The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle by Harlan Coben Page A

Washington. Few people had this particular number.
    “Hello?” the voice answered politely.
    “Hi, P.T.”
    “Ah shit, Myron, what the fuck do you want?”
    “I need a favor.”
    “Perfect. I was just telling someone, gee, I wish Bolitar would call so I could do him a favor. Few things bring me such joy.”
    P.T. worked for the FBI. FBI chiefs come and go. P.T was a constant. The press didn’t know about him, but every president since Nixon had had his number on their speed dial.
    “The Kathy Culver case,” Myron said. “Who’s the best guy to talk to about it?”
    “The local cop,” P.T. answered without hesitation.
    “He’s an elected sheriff or something. Great guy, good friend of mine. I forget his name.”
    “Can you get me an appointment?” Myron asked.
    “Why not? Serving your needs gives my life a sense of purpose.”
    “I owe you.”
    “You already owe me. More than you can pay. I’ll call you when I have something.”
    Myron hung up. The traffic was still clear. Amazing. He crossed the Washington Bridge and arrived at the Meadowlands in record time.
    The Meadowlands Sports Authority was built on useless swampland off the New Jersey Turnpike in a place called East Rutherford. From west to east stood the Meadowlands Race Track, Titans Stadium, and the Brendan Byrne Arena, named for the former governor who was about as well liked as a whitehead on prom night. Angry protests equal to the French Revolution had erupted over the name, but to no avail. Mere revolutions are hardly worthy adversaries for a politician’s ego.
    “Oh, Christ.”
    Christian’s car—or he assumed it was Christian’s—was barely visible under the blanket of reporters. Myron had expected this. He had told Christian to lock himself in his car and not say a word. Driving away would have been useless. The press would have just followed, and Myron was not up for a car chase.
    He parked nearby. The reporters turned toward him like lions smelling a wounded lamb.
    “What’s going on, Myron?”
    “Why isn’t Christian at practice?”
    “You pulling a holdout or what?”
    “What’s happening with his contract?”
    Myron no-commented them, swimming through the sea of microphones, cameras, and flesh, squeezing hisway into the car without allowing any of the slime to ooze in with him.
    “Drive off,” Myron said.
    Christian started the car and pulled out. The reporters parted grudgingly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bolitar.”
    “What happened?”
    “The guard wouldn’t let me in. He said he had orders to keep me out.”
    “Son of a bitch,” Myron muttered. Otto Burke and his damn tactics. Little weasel. Myron should have been looking for something like this. But a lockout? That seemed a tad extreme, even by Otto Burke’s standards. Despite the posturing, they had been fairly close to signing. Burke had expressed strong interest in getting Christian to minicamp as soon as possible, to get him ready for the season.
    So why would he lock Christian out?
    Myron didn’t like it.
    “Do you have a car phone?” he asked.
    “No, sir.”
    It didn’t matter. “Turn back around,” Myron said. “Park by Gate C.”
    “What are you going to do?”
    “Just come with me.”
    The guard tried to stop them, but Myron pushed Christian past him. “Hey, you’re not allowed in there!” he called after them. “Hey, stop!”
    “Shoot us,” Myron said without stopping.
    They strode onto the field. Players were hitting the tackle dummies hard. Very hard. No one was holding back. These were tryouts. Most of these guys were fighting for a spot on the team. Most had been high school and college superstars, accustomed to unadulterated greatness on the field. Most would get cut. Most would not allow the dream to end there, scrounging otherteams’ rosters for a possible opening, holding on, slipping endlessly, dying slowly all the while.
    A glamour profession.
    The coaches blew whistles. The running backs practiced wind sprints. Kickers were