All the Rage

by F. Paul Wilson

  Monnet and his partners wanted him locked up and out of the way, leaving them a clear field to tie up all the Loki trade for themselves.

  Fair enough. If Milos could have figured a way to produce the drug on his own, he would have cut them out long ago. That was business.

  But to humiliate him so publicly. This went beyond business.

  And all Monnet's idea, he was sure.

  He ground his teeth. Monnet… Milos never would have guessed that prissy, pissy little frog had the turn of mind to conceive such a scheme, let alone the guts to execute it. But here was the evidence, staring him squarely in the face.

  Motive and opportunity—Monnet had both.

  Listen to me. I sound like a fucking cop.

  But it was true. Same for Monnet's brother worms, Garrison and Edwards.

  Time to turn the tables. Time to square accounts and balance the scales. Only blood would settle this.

  Unfortunately that would mean a shutdown of the Loki pipeline—a slaughtering of the goose that laid the golden egg. Bad business. But his honor demanded this. He could put no price on it.

  Besides, he had his millions stashed in the Caymans and Switzerland. Once he settled accounts he would disappear for a while, go abroad for a year or two. This city, this country had now been tainted for him by Monnet and his partners.

  Milos began walking back the way he had come. So forget about the man in the security video now. Why waste time with him when he would only lead Milos back here, to the GEM Pharma partners.

  The partners… Milos would have to think of a way to settle with all three. And since he no longer could trust anyone, he would have to do it alone.

  He walked on, planning…

  12

  "So, you're a hit man now?" Abe said, sliding the package across the counter.

  Jack began peeling the masking tape from the tan butcher paper.

  Once he'd pulled himself together on the ride back from Monroe, Jack had told Abe what had happened and what he needed. Abe had dropped him off at his apartment where he'd cleaned up as best he could. He'd put the muddied borrowed clothes aside; he'd return them to Peter Harris with a hundred-dollar bill when they came back from the cleaners.

  Then he'd called Gia to explain things. He should have gone over in person but he didn't want Vicky frightened by seeing him scarred, battered, bruised, and burned.

  Gia was not a happy camper. Once again Jack's line of work had put her and Vicky in harm's way.

  No argument there.

  When was it going to stop?

  Good question. One he couldn't answer, one he could put off answering a little longer.

  He hadn't brought it up, but they both knew that Vicky was alive now only as a direct result of Jack's line of work. Had he been a workaday member of straight society, she would not have survived last summer. He could still draw on that account, but he knew it was not bottomless.

  The conversation had ended on a tense note.

  Jack put those troubles aside for now. To take Gia and Vicky out of harm's way, a harm named Dragovic, he had to focus on the matter at hand. He unfolded the butcher paper, exposing the pistol.

  "Looks a little like a Walther P-38."

  Abe snorted. "If you should have very bad eyes and left your glasses at home, maybe a little. It's an AA P-98, .22 long rifle."

  Jack hefted it, gauging its weight at about a pound and a half. Checked out the barrel: the front sight had been ground off and the last three-eighths of an inch were threaded. Then he picked up the three-inch-long black metal cylinder that Abe had wrapped with the pistol.

  "Awfully small for a silencer. Will this work?"

  "First off, a silencer it's not. It's a suppressor. You can't silence a pistol; you can only make it maybe less noisy. And will it work? Yes, it will work. It's a Gem-tech Aurora. It uses the latest wet technology that will knock twenty-four decibels off your shots for up to two clips. After that it won't be so good."

  "I figure I'm only going to need a couple, three rounds."

  "Pretty much takes care of the muzzle flash as well."

  Jack shrugged. "This'll be daylight."

  "And here's what you should load." Abe plunked a box of .22 LRs on the counter. "Subsonic, of course."

  "Of course."

  No sense in using a silencer—OK, suppressor—if the bullet was going to cause a racket along its trajectory, a teeny tiny Concorde doing Mach Two and cracking the sound barrier all the way.

  Jack noticed the FMJ on the box. "Full jacket?"

  "Hollows or soft-points could be deflected going through the wipes inside the suppressor."

