The Gate by Bob Mayer Page A

the way cops who’d spent a long time on the street were.
    “It’s mine,” Lake said, pulling the bag over to his side. He checked out the other two agents: younger, college types who were following the other’s lead out of respect for his experience and age. Lake could sense the high testosterone level coming off the three agents. They were pumped and ready for action.
    One of the younger men stepped up. He wore expensive glasses which didn’t match the black outfit. “And who the fuck are you?”
    “Who wants to know?” Lake’s voice was flat.
    The leader’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t intervene, waiting to see how both sides played it out.
    “Federal Task Force,” Glasses said, holding up an ID.
    “I can buy one of those in any surplus store in town,” Lake said. “And you have a foul mouth for a peace officer.”
    “The badge is real,” Glasses said. “You want me to imprint my number on your fucking forehead,” he added, holding the badge close to Lake’s face.
    Lake didn’t move. “I’m not impressed.”
    “What’s in the bag?” the leader cut in.
    “My dick,” Lake said. “Want to play with it?”
    The Patriots at the table burst out laughing. They began making oinking noises.
    “I’ll put your dick in the goddamn bag.” Glasses put his badge away and pushed up against the edge of the booth inside Lake’s personal space. He was too close, a result of poor training, Lake idly thought.
    “Do you have a warrant?” Jonas had finally recovered.
    The leader was tired of the game and he knew, as Lake knew, that Glasses had made a mistake. “Open the fucking bag, asshole.”
    Lake sighed as he slowly stood, his shoulder brushing lightly against Glasses’s chest. “I don’t think so.”
    The leader went for his piece instinctively and Lake’s movements went into hyper-speed. Glasses didn’t know what hit him as Lake’s left hand hit his chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs and toppling him backward. Lake was moving, following the strike, his right hand extended, grabbing the leader’s gun hand as it cleared the shoulder holster. He squeezed hard and the gun dropped back inside the jacket, the man hissing with pain. Lake’s left hand slammed the man’s jaw, teeth smashing together with a sound heard throughout the bar, wiping the surprised look off his face. The leader went down, out cold.
    The third agent was frozen at this unexpected turn of events. Lake spun, the back of his right foot catching the man on the side of the head and dropping him. The first man he had hit was still trying to catch his breath. Lake stepped over him and knelt on his chest. “You serve the people,” he hissed. “We don’t serve you.” He pulled the man’s gun out and tossed it away, then stood. “Next time, watch your language.” Lake sharply tapped him on the side of the head with his hand, middle finger knuckle extended, and he was out like a light.
    Lake reached into his pocket and peeled off three thousand dollars. He slapped them on the table in front of Jonas.
    “What did you mean you were protected?” Lake asked.
    Jonas was staring at the three agents, then slowly swiveling his large head to look at Lake. “You’re fucking crazy, man.”
    “What did you mean about being protected? From the feds?” Lake asked again.
    “I got friends,” Jonas said vaguely. “Special friends who make these guys look like nothing.”
    One of the other agents was beginning to stir and Lake decided he would have to delve into things at another time. “Later,” he said to Jonas as he picked up the bag and headed to the door, leaving those still conscious in stunned silence. As he walked out the door a couple of the Patriots began cheering and clapping. The smart ones followed Lake out the door and disappeared into the darkness.
    Lake walked steadily, heading east, then north, for sev
    eral miles, the pavement flowing under his stride until he hit the Embarcadero. The cool night air coming off