourselves national and international traffic pouring through our city. Big companies, big names. Major, major crime. Now that’s what big cities are all about, my friend. Did I tell you about—?

Okay. Seattle’s big and bad. Please get to the point before my retirement kicks in. This guy wasted words like the government wasted tax dollars.

From what I hear, you’re old enough to give Methuselah a run for his money. Larson’s laughter turned into a hacking cough.

Big town cop. And now a comedian. Tom pursed his lips and glanced at the detective sitting in the next cubicle. Maybe he could get Patterson to run down this lead and let Tom get a little shut-eye. Ralph, Strickland’s death doesn’t make me wanna laugh. I’ve been up all night and all I want to do is get out of here.

Yeah, sorry about the jokes. Here’s the thing. This lead’s not significant enough for my boss to cut loose with travel money, but I think it might be important. And I knew I could trust you to check it out.

What do you want me to do?

All humor vanished from Larson’s voice. They killed one of your own. I know how that must hurt. Here’s a chance to get dirt on these crooks. You in?

I’ll handle it, Ralph. Give me the info.

One of the thieves dropped a matchbook at the scene. Maybe fell out as they jumped out of the van. Advertising a restaurant near you. I think they might’ve spent time in your area before they came up here and hit the armored car.

Tom reached into his desk drawer for a lined yellow tablet. He shifted the phone to his other ear. Give me the restaurant’s name. He jotted it down. Blue Oasis? That’s out in the country, but I’ll shoot over there and see what I can dig up. Anything else?

The robbery went down like clockwork. They knew when to hit. The guards were picking up their last load for the day, then heading back to the central vault.

Anything else?

Yeah, Larson said, his tone like someone sharing a secret, but only for your ears. The FBI’s sniffing around this case. They came in here all buddy-buddy, trying to figure out what we got. Treated us like Mayberry PD rednecks. Uh…no offense, Tom. I didn’t mean—

Forget it. Again with the big-city attitude. And look who’s talking about rednecks.

Larson seemed to lose his train of thought for a moment. Anyway, when I asked them if they had anything for us, they hemmed and hawed. I know when someone’s lying to me. These guys showed all the signs.

But they have jurisdiction. The heist was federally insured, right?

Yeah, but they killed a cop. An ex-cop. In my book that trumps their jurisdiction.

Me too, Ralph. Unfortunately, the Bureau is not going to agree with you. Tom closed his eyes and pictured Strickland and his family a few years ago at his friend’s retirement party. Jason’s wife, Charlene, had come up and given him a hug. Thanks for protecting my man, Tom. I hope you get out of this business while the gettin’s good. And now look what happened. If your time’s up, it’s up.

Tom…I didn’t tell them about this lead to California. Figured we’d keep it to ourselves. Okay?

Sure. Whatever you want.

Thanks. I ran this past my boss a few hours ago, and he agreed. I told him I trusted you with these details.

Appreciate the information, Ralph. Glad to help in any way I can.

And better watch your back, my friend. I trust these feds about as much as I trust a preacher to keep his sermon short.

Back at you, brother. Tom hung up the phone.

Sleep would have to wait. He needed to follow up on this lead himself. Too important to give to Pretty Boy Patterson. Tom pushed himself to his feet and walked toward the exit. Maybe a little drive into the country would clear his head. He eyed the storm through the window. Still nasty. It rustled a stand of maples, their canary-yellow and blood-red leaves whipping in the wind.

He got as far as the hallway before he remembered to run the address through the system to see what kind of police activity had been recorded at the Blue Oasis. Slapping his forehead, he turned. Jason’s death hit hard. He must focus. As Tom strode back to his computer, he caught Patterson eyeing him from across the room.

The young cop was in his late twenties, tipping the scales at around 180 pounds, with close-cropped, curly, coal-black hair—a Tom Selleck/Magnum P.I. look, only darker, shorter and greasier. Patterson liked to run his fingers through his curls, a habit that made Tom wonder if the guy had some hidden psychological needs—feelings of insecurity, masking his impatience, or what some headshrinkers labeled tactile sensory stimulation.

This term stuck in Tom’s brain from one of his on-again, off-again shrink visits. These nonvoluntary treks to the coach—ordered by the department before he could return to full duty—gave him a growing knowledge of the inner workings of the human mind. How valid this information might be was yet to be proven. He was always able to play a verbal hide-the-bean game without ever revealing what was going on in his own mind. So how smart could they be?

Tom steeled himself for whatever Patterson might ask. He seemed to want to know everything Tom did. At times he wondered if Patterson might be snitching him off to someone up the food chain. Maybe a particular lieutenant who wanted to exact a little revenge for Tom embarrassing him in front of the chief a while back. On the other hand, Patterson just might be interested in the inner workings of the Criminal Intelligence Unit.

Tom took a deep breath as he approached his desk. Everything else on the back burner. The only thing on his mind was to find out why his friend was killed. Until then, nothing else mattered.

