Bolthole

by Jeff Mariotte

  Sam hoped the people in that house with Callen hadn’t seen any of it. He’d rather have a better spot for a stakeout, but all the houses down the block were occupied, and somebody had to keep eyes on the driveway. He would wait a while, then change places with Kensi and Deeks. Keep switching things up in hopes of staying unnoticed as long as possible.

  But if this was going to go down, he hoped it was today. Otherwise he’d have to train a whole new set of cops next time.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Sam’s burner phone rang. “Yeah?” he said. No names—they weren’t using names on this op.

  “Did you have a conversation with some of my old colleagues?” It was Deeks.

  “Couple of LAPD officers in a cruiser,” Sam said. “Yes, why?”

  “Just curious,” Deeks said. “They just drove past us. One of them pointed at us, and both gave us the stink-eye as they went by. I figured you must have been making friends and influencing people.”

  “I gotta say, it’s pretty bad when you’re a good example of the breed.”

  “Hey!” Deeks said. “Okay, I guess that’s true. I wasn’t the best cop ever. But I was better than a lot of them.”

  “I think I just met two of that kind,” Sam said. “Anything else?”

  “No, that was it. Unless you just want to shoot the breeze. You know, talk about sports, comics, anything like that. That new Black Panther series is—”

  “Later,” Sam said.

  “Yeah, okay, later.” Deeks ended the call, and Sam put the phone down, then checked the tablet. The driveway was empty, the street still.

  He really hoped he didn’t have to wait much longer. Sitting still in a car got old in a hurry.

  30

  When Kensi’s phone buzzed, it wasn’t the burner. She didn’t recognize the number, but it was local, so she answered it. “Blye.”

  “Is this Agent Blye?”

  A woman’s voice. She sounded elderly, and it took Kensi a few seconds to place her. “Mrs. Peabody?”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  Kensi hoped she wasn’t in the mood to chat. “How can I help you?”

  “You asked us to call you if we remembered anything about Hal Shogren that might be helpful.”

  “Yes. Did you?”

  “I might have. I knew I had some pictures somewhere, but it took a while to find any. But I finally did.”

  “Pictures of what?”

  “Susan went with the Shogrens to their cabin in the Hollywood Hills a few times, and she took some pictures. There’s a big rock wall behind the cabin, with a unique shape to it. I thought you might be able to identify the location from that.”

  Kensi was impressed. So often, what civilians thought might be helpful wasn’t, and the things they didn’t bother to mention could be vital. Knowing about a tattoo on someone’s left butt-cheek was useless unless they walked around with no pants on. But something as seemingly unrelated as learning that a suspect was a stamp collector might be the piece needed to complete the puzzle. Shogren had been living somewhere since returning from Iraq, purportedly dead. He’d been living under an assumed identity, but he still had to have a roof over his head and a place to stash his belongings. A remote cabin he was familiar with might be a likely spot.

  “Can you text them to me? Or email them?”

  “They’re pictures.”

  She meant prints. “Do you have a scanner?”

  “A scanner? I’m not entirely sure what one looks like, but I know we don’t have one.”

  “Can you take a picture of them with your phone?”

  “I’m afraid we’re not very technologically sophisticated, Agent Blye. I’m calling you on a phone that’s connected to the wall with a cord.”

  She wanted copies of those photographs, but she couldn’t run over to Pasadena to collect them. And she couldn’t risk having the Peabodys come here, not with the possibility of a firefight at any moment.

  She had an idea, though. “Can you hang on for a second, Mrs. Peabody?”

  “Of course, dear. But call me Betsy.”

  “All right, Betsy. One minute.”

  She pressed the MUTE button. “Mrs. Peabody has found some pictures of the Shogren family’s cabin in the hills. She says there’s a distinctive rock face in the background. Might help us find the cabin.”

  “And you think that might be where Shogren’s been living?” Deeks asked.

  “Maybe where they’ve all been hiding out since they abandoned their various homes.”

  “And I gather sending them electronically is out of the question.”

