and simply blame someone else for their horrible acts. Are you certain you aren’t solely responsible for your actions? Maybe it’s time you took some responsibility.”
Dawson turned red. What was the deal with this asshole?
“Did you not fuckin’ hear me?” Dawson said. “Get your faggy ass over to wherever the other lawyers are and tell ‘em I want a deal. And I want it fast. And while you’re at it, go fuck yourself.”
The lawyer opened his briefcase, turned it sideways and pulled out a gun.
“A verdict has been reached,” he said.
“What the fuck?” Dawson said.
“Instead of a judge, a guilty plea was accepted by an officer of the court. Someone called…The Commissioner?”
Dawson’s face blanched.
The lawyer pulled off his moustache, smiled, and shot Dawson in the throat.
85.
Nicole
A gunshot rocked the air around Nicole’s head. She ran to the edge of the trail and peered down. Tristan was on her feet, her gun in her hand. The other attacker was on his back, his chest a bloody mess.
Tristan looked at Nicole as Sal shot past her. Nicole spun on her heel in time to see Sal race down the trail in the direction the long-haired freak had gone.
Now Nicole had no choice.
She had to protect Sal. She ran, following a thin cloud of dust and dirt that still hung in the air.
From below, she heard Sal howl. Nicole couldn’t tell if it was from pain or if he was attacking.
She charged down the hill, the thick, sharp chaparral brush cutting her legs and arms as she went. She stumbled and fell, rolling down the final few feet of the grade until she came up on her feet. Both knives were still clenched in her hands. Her breath was short and rapid.
She spotted them immediately.
The man was on his back, Salvatore on top of him. The dog had the man by his throat. The long-haired coward had a stone in his hand and was clubbing Sal on the head with it. Even from where Nicole stood, she saw that the blows were weak.
Blood gushed from Sal’s head.
The man looked at Nicole. His eyes were a cool blue fire and Nicole couldn’t tell if he was laughing or if the power of Sal’s jaws clamped on his throat were forcing the man’s mouth into a lopsided leer.
Nicole held the knives at her side. She looked down, saw blood all over her hands and arms.
She looked back up toward the rise. No one was there.
“Help me,” the man said.
She saw a bubble of blood pop from the man’s mouth.
The stone dropped from his hand.
“Sal,” Nicole said.
The big Doberman shifted his body but didn’t let go of the man’s throat.
“Sal, that’s enough,” Nicole said.
Thick red blood, part of it frothy, gushed from the man’s mouth. His eyes rolled back into his head.
“Drop it,” Nicole commanded, her voice low and firm.
Salvatore looked at her.
And then he lifted his head.
And when he did, most of the man’s throat came with it.
“Good boy,” Nicole said.
Salvatore wagged his tail.
Nicole sat down in the dirt.
And cried.
86.
Blue Blood
Douglas Hampton pulled up in the big BMW outside an office complex in Long Beach, California. The building was fifteen stories, and the parking lot was occupied by mostly Toyotas and Hondas.
The sign read Sycamore Hills Business Park.
Hampton had sent the email address associated with the obviously non-existent Alpha Delta Entertainment to the woman in IT at Hampton Industries who claimed she could tell him anything from an email address.
Within minutes, an address had popped up on his Blackberry. From the Holiday Inn in Omaha, he had made the trip in less time than it would have taken for the average person flying to get to the airport, check in, make the trip, and get off the plane. The BMW had a V-12 and he had a built-in radar detector.
Now, he looked at the office building. Sycamore Hills. Yeah, right. More like, Depressing Suburban Shithole.
The sight of the building infuriated him and it took a moment for him to understand why. If this was the headquarters of The Commissioner, then he, Douglas Hampton, had been blackmailed by some pissant loser who made his living in a low-rent shitty Long Beach office building.
Hampton watched the activity around the complex. He quickly garnered that business was slow at Sycamore Hills.
A UPS truck pulled up and the jackass in his little brown uniform ran in with a package and a few minutes later ran back out. A fat woman with a cell phone pressed to her ear walked