  Jack grimaced. "Don't want that. And speaking of wipes, can I borrow your gloves a minute?"

  Abe reached under the counter and produced a pair of cotton gloves, originally white, now gray with grime and gun oil. Jack slipped them on.

  Abe was staring at him. "Those rounds have maybe someone's name on them?"

  Jack said nothing. He poured out a dozen rounds and wiped them with the gloves. Then he began loading them into the P-98's clip. He routinely and obsessively collected his spent brass, but in certain situations it simply wasn't possible. In such a case, he didn't want to leave any fingerprints behind.

  "Jack," Abe said softly. "You're mad at some people, I know, and with good reason. And you've got that look in your eyes that means big tsuris for somebody, but is this the way you want to go? This isn't you."

  Jack glanced up at Abe, saw the concern in his face. "Not to worry, Abe. The target is cardboard."

  "Ah. Now it's all clear," Abe said. "Especially the need for a suppressor. You're going to shoot a box and you don't want to startle its fellows. That's my Jack: always considerate. And where is this cardboard?"

  "Brooklyn."

  The last place Jack wanted to go tonight was Brooklyn. He had a throbbing headache, his scorched skin itched and burned, and the healing scalp cut stabbed periodic zingers down to his left eye. Add to that the general lousy feeling the drug had left in its wake, and the only place he wanted to go was bed. But he needed to settle this. Tonight.

  He wiped the clip and slid it into the grip; it seated with a solid click. The last item in the package was a new SOB holster. He removed the suppressor, wiped and pocketed it, wiped the pistol, then slipped it into the holster, and the holster within the waistband at the small of his back. He let the rear of the extra-large turtleneck jersey fall back over it.

  "Since when do you wear turtlenecks?" Abe said.

  "Since an hour ago." The long sleeves and high collar covered his burns. And he might have another use for the rolled collar. "Check this out."

  He pulled—gently—a floppy khaki boonie hat down low on his head, then slipped on oversize aviator glasses.

  "How do I look?"

  "Like a Soldier of Fortune subscriber. But it does cover a multitude of sins."

  Jack had checked himself out at home. The getup hid his stitches and his black eyes. Didn't know if a police sketch of him was making the rounds after this morning's escapades or if the cops had issued a BOLO for a man with a scalp laceration and a scorched, banged-up face.

  Jack headed for the door. "Breakfast tomorrow. I'm buying. What do you want?"

  "Eggs Benedict, but with foie gras instead of ham."

  "You got it."

  'You got it,' he says," Jack heard Abe snort behind him. "A fat-free bagel with tofu spread I'll get."

  Jack stopped at a pay phone and dialed Nadia's cell phone for the third time since he'd been back. Still no answer, so he tried her home number. A woman with a thick Polish accent answered. Nadia wasn't home, she said. Jack picked up something in her voice.

  "Is anything wrong, Mrs. Radzminsky?"

  "No. Nothing wrong. Who is this?"

  "My name is Jack. I…" He took a blind stab here. "I was helping her look for Douglas Gleason."

  "Doug has been found. He call this afternoon."

  Well, at least there was some good news today. "Did
he say what happened to him?"

  "My Nadjie go meet him, but she never call. She say she will call, and she always calls, but today she didn't call."

  "I'm sure they're just so glad to see each other that she forgot."

  "My Nadjie always call."

  "I'm sure she'll check in soon."

  But as he hung up Jack knew he wasn't at all sure. He'd never met this Doug but couldn't imagine a guy looking to develop his own software would smash his computer and then go out for a two-day stroll. According to Nadia, both she and Gleason knew damaging details about GEM. And now no one knew where either of them were.

  Maybe he'd find out before the night was through.

  13

  Jack was on the leading edge of rush-hour traffic so he and the Buick made decent time over to the GEM plant in the Marine Terminal area. Found a parking spot a few blocks away and wandered back to the GEM loading dock. A ten-foot Cyclone fence topped with razor wire separated him from the action where two-hundred-pound barrels stamped with gem pharma and tricef rode a conveyer belt into the rear of an 18-wheel semi. Heat-packing uniformed security guards patrolled the area.

