The Final Twist Jeffery Deaver (ebook reader with android os TXT) 📖

Russell looked through the telescope again. He then gave it to Shaw, who scanned the clearing. He could see that the bags contained small packets of pills. These they handed over to the gangsters. The van man who’d kept the map now unfurled it.

“UIP,” Shaw said. “Ashton’s letter I showed you?”

His brother nodded, understanding blossoming in his face. He’d be recalling the Urban Improvement Plan, the cruelly ironic name for the BlackBridge operation that dumped hundreds of pounds of drugs on the streets of neighborhoods to destroy them.

Shaw said, “Monkey wrench.” He dialed 911.

The woman’s calm voice: “What’s the nature of your emergency?”

“There’s a drug deal in the construction site behind Turk at Simpson. I think they might have guns . . . wait, yes, they do!” He put some urgent dismay into his voice, a rattled citizen. He described the men and then disconnected without giving the requested identifying information about himself. Dispatchers were often skeptical about anonymous calls, but with a big drug deal, they’d definitely send a patrol cruiser.

And indeed they did. Almost immediately Shaw heard a vehicle approaching over the gravel. It was an SFPD car with two officers inside.

“That was fast,” Russell said, frowning.

The squad car drove right up to the van and the cops climbed out. The driver was a Latino patrol uniform. The other, a tall Anglo, was a detective, wearing a light gray suit, a badge on his belt. They looked over the van men and the two Filipinos. Shaw found himself tensing in anticipation of a firefight. He and Russell would not want to get involved, but he dropped his hand near his gun, in case any of the crew charged their way to escape up the alley, with their own weapons drawn.

The foursome turned toward the cops. One of the men from the van nodded a greeting. The detective smiled back.

“Hell.” A whisper from Shaw.

The gold shield had a discussion with the van men. Then all six in the construction zone turned and gazed around them, as Shaw and his brother ducked once more.

“Why they were here so fast,” Russell said. “The cops were up the street standing guard.”

“They going to come looking?”

But no. The men in the center of the cleared land stopped scanning; they’d apparently decided that whoever had dimed them out via the 911 call had, like most concerned citizens, hightailed it away. The two officers gave some words of farewell, maybe including the advice: pick a less visible place to meet next time. The taller of the van men gestured to one of the BNGs who fished some packets of Oxy or fent out of his bag and handed them to the officers, who nodded thanks then drove away.

The bangers and the BlackBridge duo pored over the map once more, so the distributors knew what neighborhood they were to poison today.

“How much?” Shaw asked.

“Value? At the group we don’t get into that much. Guess a hundred K.”

Scattering it on the street for free or at a bargain price. But, of course, Mr. Rolls would be making a thousand times that in the real estate deal.

The business was concluded—thick envelopes were handed out to the BNG men, who placed them, along with the drugs, into the shoulder bags. The van men returned to their vehicle, which was soon speeding away, leaving a trail of dust.

It was only then that Shaw realized it was a workday, and construction equipment and supplies were present, yet the site was completely devoid of workers. The owner—presumably Mr. Rolls—would have ordered the place closed down for the meeting.

And who are you? Shaw wondered of the man in the Rolls. Did you ever hear the name Ashton Shaw? Did your hands twitch and your mouth smile as Irena Braxton told you that one of her men was on the way to the Shaw Compound to have a “conversation” about what he’d discovered?

They didn’t have license tags for an ID, but maybe Karin could get a facial recognition hit.

The BNGs donned flashy wraparound sunglasses—the lenses orange—and started out of the site.

The brothers rose.

As Shaw started after the gangbangers Russell turned the other way—back to the alley where they’d parked their SUV.

Both men realized they were on opposite courses and looked back to regard the other.

Shaw whispered, “We’ve got to stop them. This way.” Nodding toward the BNGs.

Russell said, “No.”

Shaw flashed back immediately to the avalanche field of their youth so many years ago, when he had sped out to save the life of the woman photographer on the steep and dangerous slope—and Russell had held back.

It’s not our job . . .

He was about to lay out the urgent case for stopping the BNGs when his brother said tersely, “You thought I was leaving?”

Shaw didn’t reply.

“Hawker’s Pass,” his brother muttered, seemingly irritated, and continued on his way.

Shaw said, “Oh.”

30

In the shadows, close to the brick walls in the alley, Shaw followed the slim men who stalked up the cobblestones out of the demolition zone. He stepped over several dead rats and two more men, sprawled on their sides. They were breathing.

Where were the two Filipinos going to scatter their goods like farmers sowing corn seeds in the spring? What property did Mr. Rolls have his eye on?

He picked up his pace; the men ahead of him were walking quickly.

When they were nearly to the end of the alley, one glanced down and touched his partner on the arm. They stopped, removed the gaudy sunglasses and glanced at the wallet, lying on the cobblestones. They looked up and down the alley and spotted Shaw. He was strolling along in the same direction as they, paying the two no mind, pretending to talk on his cell phone as if in the middle of a pleasant conversation, perhaps a romantic one. Their looks revealed they didn’t consider him a threat.

Red Shirt took a packet of drugs from his bag. While they were being paid to scatter the product on sidewalks and in alleys,