The Lost Coast

Q&A: J.A. Konrath Interviews Barry Eisler

Excerpt: THE DETACHMENT

Excerpt: Chapter 1

Excerpt: Chapter 2

About the Author

Books by Barry Eisler

Contact Barry

The sun was setting on the redwoods and Larison thought it was time to find a place to stop. He’d been driving north from Los Angeles for ten days, sometimes moving continuously during the daylight hours, other times going not very far at all, never more than one night in the same place. He knew the people looking for him had no way to track him, but even if they did, there would inevitably be some lag between the moment they could find and fix him and the deployment of actual forces. The more he kept moving, the more any information his pursuers managed to develop would be useless by the time they could do anything to act on it.

He’d been traveling the coastal highway, but north of Westport it had turned inland, the terrain apparently too rugged for the road to continue along the Pacific, and not long after it had died without fanfare, collapsing into Route 101. He knew from the map on the passenger seat that 101, also called the Redwood Highway, would meander northwest along the King mountain range before reuniting with the Pacific somewhere north of Ferndale. The area in between, cut off from coastal access, was known colloquially as the Lost Coast, a name Larison had found strangely alluring when he’d first heard it years before. He imagined black sand beaches, prehistoric redwood forests, towns as remote and strange as creatures from the Galapagos. Maybe he would spend a few days in the area, passing through disconnected burgs like Petrolia and Honeydew and Shelter Cove, dots on the map next to him. He felt secretly pleased at the notion of a man like himself disappearing in a place that by its name declared it couldn’t be found.

A road sign told him he was thirty miles from Arcata. He’d never been there, but he knew of it. An old mining and then timber nexus on Arcata Bay, now mostly a college town. He’d find a hotel that would take cash and not demand ID. If that didn’t pan out, he’d keep going and find something else. There was always another town.

It was nearly dark as he left the highway, the sliver of a crescent moon hanging low in the sky. He didn’t have a car navigation system or even a cell phone, either of which could be tracked, but he didn’t really need the technology, either. There was usually a logic in the layout of small towns, with independent restaurants and retail establishments in the center, gas stations, supermarkets, and other chains farther out, and the more sprawling single family dwellings on the periphery. Some were easier to navigate than others, but it didn’t matter one way or the other. He was rarely in a hurry.

He found his way by the usual signs to the center of Arcata, which, as it happened, was impossible to miss: a large square plaza surrounded by bars, restaurants, and small shops. At one corner was a three-story brick building he judged to be about a hundred years old. A faded sign jutting from halfway up its side proclaimed that this was the Hotel Arcata.

He might have driven back to the periphery and found a more anonymous chain establishment, but there was something about the hotel that he liked, something that struck him as simultaneously stalwart and seedy. Certainly it didn’t look like the kind of place where anyone would ask a lot of questions.

He drove slowly around the plaza, logging his surroundings. Four bars alongside the hotel, the buildings mostly one or at most three stories, the clapboard facades against surrounding hills all straight out of the gold rush. Clusters of hobos, some standing, some sprawled on benches, looking in their languorous ease at least semi-permanent. College kids, from the signs Larison had seen probably from Humboldt State University, aping the hobos’ style, tooling around on skateboards and mountain bikes, probably stoned from good, locally-grown Humboldt County weed. He thought about scoring some himself and momentarily longed for a relaxing, solitary high, but knew he couldn’t. He needed to stay sharp. Just in case.

No sense in allowing anyone to connect him to the vehicle, so he found an unregulated stretch of street a half mile from the hotel and parked there. He got out and started walking away from the hotel. No one was watching him, but if they were, they’d describe him heading in the wrong direction. In a few blocks, he’d turn and start to move obliquely toward his intended destination. He didn’t mind the walk. It had been a long drive and the early evening was pleasantly cool. He watched his breath fogging in the moist air and enjoyed the scent of the nearby forest. Outside the town center, the streets were exceptionally quiet, even lonely, the evening mist swirling slowly under intermittent lamplights. Other than the soft crunch of his boots on the sidewalk there was no sound at all.

The entrance to the hotel was a step back in time: an intricately tiled floor; a great, winding staircase; lights the hue of candles strung in a line along the ceiling. The clerk, pony-tailed, bearded, and pierced through his left nostril, offered no objections to Larison’s story about the loss of a wallet and accompanying ID. Maybe the situation struck the guy as strange, but so what? If anyone asked, he would describe a solid man of about forty, dark hair, dark skin, a stubble of beard, and Larison doubted whether after the passage of a few hours or a day the guy would be able to offer even that much. The guy accepted cash for a single night in a second-floor room as Larison requested, gave Larison an old-fashioned key on a chain, and bid him a good evening.

Larison took the stairway to the second floor and let himself into the room without turning on the light. He closed the door behind him, double locked it, and crossed the short distance to the large windows. He noted that, unlike what was commonly found in more modern hotel fare, these windows were designed to be raised completely, and he opened each to confirm. He looked down and saw a closed Dumpster in the alley directly below him. In a pinch, he’d be able to hang from the window and jump, which was why he’d wanted this floor. Low enough to get down from; too high to easily get into. Of course, the people he was up against would know to have the alley covered while they breached the front door, but it could never hurt to have more options. At a minimum, the presence of an escape hatch would compel them to divide their forces, improving his odds of blitzing through the segment attacking at the door or through the segment covering the alley.

But he reminded himself that no one had followed him, no one knew he was here. The precautions were smart, but in the end, they wouldn’t be necessary. And Arcata itself was a sleepy little town. He wasn’t going to have any trouble here.

He closed the windows, then the blinds, and then turned on the lights. The room was Spartan: a single bed under a faded spread; a tiny nightstand hosting a plastic alarm clock; a rickety-looking wooden table and matching chair. It was fine. It was all he needed.

He went to the bathroom and flicked on the light. Just a pygmy-sized toilet, sink, and a claw foot tub with a curtain wrapped around it so it could double as a shower. He removed from the cross-draw shoulder holster the Glock C18C machine pistol he always kept at hand and placed it on the toilet tank within easy reach. Then he took a toothbrush and travel-sized toothpaste from his pocket and brushed his teeth. Everything else he had with him, and it wasn’t much—just a second pair of jeans, a few clean shirts, and a half dozen pairs of socks and underwear—were in the trunk of the car. Enough to keep going for at least a week before it was time to look for a coin-operated laundry. If he ever had to bug out, he didn’t want to have to come back to a hotel room, or leave anything behind if he couldn’t.