  Obviously a very valuable antibiotic.

  Jack wished it were five hours from now with the sun down and night well settled in, but Nadia's disappearance was urgently bumping him from behind. Daylight did have certain advantages, though.

  Jack returned to his car, pulled the P-98 from its holster, and fitted the silencer to the barrel. Drove back to GEM and double-parked by the loading area. A quick glance around showed nobody on the sidewalks. He chambered a round, raised the window to the height he wanted, rested the pistol on it—with the front sight gone he needed all the aiming help he could get. Took a bead on the leading edge of a cardboard barrel just starting its conveyor ride, made sure no one was standing behind it, pulled the trigger.

  The phut sounded loud in the car, but he knew it had been swallowed by the ambient street noise. Saw the target canister wobble on the belt. Bull's-eye. Lowered the pistol and raised a pair of compact binoculars. Powder trickled from a tiny hole beneath the g in gem. Blue powder. Berzerk blue.

  To kill some time Jack drove around the area, wending his way through blocks of warehouses, under the BQE and back again, down to the rows of old docks. Couldn't see Manhattan from here—Red Hook got in the way—but had a nice view of Lady Liberty. The sight of her, standing tall and green out there holding her torch over the water, never failed to tweak some deep-buried part of him.

  When he passed the factory again, the conveyor belt had been moved away and a guy who looked like the driver was closing and locking the rear doors. He and one of the security guards climbed into the cab. Another uniform opened the gate, and they were rolling.

  Didn't matter what their final destination, they had to reach the expressway first. Jack got a head start, then pulled over next to a fire hydrant on the right. Leaned his elbow out the window to hide the pistol…

  And had second thoughts.

  This was so crude, not at all up to his standards. What he should do is follow a couple of trucks to their destinations, see where and how they off-loaded their cargo, then figure a way to get his hands on a load of Berzerk without anyone being the wiser. Do it with style.

  Fuck style, he thought as the rig rambled by. He pumped two quick rounds into the sidewall of the tractor's right front tire. No time for style this trip. Barely had time for crude, direct, and effective.

  Like a massive beast that doesn't know when it's been wounded, the truck kept rolling, but its front tires were the only set not doubled. Eventually it would get the message that something was wrong.

  Jack followed until the next corner, then turned off and parked in a tow-away zone on the side street—didn't plan to be long. Adjusted the boonie cap and shades, added a Saddam Hussein mustache, tucked the pistol into his belt under the loose shirt, and hurried after the truck on foot.

  Found it half a block down, the driver and the guard standing by the flat tire, scratching their heads. Probably made a hundred of these runs without a lick of trouble, so they weren't expecting any. Jack slowed to a stroll, approaching along the sidewalk behind them, then ducked between two cars. No strollers about—this was strictly industrial and burnoutville—so he pulled the pistol, snaked his turtleneck collar up over his nose, and came up beside them on the right.

  "OK, guys," he said through the fabric of his collar. "This is what flattened the tire." He held his pistol where it was shielded from the street but these two couldn't miss it. "And it will flatten you guys too without a peep if you don't play nice."

  The driver, a twenty-something with a wispy blond goatee, jumped and raised his hands chest high, palms out. The guard was an older, heavier black. Jack saw the fingers of his gun hand twitch.

  "You're thinking about doing a very bad thing, aren't you," Jack said quickly. "You're thinking, they're paying me to protect this shipment and that's what I've got to do. I respect that, my friend, but a word of advice: don't. Not worth it. I'm not here to hurt you or hijack your truck. I'm here just for a sample. So take off your gun belt, hand it to me gently, and we can all end the day with the same amount of blood in our veins as we started with."

  The guard stared at him, chewing his neatly mustachioed upper lip.

  "Hey, Grimes," the driver said, his hands shaking. "Come on, man!"

  Grimes sighed, unbuckled the belt, and handed it over. Jack tossed it into the cab of the truck.

  "Good. Now let's go get that sample."

