The Giveaway Read online

  a cognizant v5 release september 02 2010

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  BURN NOTICE: THE FIX

  Praise for the Novels and Stories of Tod Goldberg Finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize

  “A keen voice, profound insight . . . devilishly entertaining.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Goldberg’s prose is deceptively smooth, like a vanilla milk shake spiked with grain alcohol.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “[A] creepy, strangely sardonic, definitely disturbing version of Middle America . . . and that, of course, is where the fun begins.”

  —LA Weekly

  “Perfect . . . with all the sleaze and glamour of the old paperbacks of fifty years ago.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Striking and affecting. . . . Goldberg is a gifted writer, poetic and rigorous . . . a fiction tour de force . . . a haunting book.”

  —January Magazine

  Praise for the Series

  “Likably lighthearted and cool as a smart- mouthed loner . . . cheerfully insouciant.”

  —The New York Times

  “Brisk and witty.”

  —The Christian Science Monitor

  “[A] swell new spy series . . . highly enjoyable.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Violence, babes, and a cool guy spy . . . slick and funny and a lotta fun.”

  —New York Post

  “Smart, charmingly irreverent . . . pleasantly warped.”

  —Detroit Free Press

  “Snazzy.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “Terrifically entertaining . . . neat and crisp as citrus soda.”

  —Seattle Post-Intelligencer

  “Breezy cloak-and-dagger ingenuity. [A] nicely pitched action-comedy hero: handsome, smart, neurotic, tough, funny, sensitive . . . Michael Westen is Jim Rockford and MacGyver filtered through Carl Hiassen. Entertaining, in other words.”

  —LA Weekly

  The Burn Notice Series

  The Giveaway

  The End Game

  The Fix

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, July 2010

  TM & © 2010 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18866-8

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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  For Wendy

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am, as ever, indebted to Matt Nix for letting me play with his toys, and for his advice and insight while writing this book. Thanks also to Lee Goldberg for his constant—often in the middle of the night—support and for knowing all too well the obstacles I occasionally face. And I am ever grateful to my agent, Jennie Dunham, for always knowing the right things to say, my editors, Kristen Weber and Sandy Harding, for believing in my work and, finally, the wonderful fans of Burn Notice, who have made me feel a welcome part of their community.

  During the course of writing these books, I use several sources as despite all appearances, I am not, in fact, a superspy. The following books were especially helpful: Combat Leader’s Field Guide by Sgt. Maj. Brett Stoneberger and The Little Book of Forensics by David Owen. Also, as ever, please do not attempt to blow anything up or spy on someone based upon what you’ve read here.

  1

  When you’re a spy, conducting business inside a restaurant or bar isn’t just about finding a comfortable place to have a conversation; it can also save your life. You want to make sure you get out of a meeting without a bullet to the back of the head? Schedule your meeting inside a McDonald’s Playland. There’s no rule that says homicidal maniacs won’t kill you in front of Ronald McDonald and Grimace, but the typical murderer tends to avoid crowded venues filled with small children eating Happy Meals. You want to kill someone and get away with it, do it in the middle of the night, in the person’s home, and use a silencer on your gun and a pillow on the person’s head, which will help absorb the sonic boom the bullet makes while traveling through the air. Do it right and you’ll have enough time to wipe down all the surfaces you might have touched. Do it wrong and you can still be in a country without extradition before anyone finds the body.

  In general, however, the best way to avoid getting killed or finding yourself in the position to kill someone is to live your life cleanly, pay your taxes, go on sensible vacations and then retire with a nest egg that will let you peter out in the fashion you’ve grown accustomed. That way you’ll be able to eat or drink anywhere you desire without first making sure you know all the possible exit points, which is precisely what I did when I walked into the Purdy Lounge.

  The Purdy is a perpetually dark bar in South Beach that’s decorated like a 1970s living room. Specifically, a bachelor’s living room. Lots of sofas, recliners, lava lamps and sticky surfaces. They even ha
d a table stacked with board games. I was there to meet Barry, my favorite money launderer. He had called the night before and asked if I could help him out with a favor. I had the sense he wasn’t looking for someone to pick him up at the airport.