When he was done with his teeth, he undressed and took a long, hot shower. Then he got dressed again, holstered the Glock under his dark wool jacket, checked the Emerson Commander BTS folding knife in his front jeans pocket, hung the Do Not Disturb sign from the doorknob, and went down to the lobby. He’d noticed a sushi restaurant called Tomo there on the way in, and sushi sounded as good as anything else for dinner. He sat at the bar and ordered miso soup, edamame, an unagi handroll, and toro sashimi. The décor was utterly ersatz—Larison had been to Japan—but the food was good enough.

He paid cash when he was done and returned to the lobby, planning to take the stairs back to his room. The less he went out, the less likely it was that he would be seen by anyone who might recognize him. A pretty remote chance, of course, but when you’ve managed to fake your own death, there wasn’t much available explanation in the event of a unlucky encounter. The only real possibility—you must be confusing me with someone else—would almost certainly be insufficient to avoid the one person mentioning it to another, and then another, until the information reached the ears of someone in the organization who would act on it.

Still, he paused in the antique lobby, the thought of returning to the dreary little room suddenly unappealing. Who could possibly recognize, or even notice him, in the sleepy town of Arcata, perched on the edge of the Lost Coast like a ship becalmed in the Bermuda Triangle? He decided the hell with it, a walk around the plaza if nothing else. After all, when would he ever be back here? He chuckled at that, because with the kind of animosity he had riled up, the likelihood was that he would never be back anywhere, let alone Arcata. He might as well enjoy a quiet night out. It would be boring, but less boring than lying awake on the bed in that small room, eyes open in the dark, waiting for sleep, afraid of the dreams.

He went out. The smell of the forest was gone here, obliterated by the dank lees of cigarette smoke and spilled beer and wet tobacco. He crossed the street to the plaza, made a right, and walked slowly along. Many of the hobos were laughing and talking boisterously as he approached, but as he neared they grew quiet and averted their eyes, saying nothing, not even a request for spare change, as though he were a jungle cat they hoped by their sudden stillness might overlook them and choose some other prey.

He walked the perimeter of the plaza, then crossed the street back to the entrance to the hotel. He almost went inside, but paused, again gripped by restlessness, some vestigial need to see something, connect with something, in the world outside another anonymous room in another random town.

He walked slowly down the neon-dim sidewalk, parting the knots of pierced and long-haired college kids, barely noticing the unconscious discomfort that settled into the features of some of them at his approach and evaporated as suddenly in his wake. He was used to the reaction. Even when he wasn’t trying, even when he was trying not to, there was something about him that scared people. Most of them didn’t even understand why. But he did. They sensed the things he had done.

Which was why he mostly steered clear of bars. Ordinarily, the low level predators knew from a single sniff to steer clear of him, but a little liquid courage sometimes made people stupid. Plus he’d had a bad experience in a bar once, or rather, outside one. He was a teenager at the time, tough but stupid, and it had been three on one. They’d fucked him up pretty hard, and he still had a long scar at his hairline where they’d split his scalp and hearing loss in one ear from a concussion to remind him of that evening. He’d never caught up with them, and even now, all these years later, he sometimes still wished he could.

The first place he passed, Sidelines, was an obvious college meat market, loud and overcrowded. The second, The Alibi, looked as much restaurant as bar, and he’d already eaten. The third, Toby and Jack’s, had an impenetrable brick front that felt like a penitentiary. He wasn’t comfortable entering a room he couldn’t first look into, so he skipped this one, too. The fourth, Everett’s, looked okay. He stood in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room. The bouncer, a beefy, mustached man on a stool just inside the door, watched him but said nothing. After a moment, Larison gave him a collegial nod, having already determined how he would kill the man if it came to that, and moved inside.

It was nothing fancy, a honky-tonk more than a bar. Wood-paneled walls, dim lighting, a pool table, a few tables, a couch. Over the hubbub of laughter and conversation, a jukebox was playing Bob Dylan, Shelter from the Storm. The walls were lined with the stuffed heads of animals: a bison, a bear, a gigantic ten-point buck. He estimated about forty people at the bar and at the tables, and that the place could accommodate maybe twice that if no one was paying overly close attention to fire code limits.

He took an empty bar stool and scanned the room more closely. A guy in riding leathers and a greasy ponytail was running the pool table with strong, confident strokes. Another guy, similarly attired, sat watching the first guy, pool cue in hand, looking unhappy, perhaps at the thought of the money he was about to lose in a bet. He caught Larison’s eye and gave him a hard look. Larison didn’t return the look, exactly, at least not in kind. Instead, he just gazed at the guy impassively, feeling nothing, as though the guy were something inanimate Larison might if so inclined disassemble and explore. After a moment, the guy looked back to the pool table, apparently having decided pool was the safer game to play.

One of the bartenders came over, a blond, fifty-something woman with no-nonsense eyes but a warm enough smile. “What can I get you?” she said.

Larison glanced at the taps. “Steelhead.”

She filled a glass, cutting off the flow at just the right instant to prevent the foam from spilling over, and set the glass on the bar in front of him. “Four dollars.”

Larison gave her a five, then left the one she returned to him on the bar. He took a long swallow of the beer and was pleased at how good it was. Something local, he supposed.

The bartender looked at him. “Where are you from?”

Larison was surprised. The bar was crowded, and while she wasn’t alone, it didn’t look like the kind of night where the bartenders could afford to spend time chatting up their customers.

He took another swallow of beer. “San Francisco.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “Pretty long way from San Francisco.”

He shrugged. “Worth the trip.”

“What brings you to Arcata?”

“Just needed to get away for a while.” He glanced at the walls, and to change the subject said, “Are you the hunter?”

She smiled. “No, that would be my daddy. He bought this place in 1959 and I took it over ten years ago. Do you hunt?”

Larison had to resist the urge to smile. He said, “I used to.”

A bearded guy halfway down the bar held up his empty glass and called out, “Linda!” The bartender glanced over and nodded. Larison said, “Well, it was good talking to you, Linda.”

“Yes, it was.” She held out her hand. “And you are…?”

“Dave,” he said, shaking her hand. It was close enough to the truth. He had more answers if she had more questions, his legends so well-practiced he sometimes had trouble telling them from the real thing, but the bearded guy, who had apparently had too much to drink, again called out, “Linda!” and Larison was suddenly alone again.

He turned around on the stool and faced the room again, ignoring the pool players because his point had been made and there was nothing to be gained by fucking with them. He noticed a kid with short brown hair sitting alone at one of the tables, nursing a beer. There was something reserved and gentle about him, which was why Larison hadn’t noticed him initially. He always keyed first on potential problems.

