by Meryl Sawyer
Newport Beach had been a three-hour drive from L.A. on rutted roads that would become a freeway—over fifty years later. The freeway opened up the area and fortunes were made on real estate once considered not particularly valuable.
“Look ahead, not back,” Farah whispered to herself.
She had to admit that’s what Hayley did. She had the ability to project into the future and see where the business was going. Surf shops like Surf’s Up sold the California lifestyle. But styles changed. Hayley, she hated to admit, embraced the change the way her mother had. Trent didn’t see beyond board sports—just like his father. Their father.
Despite her assurances to her brother that Hayley’s line of MMA gear wouldn’t sell at the Board Wars competition, Farah believed it would. She’d read MMA fights were attracting huge numbers of fans. She hoped Hayley was right. Keeping Surf’s Up profitable was in her best interest.
Farah didn’t care about saving her father’s company. She needed the money for her own dream. Working as a CPA, even with her own firm, wasn’t going to make a fortune. A good living, but not the kind of money Farah wanted. She needed to be ready to invest as opportunities presented themselves. She had lots of ideas but no cash.
A sea lion barked; it was mating season. The male was warning off competitors, but sound traveled over water, often being magnified. Up on Irvine Terrace, the honking barks seemed to be coming from the next yard, not the bay below.
Farah went inside and wondered if Kyle had gone for a walk. That wouldn’t be like him. Surfing passed for exercise, not walking. In their bedroom she kicked off her shoes and peeled off her panty hose.
She heard a noise and paused, set to remove her skirt. Was that Kyle laughing? It sure sounded like it. Where was it coming from?
She hurried into the kitchen, thankful that all Irvine Terrace homes were one story to preserve their harbor views. She didn’t envy Trent his opulent two-story mansion on days like this when she’d spent too long in high heels.
Another laugh. All the windows were open as usual in the summer to let in the cooling ocean breeze. Kyle’s laugh was coming from outside. He was in the shop behind the garage.
What was he doing back there? Kyle wasn’t the least bit handy. Unplugging his blow-dryer was the extent of his expertise.
Barefoot, she walked out the back door to the shop behind the double-car garage. Through the window in the door she saw Kyle standing by himself. Chuckling. Great! No doubt he was smoking pot. He’d recently discovered Red Rover, a new strain that was more potent than others, yet smooth. Farah had no use for drugs. She was afraid of their power. She didn’t want anyone controlling her.
Farah opened the door and walked in without saying a word. There was an open box of cold pills with the empty inserts strewn across the worktop. An instant-ice pack was on the table beside scissors used to cut it open.
Kyle spun around with a two-liter plastic bottle in his hand. She’d expected to see a spliff of Red Rover. “Hey, babe. What’s happening? I thought you were having dinner with your brother.”
“It’s after ten. We finished two hours ago.”
“Really? What time is it?”
Farah didn’t bother to check her watch. It was clear from his glazed eyes that Kyle was high, even though she didn’t detect the usual sweet herbal smell. “It’s nearly ten-thirty. What have you got there?”
Kyle held up the plastic bottle that had once been filled with root beer. Now all that was left at the bottom was a disgusting looking brownish sludge. “A surefire way to make money.”
Farah glanced around at the small area that was neatly filled with tools and hardware that had been left when she’d purchased the house. She noticed at least a dozen empty two liter bottles newly lined up on the shelves.
Kyle showed her a packet of crystal-like granules in a plastic container. “I’m making meth to sell at the beach.”
A scorching surge of anger ripped through her like a column of fire. “In my house? No way! You’ll set the place on fire or blow it up. Meth labs are always going sky high!”
Kyle flashed the smile that had once captivated her. Not tonight. Methamphetamine was almost instantly addicting. You could smoke it, snort it, or inject it and the result was the same. You were irrevocably hooked.
“Are you using meth?” she asked.
“Of course not, babe,” Kyle assured her.
