Dragon's Den

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Pratt sputtered. “We haven’t seen a dime of that stuff, which means somebody’s going to end up dead because they’re cutting into our territory.”

“The only one that’ll wind up dead is you if I don’t get a better answer.” Bolan’s tone implied the validity of the threat.

“Then I’m dead, whitey, because I don’t got no answers. Whoever’s running this stuff through here had better watch their ass. L.A. belongs to the Bloods.”

“L.A. belongs to law-abiding citizens,” Bolan said. “So here’s a new slogan for your graffiti artists—stay out of my way and end this business. Otherwise I’m going to come back here and punch your ticket. Get it?”

“I thought you was going to kill me.”

Bolan’s cold and friendless smile matched the tone in his voice. “Not today.”

“You leave me alive, you won’t be long for this life.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bolan said. “If I hear you’re still in operation a week from now, it’ll be you who’s not long for this life.”

Bolan grabbed the drug-dealing gang member by his collar once more and took him to the floor. He then turned and left through the front door. He reached the rental he’d left parked a half block away within a minute and soon reached the expressway.

The probe hadn’t revealed much in the way of viable information, but Bolan now believed these drugs had nothing to do with the Bloods. He’d taken the mere chance that a grasp at straws might lead him somewhere; instead, he’d come away with more questions than answers. The Executioner had been in L.A. six hours, and he still didn’t know where the opium had come from or why somebody would have wasted seven people over a couple hundred kilos, especially when they had already managed to get twenty times that inside the country in the past sixty days. Bolan hoped Stony Man’s far-reaching network came up with something more solid.

In the meantime, he still had a couple more doors on his list.

3

Even from early childhood, Rhonda Amherst knew she wanted to be a police officer.

She didn’t necessarily believe in destiny, but she felt something like that every time she thought of her inevitable entry into law enforcement. On her twelfth birthday she’d become copresident of the Neighborhood Watch Program of suburban L.A., and by fifteen she had joined the Sheriff’s Explorer Program. By eighteen she’d been accepted to UCLA under a scholarship, and during her years in college she served with the Big Sister program. Amherst graduated UCLA with honors at age twenty-two holding a degree in criminal justice.

That’s when life really began for Amherst. She went straight into the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Recruit Training Center, graduated top of her class, and soon she returned to patrol the same streets of the neighborhood where she had grown up. Amherst volunteered for every special assignment or training course she could manage when they came along—few and far between as they were—but it eventually paid off and got her the notice of the entire LASD and eventually led to her promotion to sergeant. One of her favorite volunteer jobs involved boat patrols done in extra shifts. From a very early age she had taken to the water like a bird dog. Before she knew it, her CO recommended Sergeant Amherst for a position as his lieutenant when he took the captaincy at Marina del Rey Station. Four short years later, he suffered a stroke that disabled him permanently, and since Amherst happened to be testing for a captain’s slot, she seemed a shoo-in for the position. She had just completed her second year as captain, not only one of the youngest captains in the department but also the first female to achieve that rank so quickly.

What had gained Rhonda Amherst the most respect in her position was that she’d accomplished everything through hard work. She didn’t subscribe to the political maneuvering that involved others. Most of her subordinates and fellow officers would have described her as easygoing and friendly, a leader’s leader who really cared about each and every officer under her command, but also as a tough and no-nonsense cop. She held a second-degree black belt in tae kwon do, and possessed an unrivaled record of felony arrests.

All of her success came from the internal drive to protect others with integrity and honor. That same drive caused her to put down the bottle of scented bath crystals she had just started to pour into her garden tub and go answer the jangling telephone. She’d heard a little activity over the scanner but chose to ignore it as it didn’t sound like anything going down in her district. Beside the fact, she tried to reserve at least one night a week where she didn’t think about work, time she chose to devote to herself.

“Yes?” she said into the receiver.

“It’s me.”

“Nesto, to what do I owe such a pleasure?” Amherst teased him. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks. You don’t call, you don’t write—”

“This is more of an official call, I’m afraid.”

Amherst had known Nesto Lareza since high school. They were just about as best friends as a man and woman could be next to taking it to the romantic level, which they had once tried in an exercise that failed miserably. Amherst could hear the tone in Lareza’s voice, and he didn’t sound happy.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m here at the house of Antoine Pratt,” Lareza said. “Got called here after someone dialed 9-1-1 and reported shots fired and what sounded like an explosion.”