He looked a little closer. The kid had beautifully smooth skin, full lips, a healthy bloom of red in his cheeks. More clean-cut than the others of similar age Larison had seen in the area, but still probably just another Humboldt State college student. He noticed Larison looking at him, looked away, then looked back. It was hard to tell from across the room, but Larison could have sworn the kid had blushed.

This wasn’t a good idea. He’d taken enough chances already tonight, coming to the bar, pinging the local tough guys, conversing with the bartender. Picking up some college kid on top of it seemed like really pushing his luck.

Still, the kid was so his type. The hair, the complexion, the soft features. He imagined the kid on his knees in front of him and felt himself becoming aroused.

The kid looked away again, then back. What the hell, it couldn’t hurt to just say hello. Maybe the kid wasn’t even gay. But what felt more likely, somehow, was that he was and just didn’t know it, and the thought of that aroused Larison even more.

He got up and walked over. The kid watched him approach, looking both pleased and nervous. God, Larison hadn’t run into anyone like this in forever. Fuck it. This was worth taking some chances.

He stopped in front of the table and said, “You’re from Humboldt State, am I right?”

The kid smiled uncertainly, and Larison was knocked out. It was such an innocent smile, so unspoiled and unsullied. Larison might have had a smile like that himself, a million years earlier, before all the things he’d encountered that gave him his scary rictus instead.

“Yeah, how’d you know?” the kid said. The voice soft, pleasing.

“I saw the signs when I came in from the highway. I didn’t know there was a state school this far north.”

“Yeah, we’re the furthest north in the system. You thinking about applying?”

Larison was about twenty years older than the kid, and if the tone had been different, the question could have come across as mocking. Instead, it felt… flirtatious. He liked that the kid seemed not to be scared of him. “I’m not sure. You think I’d like it?”

This time the kid blushed for sure. “I… I don’t know. I mean, it’s a good college. The people are cool. Who are you, anyway? What are you doing in Arcata?”

“Just a stop on a long trip down the coast, dealing with customer complaints.”

“What kind of customers?”

Larison had a whole backstopped story he could have unspooled, but he didn’t feel like it. If this wasn’t going to end the way he hoped, he didn’t want to waste any more time. He took a sip of beer and said, “The kind who’ve bought expensive data mining software and are disappointed to find out the applications don’t do what they’re supposed to.”

“Sounds like you spend a lot of time with unhappy people.”

“Yeah, but I try not to let it get me down.” He took another sip of beer and said, “You alone here?”

“Got some friends probably swinging by later.” For whatever reason, he didn’t sound happy about it.

“Can I ask you a question?”

The kid nodded. “Sure.”

“If I wanted to pick up a little local Humboldt County produce—you know, just something to help me kick back and relax after a day of dealing with unhappy customers—do you know of anywhere I could do that?”

The kid looked suddenly uneasy. “How do I know you’re not a cop?”

For the second time that night, Larison had to resist the urge to laugh. “I look like a cop to you?”

The kid nodded. “There’s something serious about you. And I can tell you’re in shape.”

Larison was glad he’d noticed. “You must not know too many cops.”

“What do you do? Weights? Seriously, you’re pretty… big.”

Christ, was the kid flirting, or just incredibly innocent? Either way, it was a turn-on.

“I do a little something different every day. But come on, can you help me out? I’m not a cop. Where do I go?”

The kid was quiet for a moment, then he said, “What’s your name?”

“Dave. And you?”

“I’m Seth.”

“Well, Seth?”

“I guess… I guess I know a few guys on campus.”

“Far from here?”

The kid shook his head. “Maybe a mile.”

Larison felt a little warmth spread out in his gut. “If I pick something up, will you share it with me?”

The kid looked at Larison, something suddenly eager in his eyes. He said, “Sure. Okay.”

No doubt, this was shaping up to be a very fine evening. There were risks, yeah, but sometimes the reward was worth it.

Larison finished his beer in a swallow. “Do we walk?”

“We could. But I’m parked out back. I know, lazy.”

Larison imagined parking on some quiet street under the shadow of the redwoods, the vehicle’s interior illuminated only by the glow of a shared joint, the feeling close, comfortable. Most of all, private. People lost their inhibitions in the dark, when they knew they were in a place where no one else could see them, when they couldn’t see themselves. The kid would get high, he’d feel relaxed… he’d let himself do what he’d secretly always wanted to. Larison felt his heartbeat kick up a notch. He said, “Sure, let’s take your car.”

They walked out, past the pool players, the bouncer, the hobos shifting around outside. They made a right, then another at the corner, moving along the sidewalk, not talking. Larison felt nervousness coming off the kid in waves and it excited him. He wondered if it was possible it was the kid’s first time. Christ, what a thought.

The sidewalk was dark, parked cars to their left, the solid façade of the building to their right. A short funnel of sorts, the kind of terrain Larison always instinctively avoided because it was too easy for the opposition to close off both ends and squeeze, as well as being popular with ordinary muggers, too. But no one knew he was here, and he pitied the random mugger who might try to rob him.

They came to an alley and made a right. Now they were behind the bar; further down, at the other end of the alley, was the back of the hotel. A few lights along the building façade to their right provided a feeble, yellowish glow, casting shadows under the Dumpsters and garbage cans lined up beneath. To their left was a single-story, freestanding shack, apparently a small office of some kind.

Halfway down the alley, a guy in a hoodie and lumberjack boots was leaning against the building, a cigarette burning in his hand. Larison logged him reflexively, noting long, greasy hair and a bad case of acne. A cook or bartender, ducking out back from one of the bars for a tobacco break? Maybe, but he wasn’t near a door. And he was watching them, not with idle curiosity or bored disinterest, but with a kind of focus Larison didn’t like at all. The hobos he’d seen out front had felt like regulars. They wouldn’t try to rob someone so close to where the cops would roust them for questioning. A drifter, like himself? Maybe. But he looked more like a student. Which would have downgraded him on Larison’s threat assessment scale, but there was that focused way he was watching them.

They made a left past the shack, stepping off the paved alley and onto bare gravel. Larison didn’t like that their footfalls were now causing audible crunching while the guy against the wall would be able to approach quietly from behind. He glanced back and sure enough, the guy had come off the wall and was moving in their direction. He was holding something long in one hand—a lead pipe, Larison thought. Which meant he didn’t have a gun. Ordinarily, this could have been fun, in a retard-brings-a-pipe-to-a-gunfight kind of way, but tonight it was a problem. The bouncer had seen his face, twice. He’d actually talked to the bartender. And of course there was Seth. Whatever happened, he couldn’t just shoot someone. He couldn’t kill anyone, period.

