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Afghanistan. He was a demolition and specialized weapons expert, but it was his upbringing in the outback under the tutelage of his aboriginal grandfather that had taught him to sense beyond what was visible to the naked eye.
     
    **
    Becker’s sixth sense told him something was off about the bloke seated at the far end of the bar. The Latino had barely touched the beer sitting in front of him. Though he was wearing a USA World Cup team jersey, he didn’t pay much attention to any of the monitors. Instead, he was focused on the telephone conversation he was apparently having through the bluetooth device attached to his ear.
    Perhaps it was nothing, thought Becker. But he’d keep his eye on him.
    The Latino nodded in response to the person on the phone. He swiveled and aimed the back of his cell at the balcony. Becker tensed.
    He quickly pulled out his own phone and hit Tony’s number on speed dial. “Sorry to spoil the party, mate. But we’ve got a bleedin’ problem.” 

 
     
     
    Chapter 10
     
     
    Hermosa Beach, California
     
    J ake forced himself to appear casual as he walked out of the bar’s swinging front door at eleven p.m. Fog had rolled in from the ocean, moving across the street in wispy currents. It diffused the light from the streetlamps. He flinched when a parked jeep across the street chirped and its lights flashed briefly. A young couple climbed in and pulled away from the curb. Jake blew out a sigh, then glanced left and right. The street was deserted for a couple blocks in either direction. He zipped up his windbreaker against the chill and started down the sidewalk, maintaining a steady but unhurried pace.
    His nerves were stretched tighter than a bowstring. Francesca, Tony, Marshall, and Lacey should be making their way out the back entrance. If everything went according to plan, he’d see them later at the lodge. By then he hoped he’d have some answers.
    After the first block, a glance at a reflection in a store window revealed the silhouette of the man who had stepped out of Sam’s to follow him. Jake prayed that Becker was close at hand, though he knew he’d never spot him.
    It didn’t take long for the stranger to halve the distance behind Jake.
    Jake crossed the boulevard and headed toward the deserted beach strand. The narrow block ended at the sand, with cars parked on both sides of the street. He readied himself when he sensed his follower closing on him.
    The fog thickened, and the single streetlamp ahead was out. The meager light from the drawn windows of condos and apartments along the street did little to push away the shadows. Heavy footsteps behind him alerted Jake that the moment had arrived.
    Reminding himself that he couldn’t kick into super high gear if he expected his heart to survive the confrontation, Jake ran. He was less than ten strides from the strand when an engine roared and a van lurched in front of him from a side street. A man’s thick head jutted out the window. In heavily accented English, he growled, “Get in.”
    The scene flashed through Jake’s brain in slow motion: the yellow-toothed smile of the driver, thudding footsteps a few yards behind him, the van’s side door cracking open, the barrel of an AK-47 peeking out of its dark interior.
    “Flat!” Becker’s shout boomed down the street.
    Jake dove to the pavement just as the muffled spits of two silenced assault rifles opened up on the van. It was riddled with dozens of high-powered slugs. A double line of smoking pockmarks stitched the van’s side panels from front to back. The head in the front window disappeared in an explosion of bloody grit that coated the interior of the windshield. The AK-47 toppled from the van’s interior to clatter to the pavement in front of Jake’s face, the stock dripping with blood. No one inside could have survived the onslaught.
    Jake turned to the grunts of a struggle behind him. Becker had tackled the man following Jake. They rolled and twisted on the