Farah didn’t know if she could believe him. Not that he was a liar, but addiction did strange things to a person. Kyle always hid how much pot he used.
“I’m just trying to make money to help out.”
Once she would have given him a blow job on the spot for accepting any responsibility for their finances. But this was different. Did he seriously believe making meth was the answer to their problems?
“This is the new shake-and-bake method,” Kyle continued, oblivious to her disapproval. “It takes less pseudo-whatever—”
“Pseudoephedrine. The decongestant in those cold medications.” She pointed to the worktable where the empty boxes were scattered.
“Right. This takes less so no one is busted for buying restricted cold pills. Then you add a few household cleaning chemicals—just a bit—not much and then you need ammonium nitrate, which is found in these instant-ice packs.” He held up the open ice pack. “Put it all in an empty bottle and cap it. Shake for five minutes and presto! Crystals begin to form. The whole process takes fifteen minutes.”
Farah hadn’t realized meth could be produced this way. The method she was familiar with called for “cooking” the brew, which required a ton of cold capsules and chemicals to boil in pots over an open flame. She understood it took several days to produce a batch.
She was caught off-guard at the vibrancy of his voice. Kyle was truly proud of himself, thrilled that he knew something she didn’t. “How did you figure this out?” She was certain he didn’t come up with this on his own.
“One of the guys was making it in the back of his SUV after we finished surfing. I got the formula from him. I’m going to make a lot—” he gestured to the empty soda bottles lining the shelf “—and sell it at the Board Wars.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said quietly. She hated to stop any moneymaking venture Kyle was willing to try, but this could mean big trouble for her as well as him.
“The guys say to just keep one packet on you at a time. That way if you’re caught, it’s not enough to bother prosecuting. And if they should check here, there won’t be anything to find. All of this stuff won’t fill more than two grocery bags. I’ll throw them away tonight.”
“Not in my trash,” she said.
“I already planned to take it to Balboa Island and dump a little here, a little there in trash cans on the main drag.”
“Okay,” Farah replied reluctantly and turned to leave. She really had to get rid of this guy. As soon as everything was settled, she would. Meanwhile let him make a little money on the side. If he was caught, she could always claim she knew nothing about it.
RYAN FOLLOWED HAYLEY as The Wrath led an entourage of wannabe cage fighters and half-dressed groupies to his dressing area. It was after eleven, but it had taken this long for The Wrath to leave the ring area. In the first round, he’d easily won his fight with a guy with a mug like a gargoyle. The Wrath had taken a seat ringside to watch the last two fights, which both went three painful rounds with no tap out. Hayley told him that meant the fighters would be rematched next time in a professional fight.
The makeshift dressing rooms were in what must once have been the main office of the warehouse. All the furniture had been removed, but the partitions that divided up the cube farm remained. Each fighter had his own station in the cube. The Wrath’s was the largest and filled with more groupies than a rock band.
“Do you want to leave?” Hayley asked when it became apparent that the entourage was going to hang around for some time.
“No. Let’s wait and talk to The Wrath.” He had more tha
n a few questions for the fighter, since he’d learned about the tracking device discovered in Hayley’s car. He hadn’t told her about it because the noise prevented serious conversation. He glanced around but didn’t see a place for a private discussion.
“You want to see if The Wrath can teach me a move to take you down, don’t you?” Hayley teased.
“I double-dog dare you.”
“You’re on!”
He hugged her, wishing they could always be this carefree. Take time; enjoy life. Really get to know each other.
Ryan reminded himself to keep his mind on protecting Hayley. He checked the cube farm that was now swarming with fans. No one seemed to be paying any attention to Hayley. But then, that’s what he would expect. Someone was cunning enough to place a GPS tracker on her car and plant a bomb wasn’t going to be easy to spot.
Everyone looked suspicious and no one looked suspicious. In wrinkled khaki shorts and a well-worn blue T-shirt, Ryan was the closest to a GQ look any guy in this crowd would get. Clearly these men lived to watch mano-a-mano combat. The women were better dressed. Many were attractive, but the fawning looks of adoration they gave the fighters and their simpering giggles made them seem shallow.
