The Final Twist
- Автор: Дивер Джеффри
- Серия: Colter Shaw #3
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: G.P. Putnam's Sons
- ISBN: 978-0-525-53913-1
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «The Final Twist». Краткое содержание книги:
Following the enigmatic clues his father left behind, Shaw plays cat and mouse with the company’s sadistic enforcers, as he speeds from one gritty neighborhood in the City by the Bay to another. Suddenly, the job takes on a frightening urgency: Only by finding the courier bag can he expose the company and stop the murder of an entire family — slated to die in forty-eight hours.
With the help of an unexpected figure from his past, and with the enforcers closing the net, Shaw narrows in on the truth — and learns that the courier bag contains something unexpected: a secret that could only be described as catastrophic.
They soon spotted their destination. Lou’s was the name of the bar and it was right out of central set design for a 1960s chopped-cycle movie. Peeling paint, grimy windows, a few unsteady tables and less steady chairs out in front, presently unoccupied. Two Harleys and a Moto Guzzi cycle leaned at the curb.
Russell parked and the two men got out, adjusting jacket and coat to make sure their pistols were invisible.
The interior of the bar was dim and smelled of Lysol and cigarette smoke. The only décor, aside from the ignored no smoking sign, was old and fly-specked posters of surfers — more women than men — along with a wooden Nazi iron cross and a picture of Berchtesgaden, Hitler’s mountain retreat.
There were a half-dozen Bayneck crew sitting at three tables. They’d been talking, before they turned en masse to gape at the newcomers. Breakfast beers, in bottles, and coffee mugs clustered on the scarred table. Four of them were classic bikers: huge and inked, with long frizzy beards and hair to the shoulders or in ponytails. Their cloth of choice was denim. The remaining two — slimmer — had shaved heads. One wore a Pendleton flannel shirt, the other a T-shirt under a bomber jacket. Both were in Doc Martens boots. One had a skateboard at his feet. Shaw knew that in this gang culture, extreme sports like boarding and, his own, motocross, were popular.
The smallest of the bearded men — marginally the oldest, Shaw estimated — looked them over and said in a gravelly voice, “Well, you’re here for some reason. They don’t letcha wear face hair like that in the Bureau or SFPD so this’s about something else. Maybe you’re with an organization” — he rolled the word out, adding an extra syllable or two — “that might have a contrary interest to ours.”
Shaw noticed the bartender, a stocky man, balding, drop his hands below the level of the bar. And one of the shaved-headed men casually put his hand on his thigh. “This’s a private club. Why don’t you get the fuck out?”
Russell unbuttoned his jacket.
Shaw said, “Who’s got the MGX-21?”
It was a top-of-the-line Moto Guzzi, and a beautiful cycle. The body was black and the cylinder head and front brake pad bright red.
The leader of the gang cut a glance to the bartender, whose hands became visible once more.
“Mine,” said the biggest of the bikers.
“Hundred horses?” Shaw asked.
“Close enough. You ride?”
“I do.”
“Bike?”
Shaw said, “Yamaha.”
“XV1900?”
This was the largest Yamaha in production.
“Smaller.”
“Figured,” the leader said, both grunting and snickering simultaneously.
The leader said, “Now that we’re done comparing dicks, why don’t you take my young associate’s advice.” He nodded to the door.
Russell said, “We’re looking for somebody. If you can help us it’ll be worth something for you.”
“Explain yourself.”
Russell said, “I’m reaching for my phone.” He did this very slowly. He held out the picture of Blond.
The man wouldn’t know he was looking at a dead man. Karin had yet another talent apparently: Photoshop. She’d removed the bullet hole and adjusted the eyes a bit. Apparently there was a filter called “Liquify,” Russell had explained, which gave the deceased man a bit of a smile. The image was grotesque only if you knew the truth.
“He scammed our mother out of twenty K,” Russell added.
The brothers had prepared what they thought was a credible story, Russell providing most of the material. After all, he was the one who had been the director of the “mugging” theater outside of the safe house yesterday morning.
The leader frowned. Whatever this gang did for a living, robbing mothers was apparently off the table.
Shaw said, “We know he’s some connection with a crew here. You get us his real name and who he runs with, there’s a thousand in it for you. So, he wear your colors?”
The six men looked at the picture again, then regarded one another.
The leader said, “Not one of us. Never seen him.”
The others agreed. Shaw believed they were telling the truth. There had not been a single flash of recognition in any eye.
Russell put his phone away.
The Bayneck in the flannel shirt — a twitchy man — said, “I think our looking was worth something.” It was he who’d placed his hand on his thigh earlier, and the fingers now moved closer to where his weapon would rest.
For a very long moment not a soul moved.
Then the biggest of the bikers said, “Naw, forget it. Too early for that kind of shit. And I ain’t finished but one beer yet. So I’m not in any mood.”
The leader said, “All I’ll say is why weren’t you looking after your mother? Two grown men like you. Sad. Now, get on out.”
27
Now the SUV was cruising through a different part of the district.
They were on their way to the Hudson Kings’ headquarters.
They were near the waterfront and Shaw looked out on the dark water at the decommissioned Hunters Point Naval Shipyard, dominated by the massive gantry crane that bore a skeletal resemblance to the battleships whose turrets it lifted off so that the cannon could be replaced fast. A huge civilian and naval shipbuilding and repair facility for more than a hundred years, the yard was now closed and parcels were being sold off for condominiums and commercial buildings — that is, if and when the land was decontaminated. The place was a Superfund toxic waste site and much of it was still tainted, including by radioactive materials. It was from this shipyard that the USS Indianapolis sailed to the Mariana Islands, its cargo parts for Little Boy and Fat Man, the atomic bombs that were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in August of 1945.
Cleanup was a big business here. Many small craft operated by a company called BayPoint Enviro-Sure Solutions were collecting drums with hazard warnings stenciled on the sides. The workers were wearing so much protective gear, they looked like astronauts laboring on the moon.
Russell turned and steered away from the water. A moment later he pointed to a storefront. “That’s it.”
There was nowhere to park nearby so he drove a block and a half farther, and pulled to the curb. The brothers climbed out and started to walk toward the storefront.
A trio of rats slipped from an abandoned warehouse nearby and nonchalantly vanished into a drain.
“Yo, you buying, man?”
The voice belonged to a skinny young man sitting on an unsteady chair in front of a dubious shop selling prepaid phones and minutes cards, along with vaping paraphernalia. Two figures inside were speaking into flip cells.
The brothers moved on without responding.
Some kids, from teens to mid-twenties, were clustered together on the corner between the brothers and the social club. They were smoking joints, a few cigarettes. The clothing was hoodies and T-shirts and baggy slacks. Their running shoes were nice, and the hairstyles ranged from shaved to elaborate works of art. A few wore medallions, chains and other bling. They looked over the white men walking slowly past and grew energized, whispering and snickering. They were assessing the men as easy targets: beard on one, slim build on another.
Three of the crew broke from the clutch and strode up the sidewalk, stepping in front of and stopping Shaw and his brother.
“You need directions? I give you directions. You know what I’m saying? C-note, and I give you directions.”
“You lost? They lost.”
“What you about, man?” A young man got right in Shaw’s face.