Page 98 of Into the Fire

“And he’s currently in Twin Towers.”

“Awaiting trial for wire fraud,” Joey said. “Looks like he’ll be tried under Penal Code 186.10 as a felony. Been there about a month and a half.”

Evan checked the date. “Right around when payments began to Brust and Nuñez.”

“Like you said, he put the detectives in place to cover his ass and squelch the investigation. I’m not big on reading legal mumbo jumbo, but from the prosecutor’s internal memos here”—she swiveled to an investigative document projected onto the south wall—“it looks like they know they don’t have a solid case. The bureau director himself called it ‘thin’ twice in the case-review memo.” Click, highlight. “Like, youch, right? Bedrosov’ll probably walk, same as he did every time before. The guy does an exceptional job insulating himself from Petro and everyone else beneath him.”

“Which makes Grant’s files that much more damning,” Evan said. “Wires, accounts, transactions, code names—all linking back to Bedrosov. And the cash thresholds are probably high enough to take the case federal. Then you’re not talking a few years in prison for a conviction. You’re talking twenty per. That doesn’t just put him away. It sinks him for good.”

He thought back to Grant Merriweather’s final moments, confused and depleted. He’d given his life uncovering the evidence to take down Bedrosov’s operation. He’d been hired by dirty cops with a hidden agenda. By doing his job well, he’d turned it into a death sentence. For himself and for Max.

If Evan didn’t shut Bedrosov down, he’d send the next wave of hit men after Max. And another wave after that.

Evan stared at Grant’s thumb drive, currently slotted into a USB port. The attached Swiss Army knife key chain protruded, a mundane hiding place for a data dump that had cost twenty lives and counting. Bedrosov had presided over the whole bloody mess with calm upper-management demeanor, a pleasing façade, and a psychopath’s willingness to dispatch anyone in his way.

Evan had faced evil before in various guises—dark and dirty, passionate and zealous, powerful and cruel. But he’d never gone up against someone so … ordinary. This mission moved against the grain of all those that had come before. Rather than winding into increasing perversion and turpitude, it seemed to arc upward toward a kind of warped legitimacy. He kept looking for a clear enemy, but the faces he continued to encounter were seemingly interchangeable. Terzian and Petro and Brust and Nuñez and Bedrosov were variations on the same theme, a progression of men seeking profit at any cost.

As if reading his thoughts, Joey said, “I thought we’d finally get to some master villain, you know? Someone who looks the part. But he’s not a villain any more than those dirty cops were. It’s like they’re all pieces of a villain that have to be put together for us to see. And that makes them worse, almost. ’Cuz they can pretend none of them are to blame.” Her dark eyes were shiny, her hair twisted down to cover one eye. She’d withdrawn into herself, but Evan could hear in her voice how keenly she felt the outrage. “The guy does whatever he wants to whoever he wants and gets away with it.”

“Not anymore,” Evan said.

Joey’s eyes were glassy, drinking in the evidence writ large on the walls.

Evan thought about the epiphany that had hit him after he’d taken out Petro: That he wasn’t fighting a snake but a hydra. That the fanged mouths would keep multiplying until he reached the commanding head and severed it. He hoped that was Bedrock. But this time he had to make sure of it.

“While I’m doing this,” he said, “you dig into Bedrock’s connections, bank records, comms, e-mails, everything. I’ve been caught on the back foot three times now. I need to know that if I walk out of this alive, I’m done.”

Joey’s eyes flared at the “if,” but he gestured her aside, not wanting to get bogged down. After she vacated the chair, he rattled around in Google, coming up with a slew of articles from April about Armenian pride rallies. A San Diego feature contained several photographs depicting some of the marchers and naming them in the captions.

Evan started highlighting names and running them through the databases.

“What are you doing?” Joey said.

He waved her off. From her dish of cobalt pebbles, Vera II looked on in support.

The fourth name, Paytsar Hovsepian, threw back a useful report from NCIC. A stoned outing in his senior year of high school had ended with a conviction for vandalism. He’d made threatening remarks to the arresting officer, earning him a position on the Violent Person file.

Even more helpful was his profile information. Mid-thirties. Lean build. Average height. Just an ordinary guy, not too handsome.

Evan went back to the online article depicting Paytsar holding a sign that read NO PLACE FOR DENIAL. With his other hand, he flashed the peace sign.

Evan double-clicked on the high-res photo. Great focus, strong lighting.

Precisely what he needed.

He zoomed in on the two fingers held aloft. Tighter, tighter.

“X,” Joey said, “why are you dicking around with this right now?”

From his other side, Vera II cheered him on silently. Another reason to prefer the company of plants.

The photo resolution held. He captured the image, sent it to his RoamZone.

“Wait,” Joey said. “Is that…? Are you…?” She shook her head. “No way. No fucking way.”

“Language,” he said.

He grabbed his phone from the charger, scratched Dog the dog on the head, headed out of the Vault.