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"What?" Overby asked.
"Serrano's a pepper. Just saying."
Foster read texts. Sent some.
Allerton thought for a moment, said, "I think we should try again, to turn him, I mean. Offer him more money."
"No interest," Dance said. "Serrano's not an option. I say we put better surveillance on Guzman. Get a team in place."
Overby scoffed. "What, Kathryn, twenty-four/seven? You know what that costs? Try the pizza boy, try the domestic staff. Keep following up on the other leads." Overby looked at his watch. "I'll leave it to you guys and gals to work it out." His body language suggested that he regretted using the second g-word. Political correctness, Dance reflected, could be so tedious. Overby rose and walked to the door.
And nearly got decked as TJ Scanlon pushed inside. He looked past them and into the observation room. Eyes wide. He was sweating, out of breath. "Where's Serrano?"
"He just left," Dance told him.
The agent's brow was furrowed. "Shit."
"What's up, TJ?" Overby asked sharply.
"He's gone?" the young agent exclaimed.
Foster snapped. "What?"
"Just got a call from Amy Grabe." FBI special agent in charge of the San Francisco office. "They busted this guy in Salinas for possession, major. He gave up Serrano."
"Gave him up?" Foster snapped.
TJ nodded. "Boss, Serrano's on Guzman's payroll."
"What?" Dance gasped.
"He's a shooter. He was the triggerman took out Sad Eyes. Serrano picked up the BMW at Guzman's that afternoon, popped Sad, then went back and finished his shift planting daisies or pansies or whatever. He's taken out four witnesses for Guzman in the last six months."
"Fucking hell," Foster snapped. His eyes on Dance. "Outfielder for the A's?"
"Is it confirmed?"
"They found the piece Serrano used. Ballistics check out. And he was printed when he got his green card; the gun's got Serrano's prints all over it."
"No," Dance muttered. She flung the door open and began sprinting down the hall.
He grabbed her before she got three feet into the parking lot behind CBI. He'd stepped to the side to light a cigarette and glanced up, shock in his eyes, as Dance burst through the door.
The tackle took her down hard and she sprawled on the concrete. She got her Glock out of her holster, but fast as a striking snake, he pulled the gun from her hand. He didn't turn it her way, though. He saw that she was lying stunned on the ground and turned and fled, a pounding sprint.
"Serrano!" she called. "Stop!"
He glanced at his car, realized he couldn't get to it in time. He looked around and spotted, nearby, a slim redheaded woman in a black pantsuit--an employee of the CBI business office. She was climbing out of her Altima, which she'd just parked between two SUVs. He sprinted directly toward her, flung her to the ground. And ripped the keys from her hands. He leapt inside the sedan, started the engine and floored the accelerator.
The sounds of the squealing, smoking tires and the engine were loud. But they didn't cover the next sound: a sickening crunch from the wheels. The woman's screams stopped abruptly.
"No!" Dance muttered. "Oh, no." She rose to her feet, gripping her sore wrist, which had slammed into the concrete walk from his tackle.
The others in the Guzman Connection task force ran to Dance.
"I've called an ambulance and MCSO," TJ Scanlon said and ran to where the redhead was lying in the parking space.
Foster raised his Glock, aiming toward the vanishing Altima.
