“You said it was just an introduction. You’ll still have your playmates, but I’m coming, too. I want to know everyone involved. Understood?”

Tasker rose slowly. Camy put her soft hand on his arm and said quietly, “Let it go, Billy. He won’t cause any trouble.”

Tasker relaxed, but had to ask, “What’s your problem, Bolini?”

“I told you, I own this end of the county. And I don’t want some yokel to screw it up.” He paused and said, “And I don’t want you to make the Bureau look bad again.”

Bernie Dashett let the armadillo squirm in his hand until it wore itself out. The extra-thick leather gloves protected him whenever he had to grab some critter like this. He turned from the laundry room where he’d grabbed the ten-pound armored rat.

An elderly lady jumped back. “How’d it get in there?”

He concentrated on the tiring armadillo and said, “Mrs. Vorse, you might have left the door ajar one night. Possums and such love to explore carports, and a room like that is awful inviting.”

“Well, Bernie, thank you for coming over so quick. I’ll tell your mama what a big help you are.”

He stopped at the rear of his truck and slid the armadillo into a metal cage. “Thanks, Mrs. Vorse. It would have been easier if my trap was working, but I’m having it fixed.” He secured the cage and headed for the driver’s door. Hopping in, he said, “Call me if you have any other problem. I’ll tell Mama you said hey.”

The older woman waved as he backed out onto the road and headed toward the east. He was meeting Gene Antero over at the mall in Cutler Ridge and didn’t want to be late.

He had bought and sold guns with Gene over the years and trusted him as much as he trusted anyone from New York. The guy usually paid up and always seemed to have cash on hand to buy whatever old piece-of-shit pistol Bernie could find. This was different. A whole new level, but he figured if Gene had connections and had come through before, why not now.

Gene had told him he’d bring along his buddy named Willie. He vouched for him and said he had plenty of cash. When Bernie asked him why this guy Willie needed a Stinger, ’cause he didn’t want someone to kill a bunch of Americans with it, Gene told him that Willie was just a collector. That was good enough for Bernie. He was going to ask sixty-five hundred and would take five grand. That was pretty good profit for only paying two thousand in Tampa. The National Guardsman who’d sold it had wanted cash so Bernie had to sell off some of his fishing gear and an old pop-up camper. Now he’d be able to buy all new stuff.

As he came north on US 1, he saw the Sears a few blocks away. The mall had been a landmark in the Perrine and Cutler Ridge area since he was a boy. He’d figured it was as good a place as any to meet.

Gene had said they’d be in a brand-new Suburban and park back in the lot directly in front of the Sears. Bernie saw them sitting inside the big SUV alone in the rear of the almost empty lot.

They came out of the Suburban to greet him. Gene, in his usual shiny pants, talking quick, and the other guy, Willie, about six foot and pretty solid.

“Hey, Bernie, how’s it going?” asked Gene, and then before he could answer, “This here is my pal Willie. He’s the man with the cash.”

Bernie shook the man’s hand. He looked at his casual appearance and sandy hair, trying to get a feel for the guy. Nice-looking, early thirties, nothing about him looked like a cop. At least none of the cops who had locked him up in the past.

Willie said, “You ready to talk business, or do we have to waste time bullshittin’ for a while?”

Bernie liked someone so direct who didn’t sound like a New Yorker. He smiled and said, “What kind of business we talkin’ about?”

Willie frowned and looked at Gene. “You didn’t tell me we’d have to play games with this fella.” He looked at Bernie, then at the driver’s door of the Suburban. “Let’s go.”

Bernie was just trying to be mysterious, like they were in the movies. Now he said, “No, no wait.”

Willie stopped and looked at him.

“We can talk about the missile. I know Gene, so I know you must be okay.”

Willie nodded and Gene started to talk. Before he got out a full word, Willie held up his hand and said, “Shut up, Gene. Let Bernie talk.”

Bernie smiled at the courtesy. “I was lookin’ for about eight large for it.” He thought, Why not go for it.

Willie thought about it and said, “Who manufactured it?”

Bernie just stared at him. “I guess the U.S. Army.”

“That’s who owned it. What company made it? It’ll be on there somewhere.”

Bernie said, “I honestly don’t know.”

Gene started to speak, but again Willie shut him down. Bernie had never seen anyone do that to Gene before.

Willie said, “Eight grand is a little high, especially if I don’t know who made the damn thing.”

“How much was you thinkin’?”

“If it is what you say it is, maybe sixty-five.”

Bernie almost jumped up and down. That was exactly what he wanted for it. “We might could work that out.”

“Where’d you get it?” asked Willie.

“Just came by it. You know, knew the right people.” In fact, he’d only met the National Guardsman through a friend and didn’t even know his last name. He had been very careful who he told about it.

“Where is it now?” asked Willie.

“It’s safe. No kids or nothin’ could get to it. I was savin’ it for a collector like you.”

For the first time, Willie smiled, showing white straight teeth. “Okay, Bernie, sounds like we can do some business.”

“I’ll go get it right now if you want.”

“I need a day to get the cash. What about tomorrow, noon, right here? Won’t take five minutes. I’ll even take you to lunch after if you want.”

Bernie smiled and said, “Count on it.”

Willie let Gene say goodbye, and they were gone. Bernie was gonna have some cash soon. He felt like a million bucks, or at least sixty-five hundred.

“Nice job on the setup, Willie,” said Camy Parks. “Nice middle-of-the-day deal, plenty of time to set it up and check out any leads on him. I like it.”

Tasker smiled. He was happy with yesterday’s meeting, too. He could’ve let Bernie Dashett run out and get the Stinger, but by putting him off until today he’d been able to get surveillance on him and plan things more carefully.

It was an hour before he was supposed to meet with Bernie, and everything was going well. The FBI had put a surveillance team on his house, the briefing was completed and everyone was ready to head out to the undercover location at the Cutler Ridge Mall. Although Tasker had seen FBI surveillance teams firsthand, he didn’t think this good-old boy from the sticks would be able to pick them up.

Jimmy Lail bopped up and said, “Dawg, I got your back on this. Things slide shallow and I’ll be in the shit.”

As Tasker tried to decipher that comment, Sal Bolini, who hadn’t said a word, approached them. “Well, kids, I’m outta here.”

Camy asked, “You’re not interested in a potential terror case?”

“Doesn’t involve my informant. I checked with him and he never heard about any Stinger for sale, so you can call me if there is a problem.”

Tasker asked, “Did your snitch know Dashett?”

“The FBI doesn’t have snitches. We have informants or sources of information. I didn’t even bother to ask my informant about your mope. This informant is too valuable to taint with this penny-ante shit.”

“So you’re done with the case?”

“If I need something else, I’ll read Snoop Dogg’s 302.” He gave Jimmy Lail a look almost as condescending as he’d given the other agencies involved.

Tasker never understood why all the Feds referred to their reports by numbers. The FBI used 302, the DEA wrote a DEA-6. All Tasker ever wrote were investigative reports. Nothing fancy, but somehow he still managed to make arrests and solve cases.