There was a faded wooden shed on their right, a small parking lot with a half dozen cars, one of them presumably Seth’s, just beyond it. Larison was about to warn Seth there was going to be trouble and pull him around to the other side of the shed, from where Larison would be able to ambush the guy with the pipe, when another guy in a hoodie stepped out from the spot where Larison had been planning to go. This one, too, gripped a pipe. He smacked it against his palm and grinned, revealing a set of crooked teeth. “What the fuck do we have here?” he said in a weirdly squeaky voice.

Larison stopped short and resisted the urge to create distance and draw the Glock. The pieces all fell instantly into place: Not muggers. Muggers don’t display pipes because a pipe isn’t a psychologically terrifying weapon. And a mugger’s interview opens with a distraction question or victim-suitability-test question—hey man, got a light? Hey man, you know how to get to 8th Street?—not with an overt challenge. No. Not a mugging, just a game of Bash the Fag, and shy, sweet-faced Seth, or whatever the fuck his name really was, with that beautiful smile and eyes that had flashed eagerness at the prospect of leaving the bar with an interested stranger, was the bait.

All of which Larison understood in less time than it had taken Squeaky to finish talking. And he understood, too, from that time when he was a teenager, that the object of the game for these guys wasn’t just to inflict a beating. That was the actual act, yes, but they would also want to enjoy the foreplay of fear and humiliation.

Which was a shame for them, really. Because Larison had never been into foreplay. He was all about getting straight to the main event.

He heard footsteps on the gravel behind him. In his peripheral vision, Larison saw Seth edging away. Squeaky smacked the pipe against his palm again and looked past Larison at his approaching buddy. “You see this?” he said. “We’ve got—”

Larison stepped in. He swept his left hand up, outer edge forward, taking hold of the pipe alongside Squeaky’s grip, and shot a right palm heel up under Squeaky’s jaw. Squeaky’s head snapped back and Larison raked his eyes with his fingers, simultaneously twisting the pipe counterclockwise, ripping it free from his grip. Squeaky made a weird squawking sound and Larison changed direction with the pipe, getting his shoulder under it, bringing it up like a surface-to-air missile and stabbing it into Squeaky’s balls. Squeaky rose up on his toes from the force of the impact and the breath was driven out of him. His eyes bulged so violently that if Larison hadn’t known better he would have thought they might pop out.

Larison pulled back the pipe as though reversing a sword thrust and spun to face the first guy. Acne Boy’s face was a mask of confusion and fear. He had skidded to a halt when he saw what happened to his buddy, and was now starting frantically to back peddle. Which he was able to do only at about twenty percent of Larison’s forward speed. In other words, too slow.

Larison switched the pipe to his right hand and felt himself grinning. He reminded himself he had to hold back. Hurt them, yes, fuck them up badly, but he couldn’t leave any bodies. Acne Boy saw the grin and the fear in his face turned to terror. He dropped his pipe and started to spin counterclockwise but Larison was already on him, swinging the pipe in hard like a tennis forehand shot, the sweet spot smashing into the guy’s leading kneecap and turning it into jelly. Acne Boy howled in agony and collapsed. He rolled onto his back, gripping his ruined knee, and sucked in a huge, gasping breath. Before the breath could be converted into another scream, Larison jammed the pipe down into his face. It caught him in the mouth, plowed through all his teeth, and shut him the fuck up completely.

Larison turned back toward Squeaky, who was on his hands and knees, vomiting. Seth watched, transfixed, then started backing away, plainly petrified. “Don’t hurt me,” he said. “I didn’t—”

Larison came in close. “You didn’t what?”

“I didn’t… I didn’t know—”

Larison blasted an uppercut into his stomach. The breath whistled out of the kid’s mouth and he dropped to his knees, gasping.

Larison walked over to Squeaky, who was puking so hard he seemed oblivious to Larison’s approach. He reminded himself again not to kill anyone. He considered the way he’d just disfigured Acne Boy. It hadn’t been wise—cops would overlook a fight, but mayhem like what he had just done was unusual and would get more attention—but it wasn’t like he could take it back now. Anyway, as long as there was no body, an investigation would only go so far, especially for lowlifes like these. Besides, they had no way to track him.

He stood over Squeaky’s back, avoiding the vomit, waiting for the retching to subside. He thought in for a penny and launched a palm heel into the back of the guy’s skull. It was a knockout blow and Squeaky duly collapsed face-first into the gravel, his brain having just been jostled unforgivably hard within its small cushion of cerebrospinal fluid. Larison took hold of the back of the guy’s hoodie, dragged him face forward over to the strip of concrete a row of cars was backed up against, and placed his open mouth on the edge of it. He stood and stomped the back of Squeaky’s head, a short, controlled shot just hard enough to cause an explosion of teeth and gum matter. Then he jellified one of Squeaky’s knees with the pipe, just as he’d done to the other guy.

Larison walked back to Seth. The kid was still on his knees, trying to recover his breath. Larison looked around. No one was coming. The single scream one of them had gotten off hadn’t been enough to get past the walls and the music playing in the bars within.

“How many?” Larison said, wiping the pipe down on his jacket sleeve.

Seth’s breath heaved in and out. “How many… what do you mean?”

“How many times have you done this? You and your buddies.”

“Never! I mean, I didn’t want to. They made me.”

Larison held the end of the pipe from inside his jacket pocket, wiped a last spot, and let it drop to the gravel. It landed with a heavy thud.

“How many times have you done this? Tell me the truth and I won’t hurt you anymore.”

Seth looked desperate. “Three times,” he said. “But they made me. They made me. I didn’t want to. I’m sorry.”

No. Larison had seen that look in his eyes when Larison had asked him about sharing a joint. No one had forced him to do a fucking thing.

“Which car is yours?” Larison said.

“What… what do you…”

Larison unclipped the Commander and thumbed it open. The weak light glinted along the edge of the black blade. “Which. Fucking. Car. Is yours.”

Seth’s eyes bulged. “The Corolla,” he said, pointing to a dirty white four-door at the end of the lot. “The Corolla.”

Larison took a handful of the kid’s hair and put the knife at his throat. “Get up.”

“Please, don’t—”

“Shut the fuck up and walk with me to your car. We’re going to take a drive.”

Either the kid was too stupid not to know you never let someone take you to a secondary crime scene, or he was too scared to resist. Larison followed him through the passenger door. He made him put on his seatbelt, creating one more obstacle in case the kid came to his senses and tried to bolt, and told him to drive out to the edge of the redwood forest.

“Please,” the kid sobbed as they drove. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I did. I shouldn’t have.”

Larison, his hand still gripping the kid’s hair and the knife still at the kid’s throat, didn’t answer. In his mind, he thought, Not sorry enough.