  “Yeah,” Kensi said. “Apparently beyond her capabilities. I was thinking if she could meet us a few blocks from here, they’d be out of the line of fire if anything happened, but we wouldn’t be so far that we couldn’t get back over if the guys show up with the tablet.”

  “Worth a try,” Deeks said. “Have her meet us at the intersection of Sunset and Barrington. There’s an Italian restaurant there, and a Subway.”

  Kensi relayed the message. “She says they’re leaving right now,” she said after she’d ended the call.

  “We’ll give them about forty minutes, then head over,” Deeks said. “Maybe a little longer. They’re old; they probably drive slow.”

  “Works for me,” Kensi said.

  * * *

  When Granger finally found Stacey’s place, the fire was disturbingly close. It was a beautiful spot, ordinarily. A couple of ancient live oaks threw shade over the corral. The house was old but loaded with character, and the ramshackle barn and stables looked like something out of a Western movie. Photographers and filmmakers had come here to shoot in the rustic setting, multiple times.

  But today smoke filtered the sunlight, giving the scene an eerie yellow glow. The horses were panicked, thrashing around in their stalls, snorting and squealing. Granger could see flames down the hill, marching toward the property. He’d thought the fire was all above this place, but there must have been a spur down below, or a wayward ember had floated down, igniting another blaze.

  The horse trailer, dented and sun-faded, stood beside the corral, where Stacey had left it. Granger drove down the dirt trail, backed toward the trailer, shut off the truck engine then hopped out. Fuel was starting to be a concern, and although he was up the mountain now, he still had to get down again.

  When the trailer was hitched and connected, he put a heavy stone on the brake pedal, to make sure the lights were working. This would be easier with two people, but that wasn’t an option. Finally, he lowered the ramp at the rear of the trailer.

  Success. The easy part was done. Now he just had to persuade the horses to go in the trailer. He’d been coming up to feed, water, and exercise them, so he wasn’t a complete stranger. But in their current state of mind, he couldn’t be sure they’d remember him. Horses were not dumb creatures—they were, after all, smart enough to understand that an approaching wildfire signaled trouble.

  He’d start with Pepper. If there was such a thing as an alpha horse in this little herd, Pepper was it. He was a big stallion, and bossy with the other horses, though when Stacey was there, he became docile as a lamb.

  Granger opened the door of the stable. The place was thick with the dust the beasts were kicking up, along with the musky smell of the animals themselves. He inhaled some and coughed a couple of times, but then tried to speak in low, even tones. “Easy now, guys,” he said. “I’m going to get you out of here, and we’ll find someplace to hang out until Stacey comes back. You all know me. I’ve been taking care of you. That’s what I’m doing now; it’s just a little more complicated. Okay? You all ready to roll? Get down out of these hills before they burn to the ground? Good.”

  He stopped by Allspice’s stall. The animal’s eyes rolled back in its head, wild. “I’ll come back for you in a minute, Allspice,” Granger said. “Just take it easy. Relax. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

  Allspice wasn’t buying it. Granger gave up and went
to Salt, telling her a variation of the same thing. She, at least, seemed to be listening, though she pawed the earth and snorted a couple of times during Granger’s monologue.

  He moved on to Pepper. The big horse reared back when Granger showed himself, then lunged forward as if to charge. “Easy, big guy,” Granger said. “Calm down, now. You’re the boss man, so you have to set a good example for the other two. We’re going to get you all out of here, but I’m all by myself, and you’re going to have to cooperate with me. Okay? Got it? You just take it easy, and we’ll get this done in no time.”

  Pepper calmed. Granger held out a hand toward him. “Just wait here a second and let me get your halter,” he said. “Just take it easy.”

  As soon as he turned away from the stall, Pepper snorted and kicked again. Dust rained down from the rafters as the whole building seemed to shake. “Chill, you big goof,” Granger said. “You’ll knock the place down.”

  He found a flat nylon halter and returned to Pepper’s stall. “Okay, we’re going to do this, and we’re going to do it without a lot of drama. Right? Easy does it You ready, Pepper? I’m coming in.”