  After my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I figured out that the only obvious way out was the way in, I found Barry sitting across the bar in a ripped-up Barcalounger. He had something on his lap that glowed bright yellow, then red, then blue, then green and then repeated the sequence again, this time faster. When I was a little closer, I realized it was a game of some kind, which was a relief. I half expected Barry’s favor was going to involve me clipping either the blue or the black wire on this device, thus saving or killing us both.

  Across from Barry was an orange butterfly chair and a brown beanbag. Neither looked comfortable. Not in 1976. Not now. So I just stood in front of Barry and hoped he’d get the hint. Or he’d stand up and we’d walk down to the Carlito, which at least allowed sunlight.

  “When I was a kid, this game was like alien technology,” Barry said.

  “What was it called again?” I said. “Lite-Brite?”

  He flipped it over so I could see the name in the center of the game. “Simon,” Barry said. He set it back on his lap and watched the blinking lights with great intensity and then tried to match the pattern by pressing on the corresponding lights, but kept getting it wrong. “Like Hal.”

  “Like Simple Simon,” I said.

  “That sounds right,” he said. He tried to match the pattern again, but was met with only a blunt buzzing sound.

  “Maybe it would be easier if you took your sunglasses off,” I said.

  “See, that’s the challenge,” Barry said. “They’re tinted green. You know, to keep the harmful UVs away? So that evens the playing field. All the colors are the same now, just in different shades.”

  “That’s fascinating, Barry,” I said.

  “Keeps the mind sharp,” he said. “You want a turn when I’m done?”

  “I’ll pass.”

  I looked around the bar. The bartender was a college-aged girl with tattoos on her shoulder and neck. Not like a criminal per se, but like a woman who saw too many movies about women who work in bars or just listened to too much Lucinda Williams. One day she’d be seventy and walking these same streets with a portrait tattoo of Jimi Hendrix on her shoulder and would have to explain to her grandchild why she had a picture of a man from history on her skin. There were two men I pegged as German tourists—yellow socks, sandals, shorts with too many pockets—sitting on a sofa drinking tall glasses of beer and talking too loudly about how drunk they were while simultaneously setting their coasters on fire. There was a woman sitting alone at a table near where the DJ was setting up his rig at the other end of the lounge. She had the kind of face that made you think she might be famous or at least bought a lot of magazines with famous women on the cover. The difference was that she was sort of crying in a weird, huffing way, like she wanted everyone to know something was wrong with her, but didn’t really want anyone to talk to her.

  The end sum was that it didn’t look like anyone here was planning on shooting me, so when Barry didn’t seem to take the hint and continued to let me stand and watch him play Simon, I pulled up the beanbag and sat down. Barry gave the game one more pass and then dropped it down on the TV tray erected next to the Barcalounger. I made a mental note to never allow my mother into the Purdy, lest she decide to turn her house into a hipster dive.

  “You want a drink?” Barry asked. He seemed uncomfortable, which didn’t exactly make me excited. I like my felons to be comfortable. Maybe it was just that no one looks exactly in-the-moment sitting in a recliner.

  “I try not to drink before 1982,” I said.

  Barry waved the bartender over, which caused the girl with the tats to exhale audibly, throw down the white towel she was using to absently wipe down the counter and make the long—maybe ten feet total—walk over to us in more time than I thought was humanly possible.

  Barry shook his glass. “Another cranberry and vodka for me,” he said, “and whatever our man Flint wants.”

  “I’m fine,” I said to the girl.

  She stared at me for a long time without saying anything and then said, “You a cop?” like I’d stumbled into an SLA meeting and now I was in big trouble. Maybe later I’d break up a clandestine conclave of the Weathermen, too.

  “No,” I said. “A spy.” I decided not to give her the complete rundown of how I went from being a top covert operative to being a man on the run in the space of a phone call one fine afternoon in Nigeria. Besides, the words “burned spy” don’t just roll off the tongue.

  “I’ve seen you before,” she said. “Another club I worked in, maybe.”