They parked on a dead-end in the shadows of the giant trees, the interior of the car glowing sepia from the glare of a distant streetlight. Larison, maintaining his grip, watched the street for a few minutes. When he was confident no one had seen them, no one was around, and no one cared, he said, “Unbuckle my seatbelt. Then yours.”

“Please,” Seth said. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Seth or whatever the fuck your name really is. It makes me angry.”

Seth undid the seatbelts.

Larison said, “Are you gay, Seth?”

“No!”

“Then why do you like to beat up gays?”

“I don’t like to!”

“So many lies, Seth. So much denial. I used to be the same. Although I never stomped anyone over it. Still, it’s always been a secret for me. A deep, dark secret I would never tell a soul. I’m only telling you because you’re a stranger and we’ll never see each other again. Isn’t that odd? I guess we have to tell someone.”

“I’m not gay.”

The dark, the privacy, the kid’s protests… the post combat aftermath. It was all turning Larison on. A lot.

“I’m going to help you through all that denial now, Seth. And here’s how. You’re going to kiss me.”

“No!”

Larison tightened his grip in the kid’s hair and pressed the knife a fraction harder against his throat. The kid whimpered.

“Lean forward, Seth, and open your mouth.”

The kid was shaking, but he complied. Larison, so turned on his heart was pounding, pressed his mouth over the kid’s, keeping the kid’s head in place with the grip he had in his hair. He pushed his tongue into the kid’s mouth and the kid moaned, in pleasure or disgust or both Larison didn’t know and didn’t care.

Larison broke the kiss and said, “Now stick out your tongue, Seth.” The kid did. Larison sucked on it. The kid tasted of alcohol and fear. The taste made Larison darkly crazy with lust.

Larison broke the kiss again. The kid was panting now. Larison could feel himself throbbing in time to it.

“Now, Seth,” Larison said, their eyes locked from inches apart. “Reach out and undo my pants.”

The kid, panting, said, “Please.”

Larison pressed the knife in and the kid cried out. “All right!” he said. “All right, I’m doing it…”

And he did. In the darkness, the sound of Larison’s zipper was huge.

“Now reach inside, Seth. Reach inside my pants and get my cock out.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Seth said. “Oh, God.” But he did it. Larison could feel the kid’s hand shaking as he gripped Larison’s cock.

“Now lean forward, Seth. That’s right, lean forward. You’re going to suck my cock, Seth or whatever the fuck your name really is. And you better leave me happy. Because if you don’t, I’m going to leave your body in this car. You understand?”

The kid nodded, eager now, maybe because he thought he saw a way out, maybe because he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re going to swallow everything I give you. Every fucking drop. You better make me happy, kid.” It wasn’t just the pleasure Larison was after. He also didn’t want to leave DNA anywhere it could easily be collected.

The kid nodded again and leaned in, Larison’s hand still gripping his hair, the knife still at his throat.

Maybe it was the kid’s fear. Maybe it was that it was that it was his first time. Whatever it was, it was the best head of Larison’s life.

When it was over, and the kid was sitting up again, gasping, Larison closed the knife and clipped it back in his pocket. He didn’t care if the kid ran now. It wouldn’t make a difference.

He redid his jeans and looked at the kid. “That’s what you were so afraid of,” he said. “That’s the thing you couldn’t face about yourself. Well, now you know.”

The kid, still panting, didn’t answer.

Larison said, “Now you don’t have to help your fucked-up friends jump faggots you meet in bars. Not that they’re ever going to be in a condition to again, but still.”

Again, the kid said nothing. Larison supposed he was in shock. He opened the glove compartment and found the registration.

“How do you like that,” he said. “Your name really is Seth. And now I know where you live, too. So God help you if I ever hear of a fag beating anywhere near the Lost Coast.”

“You won’t,” Seth said. “I promise.”

Larison wondered. “Get out of the car,” he said. “I’m going to drive it back into town. I’ll leave it near the plaza somewhere. You’ll have to look around, but you’ll find it. The keys will be under the front driver-side tire.”

The kid got out of the car and stood there, looking confused and afraid and forlorn. Larison slid over to the driver’s seat. He turned the key and the engine coughed to life.

He reached for the door handle and looked at the kid. “If I ever,” he said again. In the circles he was accustomed to, threats made you sound weak. But the kid wasn’t of that world.

The kid shook his head quickly. “I won’t. I won’t.”

Larison pulled the door shut and drove off.

Four minutes later, he was back in his car, the surfaces he’d touched in Seth’s Corolla all wiped down. Two minutes after that, he was back on the Redwood Highway, heading toward the Oregon border, the redwoods dense and shadowy to his right, the Lost Coast disappearing like a dream behind him.

He wondered whether he’d straightened the kid out, whether by fear or by shock. He wondered whether the kid would get over it, and wind up in another bar somewhere, flashing another lonely guy that same, beautiful smile.

He decided no. Because that smile was never going to be the same. It was lost now, like Larison himself.

For updates, free copies, contests, and everything else you want on The Detachment (available soon), featuring Larison, Rain, Dox, Treven, and the other characters you love, sign up for Barry’s newsletter.  It’s a private list and your email address will never be shared with anyone else.  The newsletter is also a great way to be the first to learn about movie news, appearances, and Barry’s other books and stories.  You can also find Barry on his website, his blog Heart of the Matter, Facebook, and Twitter.

Joe: Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe The Lost Coast is your very first short story. Why haven’t you visited this form before?

Barry: Because you’ve never suggested it to me, you bastard.

Kidding, obviously — my reluctance has been despite your frequent blandishments, and I’m glad you finally got through to me. I think there were a number of factors. The thought of appearing in an anthology or magazine never really excited me that much, even though an anthology or magazine placement could be a good advertisement for a novel. And probably I was a little afraid to try my hand at the new form (though now that I have, I think I must have been crazy. Short stories are a blast to write). In the end, I think it was the combination of knowing I could reach the huge new audience digital publishing has made possible and make money doing it. Plus you just wore me down.

Joe: I really liked the Larison character in Inside Out. Though he’s one of the antagonists in that book, I wouldn’t actually label him a villain. He’s more of an anti-hero, sort of a darker, scarier version of John Rain. Why did you decide to write a short about him?

Barry: As usual, it wasn’t a conscious plan; more something influenced by my interests, travel, and reading habits. Anyone who reads my blog, Heart of the Matter, knows I’m passionate about equal rights for gays. At some point, I was reading something about gay-bashing, and I had this idea… what if a few of these twisted, self-loathing shitbags picked the absolutely wrongest guy in the world to jump outside a bar? That was the story idea that led to The Lost Coast.