He couldn’t help comparing them to Hayley. Many of these women were blondes with fried platinum hair. Hayley’s silky chocolate-colored locks streaked with shimmering copper were much prettier—more natural. She wasn’t just attractive; she had brains and personality. A winning combination.
“Notice how MMA has religious overtones,” Hayley said.
“Religious?”
“Sure. Look at the religious symbols on a lot of the logos. Celtic crosses, regular crosses, angels’ wings, Gothic lettering. You know, that sort of stuff.”
“I guess.” All right, all right, Ryan said to himself. Another part of Hayley’s appeal was her ability to make him think.
Keep your mind on business. Ryan again scanned the large room to see if anyone was targeting Hayley. The crowd was thinning out; tomorrow was a workday for most of these folks. “I also see a stylized Grim Reaper, skull and crossbones, swords, flames that must represent hell.”
Hayley lifted her chin and met his gaze straight on. “Right. I spoke to a lot of fighters when I was trying to come up with a logo for The Wrath. They see cage fights as a struggle between good and evil. Some of them represent good, or God, while others go for the evil of the devil.”
“Which is The Wrath?”
“Stands for The Wrath of God.”
Well, hell. Why not? Ryan figured it could go either way, depending if you believed in a wicked or forgiving God.
The Wrath chose that moment to shrug into one of Hayley’s black zip-up hoodies with the Grim Reaper on it and flames licking The Wrath’s name. He sauntered up to them, leaving the groupies behind.
“Let’s go over to my gym,” The Wrath said. “It’s right around the corner. We can talk there.” He winked at Hayley. “I’ll show you a surefire move.”
“Okay,” Hayley said for both of them.
Ryan put his arm around her and took her back through the now empty warehouse where a team of men was breaking down the bleachers. He stepped outside ahead of her. He carefully looked both ways before allowing Hayley into the alley. The area was well lit, but he didn’t take any chances. He hustled her into his car.
Ryan checked the car’s frame for a hidden GPS.
Nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
RYAN’S PATIENCE would have worn thin after watching Hayley spend over half an hour learning a jujitsu move that could knock over the strongest opponent, but Hayley was so determined. So damned sexy. Every move—even when she fell on her cute butt—was worth seeing.
“She’s got it now!” The Wrath had hit the ground after Hayley skunked him with the maneuver and actually flipped him. Amazing.
“Let me try it on you,” Hayley said to Ryan.
“Later, sweetheart. I need to talk to The Wrath.” He felt like an idiot calling the guy by his fight name. “What’s your real name?”
“Carleton Cole.” He threw back his head and roared with laughter. “See why I go by The Wrath?”
“Gotcha,” Ryan said.
They were in the most professional private-training facility Ryan had ever seen. There were several boxing-style rings and an octagonal stainless-steel chain-link cage for practice fights. Weight rooms, a sauna, massage room with several tables and a huge granite shower with enormous showerheads that on their own must contribute to the area’s water shortage.
Sophisticated television cameras recorded practice rounds for review later in the small screening room adjacent to The Wrath’s office. Everything in the building was new and smelled like antiseptic. When Ryan had walked in, he’d decided it must have taken The Wrath a considerable amount of money to convert this old warehouse into a state-of-the-art gym. The way he’d showed them around revealed how proud The Wrath was of his facility.
“You want to talk about something? How about I show you a few moves?”
Ryan put a hand on his shoulder. “Bad shoulder. An old football injury that I recently injured again in a car accident.”
“Another time.” One of The Wrath’s unruly brown eyebrows arched.
“I want to know about the morning of the car bombing. Didn’t Hayley come here to show you some designs?”
“You know I did,” Hayley said with a note of protest in her voice.
There were times when he wished Hayley was just a dumb blonde. He ignored her and looked at The Wrath for a response.
