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it was a toy. “This is a big-ass car.”
    â€œIt’s to compensate for my freakishly small dick. You know, that gun would have come in handy back at the club.”
    â€œYeah, I forgot it in my car.”
    â€œOh, so you have a car, too. Can I ask why you decided to hitch a ride with me?”
    â€œThey might know what my car looks like. They might follow me.”
    â€œWho are they?”
    â€œThem.”
    â€œYou knew this was my car?”
    â€œI asked around. You’ve got quite a fan base at the club.”
    â€œI don’t let it go to my head.”
    â€œI want to hire you to be my bodyguard.”
    Rush pressed his foot on the accelerator. He weaved between the neighboring cars as the GTO ate up the road. “Well, I usually get work through referrals, but this is nice, this makes a change.”
    The GTO was tearing along the freeway like a rocket.
    â€œI’m Stanley Trask’s daughter,” Amelia said.
    Rush’s face took on a stern expression. “My fee just doubled.”
    The city lights were flying by. Amelia was getting scared. “Slow down.”
    â€œNo. This way, if you shoot me, you end up looking like one of those high school driver’s-ed movies. Ain’t no airbags in this baby.”
    He reached with his hand to the back seat, palm open. She dropped the gun into it and sat back, sulking. “You’re no fun.” But the car kept speeding along the 101. “So slow down!”
    â€œWe’re being followed.”
    She turned to look out the back window—the Lamborghini was a few car lengths behind them, bearing down. It was a duel between Italian and American engineering. Amelia was interested to see how it would turn out.

FIVE
    T o understand about Stanley Trask, you have to go back a few years to when things were simpler. To the time when Rush had a steady job and Zerbe was in prison. The good old days.
    Tigon Security was run by Victoria Donleavy, an ex-cop with short-cropped gray hair that was almost the same color as her gray suit. She wore her blouse buttoned all the way up, no makeup, and flat orthopedic shoes, all in an attempt to tone down her earthy sexiness, which still flared up sometimes, especially when she got angry, which was fairly often. Her years with LAPD had taught her that women, if they were going to be taken seriously, had better not be attractive, threatening, or female. This dead-end had led her to an early retirement and a desire to beat law enforcement at its own game. Tigon was one of the best, most profitable private security companies on the west coast.
    For her team, Donleavy recruited only the finest graduates of the military, the penal system, and theL.A. street gangs. With Rush, she had a trifecta. Tigon’s clients were the rich and the famous; if you had to ask how much they charged, you couldn’t even afford a referral.
    Stanley Trask didn’t have to ask. He and his brother Walter ran GlobalInterLink, the Biggest Communications Company in the World. Their words, but true nonetheless. Cell phones, computers, e-readers, satellite TVs—it was well on its way to actually being the biggest company in the world.
    Success breeds enemies. The Trasks had been receiving threatening letters, letters that Tigon Security (and Rush) had deemed credible. The Tigon Threat Assessment Team had made this claim after examining the letters using a variety of psychological and criminological criteria. Rush had made this claim after meeting Stanley Trask and deciding that he was a filthy rich, arrogant asshole who a whole lot of people probably wanted dead. The more Rush got to know Trask, the more sure he was that this initial assessment had been correct. Trask stole software from his competitors, stole money from his stockholders, and probably stole loose change from his left pocket when his right pocket wasn’t looking. In other words, it was an honor to be protecting the guy.
    But