Joe: The ending of Lost Coast is pretty ballsy (in more ways than one.) You could have gone a more conservative route, but you didn’t wimp out and shy away from what I feel is a laudable climax. Are you purposely inviting controversy? Was this the story you intended to tell from the onset?

Barry: I imagined it from the beginning as a pretty rough story — a little about redemption, a lot about revenge. But midway through it got darker than I’d originally envisioned. Thanks for saying I didn’t wimp out because for me, the story was being driven by Larison, who while being a fascinating guy is also a nasty piece of work. When I’m writing a character like Larison, there’s always a temptation to soften him a little to make him more palatable to more readers, but in the end I’ve always managed to resist that (misguided) impulse. For the story to come to life, you have to trust the character as you’ve conceived him and as he presents himself to you. For better or worse (I’d say better), that’s what I’ve done with Larison.

Joe: After this interview, there’s an excerpt from the upcoming seventh John Rain novel, The Detachment. This is also a sequel to Fault Line and Inside Out, featuring your hero Ben Treven. It also showcases Larison, Dox, and a few other characters from your past novels. Was it your intention all along to bring both of your series together?

Barry: I’m afraid that “all along” and related concepts will probably always elude me. Usually I get an idea for the next book while I’m working on the current one, and that’s what happened while I was working on Inside Out. I thought, “With what Hort’s up to, what he really needs is an off-the-books, totally deniable, awesomely capable natural causes specialist. So what has Rain been doing since Requiem for an Assassin? And how would Hort get to him? Through Treven and Larison, naturally… and the next thing I knew, I was working on The Detachment. It’s like the Dirty Dozen, but deadlier. Plus there’s sex.

Joe: Your sex scenes tend to err toward the aggressive side. That isn’t a question. It’s an understatement. The question is, why do you think the US is so repressed when it comes to sex in the media, especially homosexuality, and at the same time so tolerant of violence?

Barry: George Carlin had some typically wonderful insights on this subject in his book, Brain Droppings. When you look at not just our laws on drugs and prostitution, but the whole approach to those laws (unlike just about any other regulated area, drugs and prostitution are dealt with without any weighing of costs and benefits), it becomes obvious America has some hangups about pleasure. With regard to homosexuality specifically, some of the craziness is probably driven by self-hatred; some by the need for an Other to denigrate (Orwell was all over this); some just by inertia. As for the relative comfort with depictions of violence as opposed to sex, I’ve never understood that, either, because in fiction I obviously enjoy them both.

Joe: Will we be seeing more short stories from Barry Eisler?

Barry: Yes! Got a great idea for a Rain/Delilah short set in Paris in the period between the end of Requiem for an Assassin and the kickoff of The Detachment (the research, the research), and a Dox short, too.

I hadn’t killed anyone in almost four years. But all good things come to an end, eventually.

It was good to be living in Tokyo again. The face of the city had changed, as it continuously does, but in its eternal, essential energy, Tokyo is immutable. Yes, during my sojourn in safer climes there had occurred an unfortunate profusion of Starbucks and Dean & Delucas, along with their innumerable imitators, but the havens that mattered remained impervious to this latest infestation. There was still jazz at Body & Soul in Minami Aoyama, where no seat is too far from the stage for a quiet word of thanks to the band members at the end of the evening; coffee at Café de l’Ambre in Ginza, where even as he nears his hundredth birthday, proprietor Sekiguchi-sensei arrives daily to roast his own beans, as he has for the last six decades; a tipple at Campbelltoun Loch in Yurakucho, where, if you can secure one of the eight seats in his hidden basement establishment, owner and bartender Nakamura-san will recommend one of his rare bottlings to help melt away, however briefly, the world you came to him to forget.

I told myself no one was looking for me anymore. But I knew if they were, they’d start with a place I’d been known to frequent. Unless you had unlimited manpower, you couldn’t use the bars or coffee houses or jazz clubs I liked. There were too many of them in Tokyo, for one thing, and my visits would be too hard to predict. You might wait for months, maybe forever, and though there are harder surveillance duty stations than the oases haunted by Tokyo’s roving night denizens, eventually you’d start to stand out, especially if you were a foreigner. Meanwhile, whoever was paying you would be getting impatient for results.

Which made the Kodokan a unique vulnerability. I’d trained there for nearly twenty-five years before powerful enemies forced me to flee the city, enemies I had, by one means or another, managed to outlast. Judo at the Kodokan had been my only indulgence of anything like a routine, a pattern that could be used to fix me in time and place. Going back to it might have been my way of reassuring myself that my enemies really were all dead. Or it could have been a way of saying come out, come out, wherever you are.

Randori, or free training, was held in the daidojo, a modern, two-storied space of four connected competition zones open to bleachers ringing the area a floor above. On any given night, as many as two hundred judoka wearing the traditional white judogi, male and female, Japanese and foreign, buzz-cut college stars and grizzled veterans, take to the training hall, and the vast space is filled with cries of commitment and grunts of defense; earnest discussions of tactics and techniques in mutually incomprehensible tongues; the drum beat of bodies colliding with the tatami and the cymbal slaps of palms offsetting the impact with ukemi landings. I’ve always loved the cacophony of the daidojo. I’ve stood in it when it’s empty, too, and its solemn daytime stillness, its enormous sense of patience and potential, has its own magic, but it’s the sound of evening training that imbues the space with purpose, that brings the dormant hall to life.

On training nights the bleachers are usually empty, though nor is it unusual to see a few people sitting here and there and watching the judoka practicing below: a student, waiting for a friend; a parent, wondering whether to enroll a child; a martial arts enthusiast, making a pilgrimage to the birthplace of modern judo. So I wasn’t unduly concerned one summer night at the sight of two extra large Caucasians sitting together in the stands, thickly muscled arms crossed over the railing, leaning forward like carrion birds on a telephone line. I logged them the way I reflexively log anything out of place in my environment, giving no sign that I had particularly noticed them or particularly cared, and continued randori with the partner I happened to be training with, a stocky kid with a visiting college team who I hadn’t yet let score against me.

