by Don Winslow
“I thought you’d be Carter,” Castillo says to him.
Malone shakes his head. “You killed one of my brothers. Another one is brain dead.”
“It’s a dangerous game that we play,” Castillo says. “We all know the risks. So what are we going to do here?”
Castillo smiles.
Satan’s smile on meeting Faust.
A quick look tells Malone that the Dark Horse is all there. They were just cutting it to put it out on the streets.
His streets.
Last time he stood in this spot he made the worst mistake of his life. Now he says, “You’re under arrest. You have the right to—”
Malone hears the two pops.
They drive him forward like punches and he falls face-first but rolls before he hits and looks up to see Tenelli.
His finger squeezes the trigger and keeps squeezing.
The four shots hit her low to high, running up from her groin to her stomach, her chest and then her neck.
Her black hair whips her face.
She swats at the wound on her neck like it’s a mosquito.
Then sits down on the floor and looks at Malone with this funny little smile like she’s surprised she’s dying, like she can’t believe she’s stupid enough to let herself get killed.
A croak comes deep from her chest and her eyes pop and she’s gone.
Malone pushes himself up.
The pain is awful.
He hollers and then spews vomit. Hunches over, pukes again and then looks down and sees blood coming out from the exit wound below his vest. He touches the wound and blood seeps through his fingers, making them red, hot and sticky.
Malone aims the gun at Castillo’s head and pulls the trigger.
Hears the metallic click and knows it’s empty.
Castillo laughs. Gets up from his chair and walks over. Puts his hand on Malone’s chest and pushes him down.
It doesn’t take much.
Malone’s on all fours.
Like an animal.
A wounded animal that needs to be put down.
Castillo pulls a pistol from his jacket.
A slick little Taurus PT22.
Small, but it will do.
He puts the barrel against Malone’s head. “Por Diego.”
Malone don’t say nothing. He pulls the SOG knife from his ankle, raises up and stabs behind him.
The pistol goes off with a deafening roar but Malone is still alive in a world of red light and red pain as he gets up, turns, and slashes the knife up through Castillo’s leg, severing the femoral artery.
He looks into Castillo’s face, pulls the knife out and then plunges it into his stomach and rips up.
Castillo’s mouth opens wide.
An inhuman sound comes out.
Malone pulls the knife out and lets Castillo fall.
His blood smears Malone’s chest.
Malone staggers to the table and starts loading the bricks of heroin into duffel bags.
Chapter 39
This one time Malone took the family to the White Mountains in New Hampshire on the kids’ spring break. They rented a little cabin in a canyon by a river and one morning he got up early and ran some water out of the tap so cold it almost hurt to drink, but it tasted so good and so clean he couldn’t stop.
That was a good trip, a good vacation.
Now bachata music comes from a boom box somewhere as Malone comes out of the building onto the street.
Helicopter rotors chop the air.
Malone hurts and he’s thirsty as he hefts the bags, walking—shuffling—west on 176th onto Haven. Blood follows him like a guilty secret as he crosses the street and staggers onto Riverside, then across, then into some trees and trips over a root and falls.
It would be nice to just lie there, just lie there and go to sleep warm and drowsy in the grass, but the pain stabs him anyway and he can’t stay there—he has somewhere to go—so he struggles to his feet and keeps walking.
John, he caught a trout from the river and when Malone put it on a tree stump and started to clean it, John, he started to cry when he saw the guts come out and he cried because he was sorry he killed the fish.
Malone walks onto the Henry Hudson.
A car blasts its horn and swerves around him. A yell comes out the window, “Fucking drunk!”
Malone crosses the northbound lane, then the south and then he’s in trees again and then he comes to some basketball courts, empty now in the early morning and even though he can see the river he leans against a post to rest and steady himself as he bends over and throws up again.
Then he starts again and comes to more trees and uses them to hold himself up until he makes it to some rocks by the edge of the river.
He sits down.
Unzips the duffel bags and starts taking out the bricks of heroin.
Billy O looks up and smiles at him.
“We’re rich.”
Then the dog snaps at the end of its chain.
Puppies mewl, a small knot of squirming life.
The day Malone graduated from the Academy was one of those spring days that New York occasionally produces, one of those splendid days when you know you don’t want to be anywhere else in the world and you don’t want to be anyone but you in this place, this city, this world unto itself.
