Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

use it. You don’t kill people like me. You kill the abusers, the predators.”
    “I could make an exception. You’ve broken the law by breaking in here. There are no gray areas. Who knows, maybe you came to
plant
evidence here, not find it. Maybe you
are
like them.”
    Bosch started lowering his hands to the desktop.
    “Be careful, Detective.”
    “I’m tired of holding them up. And I know you’re not going to shoot me. It’s not part of your program.”
    “I told you, programs change.”
    “How do you pick them?”
    She stared at him a long time, then finally answered.
    “They pick themselves. They deserve what they get.”
    “No judge, no jury. Just you.”
    “Don’t tell me you haven’t wished you could do the same thing.”
    “Sure, on occasion. But there are rules. We don’t live by them, then where does it all go?”
    “Right here, I guess. What am I going to do about you?”
    “Nothing. You kill me and you know it’s over. You’ll be like one of them — the abusers and the predators. Put the gun down.”
    She took two steps into the room. The muzzle came up toward his face. Bosch saw that deadly black eye rising in slow motion.
    “You’re wearing a vest, aren’t you?”
    He nodded.
    “I could see it in your eyes. The fear comes up when the gun comes up.”
    Bosch shook his head.
    “I’m not afraid. You won’t shoot me.”
    “I still see fear.”
    “Not for me. It’s for you. How many have there been?”
    She paused, maybe to decide what to tell him, or maybe just to decide what to do. Or maybe she was stuck on his answer about the fear.
    “More than you’ll ever know. More than anybody will ever know. Look, I’m sorry, you know?”
    “About what?”
    “About there being only one real way out of this. For me.”
    The muzzle steadied, its aim at his eyes.
    “Before you pull that trigger, can I show you something?”
    “It won’t matter.”
    “I think it will. It’s in my inside jacket pocket.”
    She frowned, then made a signal with the gun.
    “Show me your wrists. Where’s your watch?”
    Bosch raised his hands and his jacket sleeves came down, showing his watch on his right wrist. He was left-handed.
    “Okay, take out whatever it is you need to show me with your right hand. Slowly, Detective, slowly.”
    “You got it.”
    Bosch reached in and with great deliberation pulled out the folded document. He handed it across the desk to her.
    “Just put it down and then lean away.”
    He followed her instructions. She waited for him to move back and then picked up the document. With one hand she unfolded it and took a glance, taking her eyes off Bosch for no more than a millisecond.
    “I’m not going to be able to read it. What is it?”
    “It’s a no-knock search warrant. I have broken no law by being here. I’m not one of them.”
    She stared at him for a silent thirty seconds and then finally smirked.
    “You have to be kidding me. What judge would sign such a search warrant? You had zero probable cause.”
    “I had your lies and your proximity to two murders. And I had Judge Oscar Ortiz — you remember him?”
    “Who is he?”
    “Back in 1999 he had the McIntyre case. But you took it away from him when you executed McIntyre. Getting him to sign this search warrant wasn’t hard once I reminded him about the case.”
    Anger worked into her face. The muzzle started to come up again.
    “All I have to say is one word,” Bosch said. “A one-syllable word.”
    “And what?”
    “And you’re dead.”
    She froze, and slowly her eyes rose from Bosch’s face to the windows over the file cabinets.
    “You opened the blinds,” she said.
    “Yes.”
    Bosch studied the two red laser dots that had played on her face since she had entered the room, one high on her forehead, the other on her chin. Bosch knew that the lasers did not account for bullet drop, but the SWAT sharpshooters on the roof of the house across the street did. The chin dot was the heart shot.
    Gables seemed frozen, unable to choose whether to live or die.
    “There’s a lot you could tell us,” he said. “We could learn from you. Why don’t you just put the gun down and we can get started.”
    He slowly started to lean forward, raising his left hand to take the gun.
    “I don’t think so,” she said.
    She brought the muzzle up but he didn’t say the word. He didn’t think she’d shoot.
    There were three sounds in immediate succession: The breaking of glass as the bullet passed through the