The Sentry by Robert Crais Page B

sagged as he lost consciousness. Pike held him until the man went limp, then lowered him and tied his wrists behind his back with a plasticuff. Pike had made dozens of high-speed entries in different parts of the world, usually into tear-gassed rooms where armed hostiles hid behind hostages, desperate to kill him. His moves now were practiced and efficient.
    Out in the far service bay, the two men were still busy with the fender when Pike left the office. They were fitting the driver’s side front fender in place, one man bolting the front, the other the back. Pike angled to their midpoint blind spot, and drew his .357 as he closed. Behind him, Vin Scully filled the silence, saying what a fine acquisition Snell had been from the Kansas City Royals.
    Pike hit the first man with the pistol above the right ear, then pivoted to meet the second man, thumbing the hammer to let the man hear the pistol cock.
    The man stared, mouth open but soundless.
    Pike tipped the muzzle toward the floor.
    “Down. Hands behind your head.”
    The man did it immediately.
    Pike tied off both men at their ankles and wrists, then whispered to the man who was still awake.
    “Man in the office. What’s his name?”
    “Hector Perra.”
    “Close your eyes. Make a sound, I’ll kill you.”
    He closed his eyes.
    Hector was on his feet when Pike returned to the office. He was spinning in a circle like a dog chasing its tail, trying to see his wrists. Then he saw Pike, lowered his head, and charged.
    Pike guided him headfirst into the door frame, jerked him upright, then snapped a backfist onto the bridge of his nose. Hector’s eyes fogged, but Pike held him up.
    “Look at me. Focus.”
    Hector’s eyes cleared.
    Pike made his hand like a gun with his thumb up and index finger out, and pointed at Hector.
    “Remember?”
    Pike hit him again, moving so fast Hector did not see it coming. His head snapped back, but Pike had not hit him hard. Pike wanted him awake.
    “Where are they?”
    “Whachu talking about?”
    “The people who own the sandwich shop.”
    “I don’t know, bro. Whachu talking about?”
    Pike studied the dark eyes. They were angry and fearful, but also confused. Father Art told him the Malevos had over sixty known members spread throughout Venice. Not all of them would be part of every crime committed, nor even know what the other members were doing. Pike decided Hector was telling the truth.
    “Where’s Mendoza?”
    “How the fuck I’m supposed to know? Off doing his thing.”
    “You see him this morning?”
    “Man, we ain’t married. I got my own life.”
    Pike hit him again, harder than before, then shook him to help clear his head.
    “When’s the last time you saw him?”
    “Yesterday. After his release.”
    “Where?”
    Pike wanted to see if Hector was playing it straight.
    “Here, bro. Homes made bail, he hung out for a while, then split. You know how it is.”
    “Where’d he go when he left here?”
    “Home to his old lady, I guess. I dunno. We was gonna get together, but I never heard back.”
    “Was Gomer with him?”
    “I dunno.”
    Pike searched Hector for weapons, but found only keys, a cell phone, and a wallet. He held up the keys.
    “The Monte Carlo?”
    Hector nodded, and Pike jerked him to the door.
    “Let’s go. Outside.”
    “You takin’ my car?”
    “I’m taking you.”

13
    P ike shoved Hector into the passenger seat, then slid in behind the wheel and powered away. Hector shriveled from Pike like a deflating balloon, his eyes snapping like shutters.
    “Where you takin’ me? Where we goin’, homes?”
    Pike didn’t answer. He drove five blocks into the residential neighborhood to put distance between himself and the body shop before he pulled to the curb. Hector shrank even farther away, inching up the door.
    Pike went through Hector’s wallet. He found thirty-two dollars, pictures of people who were probably Hector’s family, some discount coupons, and two California driver’s