And he was young, young and clean and full of hope and pride and belief, belief in God and belief in himself and belief in the Job, belief in the mission, to protect and serve.
Malone stabs the knife into the brick of heroin and slashes the plastic.
Then he tosses it into the river.
Does this again and again.
That spring day he stood in an ocean of blue, his brothers and sisters, his friends, his comrades in arms, and they were white and black and brown and yellow but what they really were was blue.
Sinatra sang “New York, New York,” as they filed in and stood at attention.
I should call in a 10-13, he thinks now, Officer down, officer needs assistance, but he don’t have his radio and he can’t remember where his phone is and it doesn’t matter anyway because they wouldn’t come if they knew it was him and even if they did they wouldn’t make it on time.
You should have called 10-13 a long time ago.
Before it was too late.
Claudette’s skin is black against the white silk right there at that softest spot in the world, a world of concrete and asphalt, steel cuffs and bars, hard words and harder thoughts, her skin is dark and soft and cool so near the warmth of her.
He empties one bag of the junk and starts in on the next one, wants to get it done before he falls asleep.
Levin smiles up at him we’re rich.
No that was Billy.
Or Liam.
So many dead.
Too many.
When John was born he took so long coming, when he finally slid out, Malone, he was so tired he climbed into the gurney and the three of them, they fell asleep together.
Caitlin, being the second, she was a lot faster.
Jesus, it hurts.
Malone in his new blue uniform, his new shield, his hat and his white gloves, his mother and his brother Liam and Sheila watching and he wished his father could have been there, could have lived to see this, he would have been proud even though he told Malone he didn’t want this life for him, this was the life that his family knew, his father, his grandfather, this was their life, what they did, what they believed, through the pain and the sorrow this is what they did and he wished his dad were there to see him take the oath.
“I do hereby pledge and declare to uphold the Constitution of the United States and the Constitution of the State of New York and faithfully discharge my duties as a police officer in the New York City Police Department to the best of my ability, so help me God.”
So help me, God.
No you won’t, why should you?
The pain bites at his guts and he screams as he twists on the rocks.
John cried fo
r that fish.
He cried.
The air smells like ash. Like the day that Liam died.
Ashes, smoke, shattered buildings and broken hearts.
Tears cut lines through charred cheeks.
Now the city is waking up.
He hears sirens wail like newborn babies.
Malone looks back at his kingdom in flames behind him, plumes of smoke rising as if from funeral pyres.
Slashes another bag and gives it to the river.
Then he throws his white gloves in the air as blue and white confetti showers him and his brothers and his sisters and they yell their lungs out as the crowd cheers and he knows at that moment that this is what he wants, what he always wanted, that this is how he’ll spend his life, his blood, his soul, his being.
A pure fire burns in his heart.
It’s the best day of his life.
No, that’s not today, he remembers.
That’s not now, that was then.
Heroin falls from the ceiling like it’s snowing inside. Floats gently into Billy’s wounds, his blood, his veins, soothes the pain.
Billy does it hurt anymore?
Does the hurting stop?
Does it end?
Our beginnings can’t know our ends, our purity can’t imagine its corruption. All he knew back then was that he loved the Job, in those early years walking or riding the streets in his bag, seeing the people see him, the innocent feeling safe because he was there, the guilty feeling unsafe because he was there.
He remembers his first collar the way you remember the first time you made love—a holdup thug who’d mugged an old lady and Malone found him and took him off the street and it turned out he was wanted in ten other robberies and the city was safer, the people were safer, because Malone was on the Job.
He loved the way that people looked to him to help them, save them from predators or from themselves. He loved that they looked to him for assistance, answers, even accusation and then absolution. He loved the city, loved the people he protected and served, loved the Job.
He couldn’t imagine then that those streets could wear him down, that the Job could wear him out, that the sorrow and anger, the bodies, the heartbreak, the suffering, the foolishness, the cynicism would grind on his soul like a stone on steel, dulling not sharpening, leaving nicks and invisible, insidious cracks that would spread until the steel first broke and then shattered, until he understood what killed his father and left his blue coat draped across the dirty snow and Billy O lying on the floor strewn with dirty cash, his body and blood corrupted.
Malone’s soul started shiny as his new shield, darkened as it changed to gold and now is black as night.
He drops the last brick into the water.
That’s good, now none of it will hit his streets.