My play had reached a level at which for the most part I was able to anticipate an opponent’s attack in the instant before he launched it, subtly adjust my position accordingly, and frustrate his plan without his knowing exactly why he’d been unable to execute. After a while of this invisible interference, often an opponent would try to force an opening, or muscle a throw, or would otherwise over-commit himself, at which point, depending on my mood, I might throw him. Other times, I was content merely to flow from counter to counter, preventing battles rather than fighting them. A different approach than what had characterized my younger days at the Kodokan, when my style had more to do with aggression and bravado than it did with elegance and efficiency. As the offspring of a Japanese father and Caucasian American mother, I once wore a heavy chip on my shoulder. My appearance was always Japanese enough, but appearances have almost nothing to do with prejudice in Japan. In fact, the society’s worst animus is reserved for ethnic Koreans, and burakumin—descendents of leather workers—and those others guilty of hiding their impurities behind seemingly Japanese faces. Of course, my formative years are long behind me now. These days, with my dark hair increasingly shot through with gray, I no longer pine for a country that might welcome me as its own. It took time, but I’ve learned not to engage in those conflicts I’ve always lost before.

From their size, close-cropped hair, and Oakley wrap-around shades, favored these days by Special Forces and their private sector counterparts, I made the visitors as military, maybe serving, maybe ex. That in itself was unremarkable: the Kodokan is hardly unknown among the American soldiers, Marines, and airmen stationed in Japan. Plenty of them come to visit, and even to train. Still, I prefer to assume the worst, especially when the assumption costs me little. I let the college kid throw me with tai-otoshi, the throw he’d been trying for all night and obviously his money move. In my former line of work, being underestimated was something to cultivate. I might have been out of the life, but I wasn’t out of the habit.

I was careful when I left that night, my alertness at a higher than usual pitch. I checked the places I would set up if I’d been trying to get to me: behind the concrete pillars flanking the building’s entrance on Hakusan-dori; the parked cars along the busy, eight-lane street; the entrance to the Mita-sen subway line to my left. I saw only oblivious sarariman commuters, their interchangeable dark suits limp and rumpled from the diesel-laced humidity, their brows beaded with sweat but their expressions relieved at the prospect of a few undemanding hours at home before the next day’s corporate exertions. Several riders on motor scooters went by, the two-stroke engines of their machines whining in and then fading out as they passed, but they weren’t wearing the full-face helmets favored by motorcycle drive-by gunners and they never even slowed or looked at me. A woman rode a bicycle past me on the sidewalk, a chubby-cheeked toddler secured in a basket attached to the handlebars, his arms outstretched and his tiny hands balled into fists at what I didn’t know. No one felt out of place, and I saw no sign of the soldiers. If they didn’t show up again, I’d classify their one-night presence as a nonevent.

But they did show up again, the following night. And this time, they stayed only briefly, probably just long enough to scan through the scores of judoka and confirm the presence of their target. If I hadn’t been doing my own frequent, unobtrusive scans of the spectator seats, I would have missed their appearance entirely.

I continued training until eight and then showered after as usual, not wanting to do anything out of the ordinary, anything that might suggest I’d spotted something and was preparing for it. But I was preparing, and as a plan unspooled in my mind and adrenaline snaked out through my trunk and limbs, and as the presence of danger and the certainty of how I would deal with it settled into place with an awful, familiar clarity, I had to acknowledge to myself that I’d been preparing my whole life, and that whatever intervals of quiet I had ever briefly indulged were as meaningful and relevant as dreams. Only the preparation was real—the preparation, and the purpose it always enabled.

Ben Treven and Daniel Larison sat on stools at the window counter of a Douter coffee shop fifty yards south of the Kodokan on Hakusan-dori, sipping black coffee and waiting for the two Blackwater contractors to return. Treven had wanted to join them, to get a firsthand look at the man whom up until the week before he’d thought to be a myth, but Larison had insisted there was no upside to sending in more than two of them, and Treven knew he was right. It bothered him how easily and naturally Larison had established himself as the alpha of the team, but he also had to admit that Larison, in his mid-forties ten years Treven’s senior, had seen more of the shit even than Treven had, and had survived heavier opposition. He told himself if he kept his mouth shut he might learn something, and he supposed it was true. But after ten years in the Intelligence Support Activity, the deliberately blandly named covert arm of the military’s Joint Special Operations Command, he wasn’t used to running into people who acted like his tactical superiors, and even fewer he thought might be right about it.

Treven was facing the window in the direction of the Kodokan, and saw the Blackwater guys, who he knew only as Beckley and Krichmond, approaching before Larison did. He nodded his head slightly. “Here they come.”

Larison had instructed all of them to use their mobile phones as little as possible and to keep them shut off, with the batteries removed, except at previously agreed-upon intervals. The units were all rented, of course, and all under false identities, but good security involved multiple layers. The CIA’s careless use of cell phones in the Abu Omar rendition from Milan had led to the issuance of arrest warrants from an Italian judge for a bunch of CIA officials, including the Milan station chief, and Treven figured Larison was applying the lessons of that op to this one. Still, the current precautions struck him as excessive—they weren’t here to kill or kidnap Rain, after all, only to contact him. On the other hand, just as for sending only the two Blackwater guys into the Kodokan for the initial recon, he supposed there was no real downside to the extra care.

The Blackwater guys came in and stood so they were facing Treven and Larison and had a view of the street. Treven had seen plenty of foreigners in this section of the city, but even so he knew they were all conspicuous. Treven’s blond hair and green eyes had always been somewhat of a surveillance liability, of course, but he figured that to the average Japanese, such features wouldn’t much distinguish him from Larison, with his dark hair and olive skin, or from any other Caucasian foreigner, for that matter. What the natives would notice, and remember, was the collective size of the four of them. Treven, a heavyweight wrestler in high school and linebacker for Stanford before dropping out, was actually the smallest of the group. Larison was obviously into weights, and, if Hort could be believed, maybe steroids, too. And the Blackwater guys could almost have been pro wrestlers. Treven wondered if Hort had selected them in the hope their size might intimidate Rain when they made contact. He doubted it would make a difference. Size only mattered in a fair fight, and from what he’d heard of Rain, the man wasn’t stupid enough ever to allow a fight to be fair.

“He’s there,” the man called Beckley said. “Training, just like last night.”

Larison nodded. “Maybe we should switch off now,” he said in his low, raspy voice. “Two nights in a row, he’s probably spotted you. Treven and I can take the point.”

“He didn’t spot us,” Krichmond said. “We were in the stands, he barely even glanced our way.”

Beckley grunted in agreement. “Look, if the guy were that surveillance conscious, he wouldn’t be showing up at the same location at the same time every night in the first place. He didn’t see us.”

Larison took a sip of coffee. “He any good? The judo, I mean.”

Krichmond shrugged. “I don’t know. Seemed like he had his hands full with the kid he was training with.”

Larison took another sip of coffee and paused as though thinking. “You know, it probably doesn’t really matter that much whether he saw you or not. We know he’s here, we can just brace him on his way out.”