“Yes,” he said smoothly. “There was only one tank top design I didn’t like. She agreed to redesign it.”
“How could she redesign the Grim Reaper? Seems as if it needs to look the same each time. It’s more stylized with fewer lines than most Reapers, but how can you change your brand mark?”
“It needed to be made smaller.” This from Hayley; he could tell she was getting pissed. “The Wrath was right. It overwhelmed the tank.”
God forbid. Ryan waited a beat before asking The Wrath, “How long was Hayley here?”
“I dunno. I was in the ring—” he gestured to the boxing ring nearby “—working on some kickboxing moves.” He turned to Hayley with a gaze that wasn’t purely professional. “You waited—what?—ten minutes or so?”
“About that. Then we went to your office, had some Red Bull, and went over my sketches for another half hour or so.” She looked at Ryan as if to ask what business it was of his.
“You were here less than an hour.” Ryan knew it would only have taken seconds to hide a GPS tracker under her car. The devices used a powerful magnet to stick to metal. Someone could walk by and slap it under a bumper or wheel well without breaking stride.
“That’s right. What about it?” The Wrath appeared tired, as if he’d been running on adrenaline and was ready to tap out.
Ryan knew Hayley was going to bust his chops for not telling her this first, but he went on anyway to gauge The Wrath’s reaction. “The ATF team analyzing the bomb found that a GPS tracking device had been planted, probably under her car.”
“What? You never told me,” she retorted with a look meant to frost his cookies.
“I just received a call telling me this during the fight.”
“You’ve had plenty of time to tell me.”
Ryan didn’t want to argue with her. He needed to see if he could detect anything in The Wrath’s response that would implicate the fighter.
“You think it might have been put on Hayley’s car while she was in here?” asked The Wrath.
As far as Ryan could tell the guy seemed concerned—not the least bit guilty. “Possibly. It’s impossible to say how long the device had been there. Hours, days, weeks… Who knows?”
Suddenly Hayley was less upset with him as the gravity of the situation registered. “You mean someone was following me—for who knows how long?”
“That’s right.” Ryan turned to the fighter. “I’m no
longer with the FBI. I don’t give a damn what you may be doing on the side. I’m just asking if there’s anything—anything at all—going on that might make someone want to kill Hayley to get to you.”
The Wrath dropped onto a nearby weight bench and stared off into space for a second. “I’d like to help,” he said with all the enthusiasm of a man receiving the last rites. “But I have no idea.”
“Think again. Consider even the wildest possibility.”
Suddenly, The Wrath’s face lit up like a spring sunset. “Hold everything! I have security cameras all around the building.”
“You do?” Ryan had looked but hadn’t spotted any.
“Sure.” He stood up. “I bought the latest. An industrial park with half the buildings deserted because of the economy isn’t the safest place.” He motioned for them to follow as he walked back toward his office. “Also, I don’t want any of my rivals photographing or videotaping my practice bouts.”
There were shelves with neat rows of CDs behind The Wrath’s chrome-and-glass desk. He checked the dates and pulled one out. “This is the recording of the exterior of the building on the day Hayley visited.”
“You don’t erase them and rerecord?” Ryan asked. This was standard practice with most security systems. As soon as the disk was full, it was erased and used again. They weren’t saved unless there was a good reason.
“We save them for six months.” Again, he gestured for them to come with them. “Just in case someone is loitering or appears too often. They could be casing the place. I have a lot of valuable stuff in here.”
They went to the media room that was usually used to review tapes of fights. They sat in theater-style seats while The Wrath fiddled with the equipment. The screen came on with the date and time in the lower right corner. The fighter fast-forwarded the CD from just after midnight on the day of the bombing through the dawn hours—nothing much was happening except for a few rats foraging in the Dumpster. At daylight a cleaning crew appeared followed—at eight o’clock—by The Wrath. Soon several other fighters appeared and parked their cars.