The job done, he lies back.
The old man died in a pile of dirty snow, Liam underneath a burned building, me on sharp rocks looking up at the sky.
The sky is gray, the sun will be up soon.
The sirens howl.
A radio crackles in his ear.
10-13, 10-13.
Officer down.
Then the sky is white and sirens stop and the radio goes dead quiet and he’s making his first collar again, the guy who robbed the old lady.
All Denny Malone ever wanted to be was a good cop.
Acknowledgments
Many police officers, active and retired, were incredibly generous to me, sharing their time, experience, stories, thoughts, opinions and emotions. I owe them a great debt, but it might be a disservice to them to list them by name. You know who you are, and I can’t thank you enough. I also want to thank you for what you’ve done and what you do.
On the subject of thanks, this book had its origins in an early-morning phone call from Shane Salerno, my partner-in-crime-writing, colleague and close friend for coming on twenty years now. I thank him for the inspiration, creative input, unflagging support and the many much-needed laughs. It’s been a ride, brother.
I would also like to thank David Highfill for bringing me into William Morrow and for his thoughtful editing of the manuscript.
To Deborah Randall, David Koll, Nick Carraro and everyone at the Story Factory.
To Michael Morrison, Liate Stehlik, Lynn Grady, Kaitlin Harri, Jennifer Hart, Sharyn Rosenblum, Shelby Meizlik, Brian Grogan, Danielle Bartlet, Juliette Shapland, Samantha Hagerbaumer and Chloe Moffett for their passionate support of this book and for working so hard to make it possible.
My appreciation also goes out to production editor Laura Cherkas and copyeditor Laurie McGee for their hard work.
To Ridley Scott, Emma Watts, Steve Asbell, Michael Schaefer and Twentieth Century Fox for their belief in this manuscript and for purchasing the film rights to this book after our successful collaboration on The Cartel.
To Matthew Snyder and Joe Cohen at Creative Artists Agency.
To Cynthia Swartz and Elizabeth Kushel for their fantastic work on Savages, The Cartel and now The Force. Thank you for all of your hard work.
To Richard Heller, my attorney.
To John Albu for hauling me around.
The good folks at the Solana Beach Coffee Company, Jeremy’s on the Hill, Mr. Manitas, The Cooler, El Fuego and Drift Surf for keeping me in caffeine, breakfast burritos, burgers, nachos, fish tacos and needed diversion.
The late Matty Pavis for his kindness and generosity, and my Staten Island paisan Steve Pavis for introducing me to his brother.
The late Bob Leuci, who was a prince anywhere.
I’d like to express appreciation to all my readers, old and new, for all their support and kindness over the years. Without them, I don’t have this job that I love.
To my mother, Ottis Winslow, for the use of her front porch and for all those library books over the years.
To Thomas, my son, for his encyclopedic knowledge of hip-hop lyrics and for all the years of patience and support.
And, always, to Jean, my patient wife, for her tireless support and for taking this, and every other, journey with me. ILYM.
About the Author
DON WINSLOW is the author of nineteen acclaimed, award-winning international bestsellers—including the #1 international bestseller The Cartel, The Power of the Dog, Savages and The Winter of Frankie Machine—several of which have been made into major motion pictures. The Cartel is scheduled to begin production soon from master filmmaker Ridley Scott and 20th Century Fox. A former investigator, antiterrorist trainer and trial consultant, Winslow lives in California.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Also by Don Winslow
The Cartel
The Kings of Cool
The Gentlemen’s Hour
Satori
Savages
The Dawn Patrol
The Winter of Frankie Machine
The Power of the Dog
Looking for a Hero (with Peter Maslowski)
California Fire and Life
The Death and Life of Bobby Z
Isle of Joy
While Drowning in the Desert
A Long Walk Up the Water Slide
Way Down on the High Lonely
The Trail to Buddha’s Mirror
A Cool Breeze on the Underground
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE FORCE. Copyright © 2017 by Samburu, Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and ret
rieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Cover Design by Ploy Siripant
Cover Photograph by Stephen Mulcahey/Alamy Stock Photo
EPub Edition June 2017 ISBN 978-0-06-266442-6
ISBN 978-0-06-266441-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-06-268428-8 (international edition)
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Contents
The Last Guy
Prologue: The Rip
Part 1: White Christmas
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part 2: The Easter Bunny
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