  He eased open the door. Pepper backed away, as if wanting to hide in a corner. Granger kept talking, saying nothing in particular, just trying to keep the horse calm with his voice. He moved slowly but with confidence as he slipped inside, then closed the door behind him so Pepper wouldn’t decide to make a run for it. The animal’s hooves were in constant motion, stepping, almost prancing with fear and anxiety.

  When he approached the horse’s head, Pepper jerked it away, snorting again and showing teeth.

  “This doesn’t have to be difficult, buddy,” Granger said. “Just be cool, and we’ll get out of here in one piece.” He approached again. Pepper jerked his big head, almost slamming it into Granger. Granger reached out with his right hand, holding the halter in his left, and caught the horse under his chin, reaching around to cup Pepper’s right cheek. “Easy, easy. I’m going to put this on you, and then things will get a lot better. Okay? You ready? Here we go.”

  Pepper’s eyes stopped rolling in his head. He gave a soft blow, less agitated than a snort, and moved his head to the side a little, ears twitching. The horse’s tail was pulled down, almost invisible from here. Pepper was still scared—terrified might have been more accurate—but willing to let Granger have his way. Granger looped the lead rope over Pepper’s head, slipped Pepper’s nose through the nose band. Pepper jerked his head again, but not hard enough to break Granger’s hold. He eased the throat latch into place, positioned the crown piece behind Pepper’s ears, and buckled it. Pepper stamped and tried to jerk away, but Granger got the lead rope in his hand and held the animal still while he checked to be sure the halter was tight enough, but not so tight that it would hurt.

  All the time, he was talking to Pepper, reassuring, trying to generate calming vibrations.

  “Okay,” he said when he was satisfied that the halter was snug. “That’s step one. Now we’re going for a little walk.”

  He tugged, but Pepper tugged back. Granger stepped forward, pulling harder. “Come on, Pepper. Time to go. You don’t want to be here when the fire comes.” He opened the stall door, bracing himself in case the animal bolted. Instead, the horse planted its hooves, as if trying to grow roots.

  “No, Pepper. You can’t stay. We have to get in the trailer.” He tugged again. Reluctantly, pulling back every few seconds, the horse started to follow. Once clear of the stall, Pepper started pulling harder, bending his back knees, almost sitting. Granger stepped closer and pulled down on the lead rope, to lower the animal’s head into a more submissive position. Then he made the horse take several backward steps, head down. Pepper didn’t necessarily like it, but he obeyed.

  “That’s right,” Granger said. “I’m in charge here. We go where I say we go, and we don’t make trouble on the way. We clear on that? Good.”

  He started forward again. Pepper followed, relatively calm until they stepped out into wan yellow sunlight that smelled of smoke. Then he became agitated again, stamping and snorting and trying to jerk free from Granger’s grip.

  “Easy now,” Granger said. “We’re almost there. Hard part’s done. Just work with me, here.”

  The hard part, of course, was just beginning. Haltering a horse was nothing compared to getting it into a trailer for the first time—Granger’s first time with Pepper, not Pepper’s first time. “I know, this is all strange,” Granger said. “But you’ve probably done this a hundred times, with Stacey. There’s nothing to it, really.” He led Pepper to the trailer, the horse offering resistance all the way. When they reached it, Granger went in first. He clomped around, trying to imitate the sounds Pepper would make when he got in. Pepper’s eyes rolled and he swung his head sideways, away from the trailer, almost yanking the lead rope from Granger’s grip.

  “Nope,” Granger said. “Uh-uh. You’re coming in, whether you like it or not.” He tapped the sides, touched the roof. “It’s pretty nice in here, really. Out of the elements. Shade, a nice breeze. You’ll like it.” He stepped out again, then back up on the right side, urging Pepper up the left. “Come on, Pepper. Just like downtown. Nothing to it.”

  It was obvious that Pepper was doubtful, but he sniffed at the trailer’s door and floor. Probably, Granger thought, it smelled more familiar than the smoke-filled air did, because the horse calmed almost immediately, and stepped up as if he’d never had a problem with it at all. Granger went alongside him, up to the front, then stepped back and fastened the gate behind him.

  One down. Two to go.

  And the fire was closer than ever, so near that he could hear its roar, feel the hot wind it pushed ahead of it.