  “No,” I said. “You’re thinking of someone else. People think I look like other people all the time.”

  “You look like a cop,” she said.

  “I’m sitting in a beanbag chair,” I said. “How can I look like anything in a beanbag chair?”

  “Cops make people nervous,” she said, “so don’t stay long. People have a good time here. Too many cops is bad for business. People don’t like to drink around 5-0.”

  5-0. It always amazed me how people co-opted slang from music, which, in this case, had co-opted a phrase from television. In all of Miami, there were never two people having an original thought at the same time.

  “If I were you,” I said, “I’d be more concerned about those guys over there in the yellow socks. I think they’re KGB.” The girl walked away, though this time she made it back to the bar in an appropriate amount of time.

  I had to get out of Miami. When someone you don’t know recognizes you, that’s a bad sign. Problem was, since receiving my burn notice, I’ve been confined to Miami, which would be well and good if now other people weren’t coming to visit me here, too. People with guns. People who wanted me dead. People who were pleased that I’d been burned and no longer had any government (or quasi shadow government) watching my back. All I had for sure anymore were my friends Sam Axe and Fiona Glenanne. Sam is a former Navy SEAL who now helps me out on the few odd jobs I take to make ends meet and Fiona is my ex-girlfriend. Or, well, she used to be my ex-girlfriend. Now she’s . . . complicated. She also used to rob banks for the IRA, and periodically deals guns just for shoe money, and sometimes she helps me out with my clients, and sometimes, well, sometimes she’s not my ex-girlfriend for the night, too.

  Like I said: She’s complicated.

  And then, of course, I also had friends like Barry. People who could get me things I needed. People who referred work in my direction. People who, on a few occasions, had put their ass on the line for me. When I returned to Miami after getting my burn notice, I knew I could still turn to Barry for help. He might ask a few questions just to make sure he wasn’t going to find himself looking down the barrel of a gun or staring at an indictment, but for the most part he was as cool as the other side of the pillow: He did his job, got his fee and walked away like nothing ever happened. You treated Bad Check Barry well; Bad Check Barry treated you well.

  The bartender filled Barry’s drink and brought it back, this time not bothering to say anything to me at first, but still staring at me with a confused look on her face. “I realize where I know you from,” she said.

  “American Idol?”

  “You have a brother?”

  “Depends,” I said. “He owe you money?” My younger brother, Nate, has a habit of owing people money. Particularly people in bars.

  “Yeah,” she said. “He walked out of here without paying his tab one night last week, but the moron left his wallet on the bar. He had a picture of you in it. I only remember because I thought you were cute and wondered how such a fuckup could have such a cute brother. One of those weird things you think about on a dead night, you know? If you want, it might still be in the lost and found.”

  “Keep it,” I said.

  The girl shrugged. “Suit yo
urself,” she said.

  Barry watched her walk away. “I’ve been coming here for ten years, no one says a word to me. You’re here ten minutes, you’re already cute.”

  Ten minutes was already too long. “You wanted to talk to me about something, Barry?”

  Barry took a sip of his drink. “I don’t normally drink cranberry juice,” he said, “but I’m trying to cleanse my system. Start taking a little bit better care of myself, you know? Investing in me.”

  “Vodka integral to that plan?”

  “That’s just to mask the taste of the cranberry,” he said. “One-part question: How do you feel, generally, about criminals?”

  “Generally? I don’t care for them, Barry. Specifically, I like you. I have feelings for Fiona. Why?”

  “I have a friend,” he said. “He used to work in transactions.”

  “Transactions?”

  “Banking.” Barry took another sip of his drink and this time grimaced. “My mom? She used to drink cranberry juice all the time. Can’t figure out why.”

  “Plumbing,” I said.

  Barry thought about that for a moment. “You know what you never see kids drinking anymore?” he asked.

  “I don’t spend a lot of time around children, Barry.”

  “Ovaltine.”

  “That’s a tremendous insight.”

  “Another one? Delaware Punch. Sanka, too. No one drinks Sanka. My mom practically lived on Sanka. Sanka and cranberry juice. You think it’s related?”