“Yeah, we could,” Krichmond said, his tone indicating the man found the idea hopelessly unambitious. “But what kind of leverage do we have then? We found him at the Kodokan. Tomorrow he could just go and train somewhere else. Or give up training, period. We want him to feel pressured, isn’t that what Hort said? So let’s show him we know where he lives. Brace him there, make him feel we’re into his life in a big way. That’s how you get people to play ball—by getting them by the balls.”

Treven couldn’t disagree with the man’s assessment overall. He was surprised Larison didn’t see it that way, too. But Larison must have realized his oversight, because he said, “That makes sense. But come on, he must have seen you. Treven and I should take the point.”

“Look,” Beckley said, his tone indicating the tail-end of patience, “he didn’t see us. Krichmond and I will take the point.” He gestured to one of the buttons on his damp navy shirt. “You’ll see everything we see, through this. If he spots us, and I doubt he will, we’ll switch off like we planned. Okay?”

The button was actually the lens of a high definition pocket video camera that shot color in daylight and infrared-enhanced black and white at night. Each of them was similarly outfitted, and each unit transmitted wirelessly to the others on the network. A separate unit, about the size of a pack of playing cards, could be held in the hand to display what the other units were transmitting. It was nothing fancy, just a stripped-down and slightly modified version of the Eagle Eyes monitoring system that was increasingly popular with various government agencies, but it enabled a small surveillance team to spread out beyond what traditional line of sight would allow, and also enabled each team member to know the position of all the others without excessive reliance on cell phones or other verbal communication.

Larison raised his hands in a you win gesture. “All right. You two cover the entrance of the Kodokan. Treven and I will wait here and fan out behind you when you start following him.”

Beckley smiled—a little snidely, Treven thought. And it did seem like Larison, maybe in a weak attempt to save face, was pretending to issue orders that had in fact just been issued to him.

Beckley and Krichmond went out. Larison turned and watched through the window as they walked away.

Treven said, “You think he’s going to come out again at the same time? Hort said he was so surveillance conscious.”

Larison took a sip of coffee. “Why do you think Hort sent those Blackwater bozos along with us?”

It was a little annoying that Larison hadn’t just answered the question. Treven paused, then said, “He doesn’t trust us, obviously.”

“That’s right. They’re working for him, not with us. Remember that.”

Colonel Scott “Hort” Horton was Treven’s commander in the ISA, and had once been Larison’s, too, before Larison had gone rogue and tried to blackmail Uncle Sam for a hundred million dollars worth of uncut diamonds in exchange for videos of American operatives torturing Muslim prisoners. He’d almost gotten away with it, too, but Hort had played him and kept the diamonds for himself. Treven wasn’t entirely sure why. On the one hand, Hort’s patriotism and integrity were unquestionable. A black man who might have been denied advancement in other areas but who was not only promoted, but held in awe by the army meritocracy, he loved the military and he loved the men who served under him. Yet none of that had prevented him from screwing Larison when he’d needed to, as he’d once tried to screw Treven. He’d told Treven why: America was being run by a kind of oligarchy, which didn’t seem to trouble Hort much except that the oligarchy had become greedy and incompetent—grievous sins, apparently, in Hort’s strange moral universe. The country needed better management, he’d said. He was starting something big, and the diamonds were a part of it. So, he hoped, would be Treven and Larison, and this guy Rain they’d been sent to find, too, if he could be persuaded.

So of course Hort didn’t trust them. They weren’t over here under duress, exactly, but it wasn’t all a positive inducement, win-win dynamic, either. Larison had to be looking for payback, as well as a chance to recover the diamonds. And Treven had wised up enough to recognize the strings Hort had been using to manipulate him, and to know he needed to find a way to cut them, too. There was the little matter of some unfortunate security videos, for example, that could implicate Treven in the murder of a prominent former administration official. It didn’t matter that it had been a CIA op and that Treven had nothing to do with the man’s death. What mattered was that Hort and the CIA had the tapes, and might use them if Treven got out of line. So for the moment, the whole arrangement felt like an unstable alliance of convenience, all shifting allegiances and conflicting motives. Hort would never have sent them off without a means of monitoring them, and under the circumstances, Larison’s injunction that he remember who Beckley and Krichmond were really working for felt gratuitous, even a little insulting. Maybe the man was just chafing at the fact that the Blackwater guys didn’t seem to give a shit about what Larison assumed was his own authority. Treven decided to let it go.

But what he wouldn’t let go was that Larison had ignored his question. “Same place, same time, same way out, two nights in a row?” he said. “That sound like our guy?”

Larison glanced at him, and Treven could have sworn the man was almost smiling.

“Depends,” Larison said.

“What do you mean?”

“Rain spotted them last night for sure, when they were there for longer. Very likely, he spotted them again tonight, too.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I would have spotted them. Because if this guy is who Hort says he is, he would have spotted them. Because if he’s not good enough to have spotted them, Hort wouldn’t even be bothering with him.”

Treven considered. “So what does that mean, if he spotted them but comes out the same way at the same time anyway?”

This time, Larison did smile. “It means I’m glad it’s not us walking point.”

For updates, free copies, contests, and everything else you want on The Detachment (available soon), featuring Larison, Rain, Dox, Treven, and the other characters you love, sign up for Barry’s newsletter.  It’s a private list and your email address will never be shared with anyone else.  The newsletter is also a great way to be the first to learn about movie news, appearances, and Barry’s other books and stories.  You can also find Barry on his website, his blog Heart of the Matter, Facebook, and Twitter.

Barry Eisler spent three years in a covert position with the CIA’s Directorate of Operations, then worked as a technology lawyer and startup executive in Silicon Valley and Japan, earning his black belt at the Kodokan International Judo Center along the way. Eisler’s bestselling thrillers have won the Barry Award and the Gumshoe Award for Best Thriller of the Year, have been included in numerous “Best Of” lists, and have been translated into nearly twenty languages. Eisler lives in the San Francisco Bay Area and, when not writing novels, he blogs about torture, civil liberties, and the rule of law at www.BarryEisler.com.

Rain Fall

Hard Rain

Rain Storm

Killing Rain

The Last Assassin

Requiem For An Assassin

Fault Line

Inside Out

The Detachment (Coming soon)

For updates, free copies, contests, and everything else you want on The Detachment (available soon), featuring Larison, Rain, Dox, Treven, and the other characters you love, sign up for Barry’s newsletter.  It’s a private list and your email address will never be shared with anyone else.  The newsletter is also a great way to be the first to learn about movie news, appearances, and Barry’s other books and stories.  You can also find Barry on his website, his blog Heart of the Matter, Facebook, and Twitter.

Copyright © 2011 by Barry Eisler. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

Edition: February 2011