Page 133 of Into the Fire

“It’s not about the rifle.”

“Well, fuck a duck,” Tommy said. “Why do I get the sense you’re about to do that thing you do? An urgent need followed by an urgent request followed by an urgent timeline.”

“You said you’re in L.A. today. I need to see you.”

Tommy sighed, cigarette smoke blowing across the phone on the other end. “I’ll text you times.”

“Oh. And I might need to swap out trucks.”

Evan disconnected before Tommy’s cursing could pick up steam.

He texted Joey: NEED ADDRESS FOR BENJAMIN BEDROSOV.

He hopped out, dropped the bullet-scarred tailgate, and retrieved another set of license plates from one of the flat rectangular vaults overlaying the bed. After swapping out the plates, he climbed back into the driver’s seat.

Max was leaning forward onto the dashboard, resting his forehead against his hands. He seemed to be catching his breath. He looked over and noticed that Evan was in the same posture—face to his knuckles, hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to breathe. The adrenaline spike had receded, the headache returning angrier than before.

“What’s wrong with you?” Max sounded genuinely worried.

“I’m okay. Just need to close my eyes for a sec.”

“Bullshit.”

When Evan let his eyelids fall, it felt so good he thought it might be nice to never be awake again. “Concussion,” he finally said. “Just … haven’t slept in a while. So.”

“Let’s get you somewhere you can rest.”

“No time.” Evan used his arms to shove himself back in his seat.

“Why?” Max said. “What are we doing now?”

Evan forced his eyes open. “Going fishing.”

55

An Elaborate Piece of Business

Benjamin Bedrosov’s house, a nothing-to-see-here single-story perched on a steep hillside in Beachwood Canyon, squatted beneath a riot of bushy magnolias. No guard booths, no security fence, no locked gate—from the outside it looked as innocuous as Bedrosov himself. The relative privacy that he no doubt relished worked to Evan’s advantage now as he took on the Medeco dead bolt of the front door. The alarm system had been disabled, the wires beneath the main panel inside cleanly snipped and bypassed.

“Someone beat us here,” Evan said.

Max looked around warily. “Who?”

“Let’s find out.”

Splitting up, he and Max moved swiftly through the house, their search streamlined by the sterile modern interior. Bedrosov, it seemed, was no more a fan of decor and clutter than Evan was, which had no doubt made matters easy for the search team who’d moved through ahead of them. The plentiful windows, shaded by encroaching boughs, threw blocky light across bare tile floors.

A metal swoop intended for logs sat empty by the hearth. On the marble counter, an acrylic pasta holder contained a silo of red fusilli. The pantry held four cans of vegetarian beans, the refrigerator a jug of salsa and a half-drunk bottle of Chianti. In the garage a Tesla slumbered beneath a car cover. A small workbench backed by a pegboard held a few basic tools and a partially finished model of a World War II Flettner helicopter.

“Hey!” Max called out from somewhere deep in the house.

Evan stepped back into the house proper and walked down a bare corridor to the bedroom. Small monitors paneled one wall. They provided security views all around the property, another of Bedrosov’s precautions that would serve them well now in case unexpected visitors showed up.

Max stood across the room before an open wardrobe, hanging suits raked aside to reveal a wall safe.

“It was hidden behind this.” Max pointed to a panel of drywall he’d pried off and set to the side. “Almost seamless. But the cut was nonstandard, so I poked around some.”

“Nicely done,” Evan said.