  If he couldn’t get the other horses on here in a hurry, they’d all be crispy critters.

  31

  Callen was playing poker on the big table in the dining room.

  The stakes were low. Nobody wanted to lose much, or was too worried about cashing in. It was just one of those things guys did when they were waiting, and since breakfast, there had been nothing but waiting. He was a little surprised that Texas Hold ’Em had become popular in Russia, but the internet crossed all boundaries, it seemed, and that’s what the guys wanted to play.

  He was holding a pair of aces, and the turn card had been an ace as well. He upped the ante a little, but not enough to scare anybody out.

  Then Belyakov came into the room. “Game’s over, gentlemen,” he said. “It’s time.”

  Callen put his cards down somewhat reluctantly, stretched, and feigned a yawn. “Time for what?”

  “Time to earn your pay,” Evgeni said.

  “Do I have a minute to take a leak?”

  “If you’re quick about it,” Belyakov said.

  “Shouldn’t take long.” He scooped up the small pile of cash he’d made, mostly dollar bills, and went into the bathroom. There, he took his phone from his pocket and texted “Go time” to Sam, Kensi, Deeks, and Ops. Then he flushed, washed his hands, and went back to the dining room.

  It was empty. He found the other men in the foyer, taking long guns out from under the stairs.

  “What’s going on?” he asked. “Looks like we’re going to war.”

  “We’re just taking reasonable precautions,” Belyakov said. “I’ll be transacting business, closing a deal for a very valuable item. There will be a considerable amount of cash at hand, and I don’t want it to go anywhere before I have what I’m buying.”

  Callen knew what he was talking about, and Belyakov knew he knew. So far, he had played along, as far as Callen could tell. At least he’d given no indication otherwise. Callen hoped he continued to do so throughout the negotiations to come. All he needed to do was buy the artifact, then turn around and give it to Callen. The sellers would be picked up outside, with the cash still in their possession. Callen wondered if Belyakov understood that the money would become part of the criminal case against the contractors—a case that could never be bro
ught to trial, because it would mean admitting American involvement in the theft. The men would be tried for the bank robbery, and for shooting Scarlatti. Maybe for the shootout at the Sea Vue and the attempt on Kelly Martin. But the existence of the tablet, and the role that played in everything else, could never be acknowledged. He might get his money back, one day, but it would be years from now if it ever happened at all.

  The atmosphere inside the house had changed almost instantly. Things had been casual, the men patiently waiting for something to happen without knowing precisely when. Now, in the space of a few minutes, it was tense, the air almost electric.

  “Here you go, Grisha.” Vadim handed him a Kalashnikov semi-automatic carbine and a couple of magazines. Callen gave the weapon the once-over, then shoved the first magazine home.

  “Do we have reason to believe they’ll try anything?” he asked.

  “In this business,” Belyakov replied, “it is only prudent to hope for the best but prepare for the worst.” He eyed his men, each of them armed now. The smell of gun oil was suddenly strong in the room. “If everything is peaceful, then we won’t use these. But if they give any indication that they’re not accepting the outcome, we don’t wait for them to start something. We start it and we finish it quickly. Is that clear?”

  The men answered in the affirmative. “They’ll know we’re here, and armed?” Callen asked.

  “They’ll know,” Belyakov said. “You’ll be in plain sight. Don’t point your guns at them, but let them know you have them and you’re prepared to use them if necessary. They’ll have guns of their own. Nobody will be pretending this isn’t a dangerous business.”

  “How long until they get here?” Callen asked.

  “Five minutes, perhaps,” Belyakov said. “No more.”

  Belyakov’s men had transformed from a bunch of thugs into a fighting force. Callen couldn’t help feeling a kinship with them. They were on the wrong side, and he might have to turn against them, to arrest them, or worse. It all depended on what went down in the next few minutes. If Belyakov played his cards right, they might all be able to go home to Russia, having broken only some weapons laws in the United States. But if he didn’t—or if the contractors objected strenuously to Belyakov’s refusal to buy the tablet—then anything could happen. Callen might be fighting on the side of the Russians, against his own countrymen.