Tod Goldberg - Burn Notice: The Giveaway

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 constantoften in the middle of the nightsupport 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 Leaders 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 youve read here.

BURN NOTICE: THE FIX

by TOD GOLDBERG

First in the series based on the critically acclaimed USA Network television show!

Covert spy Michael Westen has found himself in
forced seclusion in Miamiand a little paranoid.
Watched by the FBI, cut off from intelligence
contacts, and with his assets frozen, Westen is on ice
with a warning: stay there or get disappeared.

And dont miss Burn Notice: The End Game

Available wherever books are sold or at penguin.com

OM0020

When youre a spy, conducting business inside a restaurant or bar isnt 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 McDonalds Playland. Theres no rule that says homicidal maniacs wont 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 persons home, and use a silencer on your gun and a pillow on the persons head, which will help absorb the sonic boom the bullet makes while traveling through the air. Do it right and youll 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 youve grown accustomed. That way youll 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 thats decorated like a 1970s living room. Specifically, a bachelors living room. Lots of sofas, recliners, lava lamps and sticky surfaces. They even had 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 wasnt 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 Barrys 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 hed get the hint. Or hed stand up and wed 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, thats the challenge, Barry said. Theyre 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.

Thats fascinating, Barry, I said.

Keeps the mind sharp, he said. You want a turn when Im done?

Ill 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 shed 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 touristsyellow socks, sandals, shorts with too many pocketssitting 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 didnt really want anyone to talk to her.

The end sum was that it didnt look like anyone here was planning on shooting me, so when Barry didnt 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 didnt 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 longmaybe ten feet totalwalk 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.

Im fine, I said to the girl.

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