  At Jack's prodding, the driver led the way around to the rear of the semi. Jack kept both men ahead or to his left where he could cover them and keep the pistol out of sight. The driver unlocked and opened one of the doors, revealing canisters stacked four high, right to the edge. Jack noticed the guard eyeing him, looking for an opening, so he put him to work.

  "Here," he said, handing him a medium-size Ziploc. "Fill this."

  "With what?"

  Jack quickly angled the pistol toward one of the barrels and snapped off a shot. The pop of the impact with the cardboard was louder than the bullet report.

  The driver jerked back. Grimes only raised his eyebrows appreciatively.

  Jack pointed to the fine stream of blue power dribbling from the hole. "Fill 'er up."

  Grimes held the bag under the stream.

  "Hell of a way to fill a prescription, man," the driver said.

  When the bag was full, Grimes zipped it closed and tossed it to Jack.

  Jack backed away and lowered the pistol.

  "Thanks, guys. Sorry about the tire. I'd help you change it but… gotta run."

  Before turning away, Jack raised his chin, causing the turtleneck collar to slip from the lower half of his face, exposing the mustache. Then he ran back the way he'd come, hiding the pistol under his shirt. He hopped into the car. He removed the hat, sunglasses, and mustache immediately, got rolling, and wriggled out of the turtleneck at the first red light. He had everything plus the pistol safely stuffed under the front seat by the time he reached the BQE ramp. The driver and guard hadn't seen his car, and any description they'd give would include a mustache, so no need to worry or hurry. He took the Brooklyn Queens Expressway north, obeying the speed limit all the way.

  14

  The intercom buzzed.

  The limo already? Luc thought as he reached for the button. It's too early.

  Raul's voice came through. "A package came for you, Dr. Monnet. I left it outside your door."

  "Outside my door? Why didn't you ring?"

  "I did but you didn't answer. Maybe the bell is broken. I'll have it checked tomorrow."

  "Yes, do that." Do anything you want tomorrow. I will be long gone. "What sort of package?"

  "A bottle from K&D."

  Luc knew K&D well—a busy wine store over on Madison. Who would be sending him a bottle now?

  Luc walked through the living room, skirting the three large bulging suitcases that waited by the door. The wi
ne crates were gone—the shipper had wheeled out the last of them an hour ago—and the room seemed empty now without them. He just hoped to God DHL took good care of them. Some of those bottles were irreplaceable.

  He unlocked the door and had pulled it open only an inch or two when it suddenly slammed back in his face, knocking him to the floor. He scrambled tahis feet and stared in dry-mouthed horror at the intruder.

  "Good evening, Dr. Monnet," Milos Dragovic said, grinning like a great white as he closed the door behind him.

  "You… what… how…?" Luc couldn't form a coherent thought, let alone speak it.

  "How?" Dragovic said, his eyes taking in the living room as if he were cataloguing it. "My driver is keeping your doorman company for the time being. I made it quite clear to him that—" He stopped as his roving gaze came to rest on the suitcases. "Oh? Planning a trip? You've had your fun with me and now you're running off, is that it?"

  What was he saying? "Fun with you? I don't know what you—"

  He didn't see Dragovic's arm move but suddenly the thick back of his hand crashed against the right side of Luc's face. Pain exploded in his cheek and jaw, sent him stumbling, staggering back. He almost fell again. The room blurred through the tears in his eyes.

  "It's too late for games!" Dragovic said.

  Luc blinked and pressed his hands over his throbbing face. "What are you talking about?"

  Two long quick steps and Dragovic was on top of him. Luc cringed, expecting another blow, expecting many blows. The thought of fighting back flashed through his brain, exiting almost before it entered. Luc didn't know how to fight. And if he tried he might only further enrage Dragovic.

  But Dragovic didn't hit him. Instead he grabbed Luc by the back of his neck, wheeled him around, and steered him toward the large TV set at the far end of the room.

  "There!" he said, pointing to the screen where the news was running. "How many times have you watched it?"

  "Watched what?"

  The grip on his neck tightened, fingertips digging deep into his flesh. The words spoken close to his ear were distorted by rage.