Chapter 4

Oakland, California

A police cruiser rolled down the street, docks to the west and empty storefronts to the east. Paladin waited until the cops turned the corner before opening his car door. Run-down, shabby houses—each residence casting dismal yellow light from their windows onto broken concrete sidewalks—reminded him he’d entered enemy territory.

As he crossed the street toward the docks, he sensed he was not alone. Footsteps echoed in the darkness not more than twenty or thirty feet away. Coming fast.

He smiled. Time to strut his stuff. He kept his pace a little slower than those behind him. Let them come. Make them think they have the upper hand.

This made him feel alive. He felt like Paladin, a hired gunslinger with a chessboard knight as a calling card. He found the old television series Have Gun–Will Travel on Netflix. He became so captivated by this Civil War veteran he ordered the entire series on DVD. He wanted to become a modern-day gunslinger like the character who lived 150 years ago so he took the character’s name.

He guessed the strangers were fifteen steps away and slowing down. As they approached one of them yelled, Hey, white boy. Whatcha doing in our hood?

Paladin slowed and pivoted, balancing on the balls of his feet. It’s a free country…boy.

The second stranger snarled, Not here, honky. You gotta pay us tax if you wants to keep breathing. Whatcha got in yo’ wallet?

His partner snickered. Just like TV, bro. The two men circled Paladin like a couple of animals hunting in a pack—one to distract, one to move in for the kill.

If he fired the gun hidden under his jacket, it would attract witnesses from those shacks across the street. Witnesses might call the cops, but he doubted it. Nevertheless, this confrontation had to stay as quiet as possible. He needed to do business near here and did not want to draw attention. One of his would-be assailants had a bat, the other a knife.

Bat Man and Knife Boy.

He reached into his inner pocket and withdrew a collapsible ASP baton. He flicked it straight down and the hard metal extended to its full length as Knife Boy moved in to attack. Paladin whirled and brought the baton straight across the punk’s extended arm, cracking the bone. The blade fell as Knife Boy howled in pain.

As if moving in a choreographed dance, Paladin stepped backward and spun to his left, bringing his baton across Bat Man’s face, who screamed as it shattered his jawbone. Paladin struck the man’s arm still clutching the bat. Another bone popped, but Paladin didn’t waste any time.

He whipped the baton across Knife Boy’s head and finished with a sweeping blow to his knees. He dropped unconscious to the ground.

Bat Man tried to run, but Paladin caught him across the back of head. Crack! He slumped to the ground. Paladin glanced around the street absent of life. No one poked their heads out. He grabbed Bat Man by the collar and pulled him into an alleyway. A minute later Knife Boy joined his friend.

Now—back to business.

He moved toward the docks, heading to a specific warehouse. After he used a key to gain entry, he examined every square foot of the building, picturing where this operation had to be set up—his life and his crew’s depended upon it. Once he determined what he needed, Paladin relocked the building and walked back to his car.

He passed the alleyway where the Dynamic Duo lay. No one had come to their rescue. No one cared.

As he drove from the neighborhood, Paladin thought of all he’d seen in the last few years since she died. He was the only one who cared. Unlike those two piles of garbage, she added worth to this world. To his life. Yet her killers cast her aside like trash. And the court system let them get away with it.

He would make everyone pay. He had very few loved ones left in this world—and she had been the best.

He was only minutes away. A place of solitude. A place of protection for another person he cared about until he finished this last job. And then he would disappear.

By the time Paladin reached Folsom, California, the Sierra Mountain foothills beyond the city emerged from the darkness. The skyline turned a pale yellow as daylight claimed its rightful place. He pulled into a parking lot overlooking the American River and watched the water’s easy flow, tamed by the Folsom Dam a few miles upstream. Moments later he laid his head back and closed his eyes.

He must have been exhausted because the next time he opened his eyes, the sun had already climbed a quarter of the way into a cloudless blue sky. Others parked nearby without waking him.

Paladin figured they were well past their breakfast time. Traffic slowed down his progress, but he pulled into the residential-care facility at the exact time he estimated.

Leaving his car parked under a tree, he entered the single-story building, passed the entryway and kitchen without being stopped, and strode through the main hallway to the room he sought. He knocked on the door, more to alert the staff than to warn the occupant, then eased the door open.

She lay in bed, just as she had several weeks ago when he came for a visit. Eyes unblinking, staring at the ceiling, arms at her side resting on the bedcovers as the staff left her just before his arrival.

He sat in a chair next to the bed and set his hand on hers. Mom, it’s me. How’re ya doing this morn’n?

She did not respond, either to the sound of his voice or to his touch. As if he didn’t exist.

He raised his mother’s fragile hand and kissed her gnarled fingers. Her skin—marred by clusters of sunspots and wrinkles—felt cool. They taking good care of you?

Again, no response.

More than a year ago, his mother tumbled into the last stages of dementia, memory slipping beyond reach,