“Pratt lives in Ladera Heights,” she said, recalling it almost instantaneously from her memory. She’d made it a habit to be familiar with the movements of certain elements. “Did somebody finally take him out? Another rival gang or something? If so, I’m throwing a party.”

“This wasn’t a rival gang,” he said. “Just one guy.”

Amherst felt her blood immediately run cold. She couldn’t explain why, but for some reason Lareza’s statement made her think of Matt Cooper. Amherst had called to check Agent Cooper’s credentials as soon as he left, and the Department of Justice confirmed not only his status with the DEA but his authorization to investigate the sudden flood of drugs into Los Angeles. And further, people at the “highest level would appreciate it if Captain Amherst cooperated with Cooper’s investigation in every way possible.”

Amherst tried to keep her voice neutral. “So why call me?”

“Well, Pratt’s not talking but one of his boys got diarrhea of the mouth as soon as we arrived. This guy had some interesting things to tell me, but I don’t want to get into any more of that over the phone. I think we should meet.”

“You told me this was more official.”

Lareza sighed deeply. “Look, it is official but it’s also kind of unofficial, what I have to tell you. Can you just meet me, Rhonda?”

“Sure,” she said. “Tell me where and when.”

“You remember Cappie’s?”

“Of course,” she said, recalling the renovated fishing wharf turned restaurant that had become a popular hangout for UCLA alumni.

“I get off at eleven, so I’ll meet you there about quarter-to-twelve. Okay?”

“I’ll be there,” she said, and hung up.

It had been one of the weirdest calls she could ever remember receiving from Lareza, but also one of the most intriguing. She couldn’t fathom why whatever had transpired at the home of Antoine Pratt would have anything to do with her. Apparently Lareza felt otherwise, and she’d learned to trust her friend’s judgment. Something Lareza heard obviously led him to believe it would be of interest to Amherst, and yet sensitive enough he didn’t want to draw undue attention.

Amherst could only recall confiding in him recently on one topic, and that had been the sheriff’s unwillingness to pursue the major influx of opium into L.A. County neighborhoods. Now, with the DEA involved, it only stood to reason the stuff would start going public and the need for secrecy made naught. But on the other hand, maybe the sheriff’s position hadn’t changed. Maybe more existed here than Amherst believed, and maybe this involved more than just drugs and gangs.

Amherst would have to keep her wits about her, because in a very short time she knew she’d need to call on them under the direst circumstances.

T HE FISH BATTER and din of voices were the only two things thicker than the smoke in Cappie’s Lounge.

An observer might have concluded the lounge catered mostly to the yuppie clientele, but, in fact, Cappie’s served a mixer of rowdy college students—mostly they congregated in the bar and pool area.

The alumni or faculty—the adults, in other words—confined their activities to the restaurant. In either case, Amherst had come to adore the lounge. For one thing, most cops wouldn’t be caught dead in such a place, except in an undercover role. That meant it unlikely anybody would spy on her there or she’d run into anyone uncomfortable.

Lareza studied Amherst over the rim of his glass. He’d been watching her intently as she devoured her third helping of fish. He seemed almost stone-faced except for that damn smirk that occasionally played across his lips. The fact Amherst couldn’t figure out why he kept staring at her with that ridiculous expression only served to irritate her. Finally, Amherst put down her fork, wiped away the grease from her lips and washed her food down with a swig from an ice-cold bottle of beer.

“I hate to eat alone,” she said. “Why didn’t you order anything?”

“I told you I’m not hungry.”

Amherst dropped her napkin on the table next to her plate, grabbed the bottle in one hand, stuffed the other in her pocket and then leaned back. She wiped the bottle across her forehead. The temperature seemed to have gone up ten degrees since they arrived forty minutes earlier.

“So, what was so damn hush-hush you couldn’t tell me on the phone?”

Lareza sat forward and put both forearms flat on the table. His hands visibly tightened as he dropped his tone some, making it much more difficult to hear him over the music blaring from the jukebox speakers mounted strategically throughout the establishment. His dark brown eyes gleamed under the diffuser-shade lamp that hung over their table. He’d always been a handsome guy, partly rugged with his dark skin and partly teddy bear with those dimples. He wore his black hair short and slicked back.

“The guy I questioned tonight, he’s a bodyguard and enforcer for Antoine Pratt.”

“You already mentioned that,” Amherst replied with a nod. “What’s his story?”