The second book in the Bill Tasker series, 2005

I want to thank my friends at Putnam, especially Neil Nyren and Michael Barson, for guiding me through my first year.

I should acknowledge my agent, Peter Rubie, whose odd mind provided the impetus for the story.

My good friend Reed F. Coleman came up with the title Shock Wave. I am in his debt.

I would also like to thank all the cops out there who supported me on the launch of my first book. You guys are the best.

He took a deep breath, not only to calm down, but in response to the Latina in a red bikini crossing Ocean Avenue. Her abdominals formed an olive-colored sign pointing to her pierced navel. She held that South Beach-distant attitude on her precise Cuban features as her long, jet-black hair fanned out behind her. She was one of many, but he definitely noticed her.

Looking down at the gym bag, he felt for the SIG-Sauer P-230 pistol he had tucked in between the seats in case of emergency. Really, it was in case of disaster. In an emergency, the six other cops watching him would swoop in and rescue him. If that failed, he might need the little.380 with its eight shots. The last thing he wanted today was a disaster. His first undercover gig since his last disaster. Even though that one had had nothing to do with undercover, or even a fuck-up on his part. He patted the gym bag to reassure himself. It was small scale as far as undercover deals went: five pounds of pot for some supposedly untraceable handguns. But there would be a good payoff. Many times, guns like these were used in homicides. Once they had the firing marks and ballistics, he figured they’d be able to connect one of them to something good. If not, they had a creep willing to trade guns for dope off the street.

Bill Tasker scanned the street in front of the Clevelander Hotel to make sure all his covering surveillance was in place. Working with his own guys from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement made him feel a lot more comfortable. God knows he didn’t want to deal with the Bureau right now. He’d seen firsthand how they could lose targets on surveillance. The FDLE agents had two Miami Beach cops with them, but it was for courtesy as much as to be able to call in every cop in the city if there was a problem. Everyone had been briefed and knew what to expect. He wasn’t too worried.

He caught the last possible glimpse of the girl in the bikini as she headed down the slightly elevated dune toward the water. At this part of the beach it was a fifty-fifty chance she’d go topless, maybe even nude. Tasker didn’t have to check to see if the other FDLE agents saw her; they didn’t miss much. She wasn’t even his type. He went for the natural-girl-next-door, not the if-you-don’t-have-a-Porsche-I-won’t-talk-to-you type. But he couldn’t deny her obvious attributes, real or store-bought.

Tasker snapped up his head as he caught sight of the Ford F-150 coming down the street.

He tracked the truck with his eyes and grabbed his cell phone. He never used a radio on an undercover, just in case he forgot and left it on or the bad guy found it. Whatever could go wrong during an undercover did go wrong.

“You guys see him?” he asked over his Nextel.

“No problem, Billy. We’re set,” a voice answered. Then, “He’s not alone. Be ready.”

Tasker tensed. Could be a rip-off. The team had discussed this but everyone figured no one would rip a lousy five pounds of pot. The big deal here was the fact that the guy wanted to pay with guns. Tasker watched as an older white Ford truck crept toward him. That was one of the reasons he’d chosen South Beach as a meeting site: over here, a pickup stuck out like a porn star in Utah.

Tasker pressed the button on his Nextel. “It’s cool. I’ll see what they have to say. Tell everyone to stay back.”

“Ten-four,” the voice said.

The truck was now half a block in front of him. The bearded driver recognized Tasker sitting in the driver’s seat of the rented Suburban. FDLE liked using big rental cars so they had room to put in a camera, and if the car got trashed during an arrest or shot up somehow, all they had to do was turn it back in. They were down to one of the last rental companies in Dade County.

The pickup made a quick turn across the oncoming traffic, pulled down the side street and parked in the space for people checking into the hotel. The big bearded guy named “Bud” stepped out of the driver’s side and gave the area a good look. A smaller guy, about thirty, dressed sharper in slick pants and a silk shirt, spent a few seconds checking his look in the truck’s side mirror.

Tasker could see right off that this was the man with the guns. The redneck he’d dealt with the last time was just a middleman. That was always what happened. You meet someone, identify him and then have to arrest someone else. In this case, Tasker had had an analyst do a workup on Lloyd “Bud” Wilson, a landscaper from south Dade, and now he saw that Bud wasn’t any smarter than he’d seemed when they met last time. He just knew someone with guns.

Tasker made a quick safety check of the Suburban. He glanced up at the passenger-side visor, just able to see the tiny microphone for the transmitter. If it worked, the surveillance agents would hear what was going on. His Nextel was on private and the gun was still hidden in the seats.

The big redneck, Bud, waved as the pair approached the truck. Tasker rolled down the passenger window so they could talk to him without walking into the street.

Tasker leaned over and said, “Hey, Bud, who’s your friend?”

Bud ran his thick fingers over his sunburned face, “Well, Willie, this here is the fella that can put his hands on the guns.”

“Thought you were bringing them today.”

“We brung a sample.”

The smaller man held up a small satchel.

“Sorry, Bud, we had a deal. Don’t have time to waste on a guy that dicks me around.” Tasker started to roll up the window.

The smaller guy stepped in front of Bud. “Willie, I thought we could talk.”

Tasker ignored him. Bud had obviously told him Tasker’s undercover name and didn’t seem to mind having this slick little bastard cut in.

Tasker paused and looked at Bud. “I don’t hear anyone talkin’, Bud, ’cause you’re the only one I know. Now, I came in good faith and expected at least six handguns. I don’t see them, so I’m leaving.” He put the big Suburban in gear, but gave the two crooks a second to convince him to stay.

Bud put his hand on the half-closed window and said, “Now, hold on there, Willie. Gene here is gonna get the rest from the truck.” Without waiting for Tasker to reply, the short guy, Gene, grabbed the keys from Bud and scurried back to the truck, cutting across the open courtyard of the Clevelander. Bud leaned into the window. “I’m sorry about this, Willie.”

“Who is that guy?”

“Gene-he’s a mover and shaker down in Homestead. I had a little trouble coming up with the cash for the guns, so he’s fronting them. He’s just watching his investment.”

The idea that anyone in the rural community of Homestead would be considered a mover and shaker made Tasker smile. He kept his eyes on the short man as he headed back with a heavy backpack he held across his shoulder. Bud opened the rear door and slid in before Tasker could say anything. Gene jumped up front with the bag. Tasker hoped that move wouldn’t prompt the surveillance guys to come in. No one liked a bad guy behind the undercover agent.