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spluttered. “Wait the fuck!”
    Reznick took the gun from his mouth and pressed it to his forehead. “Yeah?”
    “Man, the thing is, I know Hunter, but I don’t wanna …”
    A woman’s voice piped up from the throng. “I know Hunter Cain.”
    Reznick spun around and saw a scantily clad young woman face down on the floor. He kept the gun trained on the biker. “How?”
    “I’m his girlfriend. I see him once a month.”
    Reznick pointed at her. “Get yourself outside, go to the last car and wait for me.”
    The girl got to her feet and headed outside.
    Reznick pressed the gun tight against the biker’s head. He watched as pee began to dribble onto the floor through the guy’s jeans. “Think you need to change your pants, son.”
    He turned and walked out as the Feds with shotguns and handguns covered him.
    Reznick walked over to the last vehicle and saw that the biker chick was sitting in the back. He climbed in beside her. He waited till the Feds had left the bar, got back in their SUV and pulled away. They followed behind, leaving a trail of dust in their wake as they about-turned down the beach road and back to Pensacola.
    The girl said, “Who the hell are you? You’re not a Fed, are you?”
    Reznick said, “They are. I’m working alongside them on this case. We’re looking for Hunter Cain. How long’ve you been his girlfriend?”
    “Since forever.”
    “I heard he was married.”
    “Still is. I’m his … girlfriend.”
    “I see.”
    Reznick handed her Meyerstein’s card. She looked at it long and hard.
    “Okay, so this is an FBI business card, right?” she said.
    “We need to speak to Hunter urgently.”
    The girl began to sob. “Fuck!”
    “Tell me, you got any kids?”
    “Three. Two from my ex-husband, who was a dog, let me tell you.”
    “And the third?”
    “That’s Hunter’s.”
    “We don’t have a record of that.”
    “He took my name. Hunter isn’t on any certificate or whatever.”
    “What’s your name?”
    The girl pushed some hair away from her eyes, tears streaking her face with mascara. “Kathleen. Kathleen Burke.”
    “Kathleen, I’m glad you were smart enough to speak up. But it’s really important Hunter contacts us. Now you seem like a nice enough girl. But, to be honest, you really don’t wanna hang around with that crowd back there. You got a record?”
    “A few for drugs. One coming up soon.”
    “We might be able to help you with that. But for that, we need to speak to Hunter.”
    The girl dabbed her eyes.
    “You need to pass on a message if he calls.”
    “And what’s that?”
    “Tell Hunter that Jon Reznick is wanting to speak to him. I know Hunter pretty good. We were in Delta together, way back.”
    The girl nodded.
    “Jon Reznick. You want me to write that down?”
    The girl nodded.
    Reznick scribbled down his name and handed the card back to her. “That’s got my name on it, and this lady’s number. Hunter can contact me direct on her cellphone.”
    “What if he doesn’t call me?”
    “Let me worry about that.”

EIGHT
    Meyerstein was in a conference room in the FBI’s Pensacola field office, watching a rerun of the footage on one of the big screens, coffee in hand, as her second in command, Special Agent Roy Stamper, paced the floor. “You wanna sit down, Roy?”
    Stamper shook his head. “I warned you about this sort of thing, Martha. I warned time and time again. This is what happens when we allow crazies like Reznick in on our work.”
    Meyerstein said nothing. She felt uneasy about the methods Reznick had used, and couldn’t see any upside. The illegality was clear.
    “Threatening to kill a biker in a clubhouse? That’s outrageous. Illegal. And, frankly, the stuff of nightmares. If this gets out, and mark my words it will, we’re fucked. We’ll be crucified.”
    “Quiet!”
    “No I won’t! I’ve put up with this sort of bullshit for too long, Martha. What in God’s name is the director going to say about