Ernst did just that, and watched as Jack rested the Glock on his lap and took a sip of his beer. He shifted his gaze to the Taser on the floor. What had gone wrong? It had been turned on, had had plenty of time to build a charge… It should have reduced Jack to twitching helplessness. What sort of man was this?
Jack looked at him. “Hit a nerve, huh?”
Ernst didn’t answer.
What is happening to me?
Where was the icy control that had been his lifelong pride? His father would be ashamed of him for letting someone-his former teenage groundskeeper, of all people-goad him like that. And it was clear to him now that Jack had been doing just that.
Was that what this visit was about? To demonstrate that Ernst was not in control-not of who entered his home, not of his own emotions?
“Where is he?” Jack said.
That question again. Was this his true reason for coming?
“The One? I don’t know.”
Jack stared at him. Ernst tried to read his face. What next? Torture. Ernst didn’t see Jack as a torturer, but he was rich with the Taint, and someone with so much of the Otherness in him might be capable of anything.
“It’s true,” he added. “The One answers to no one and has never felt the need or obligation to keep the Order informed of his whereabouts. Communication with the One is, fittingly, a one-way street. When he wants something from us, he contacts us. We do not contact him.”
Jack kept staring in silence. He was beginning to make Ernst uncomfortable. Finally he broke it.
“When was your last contact with him?”
“Weeks ago.”
“After your Jihad virus failed?”
How did he know that? Did he have a contact inside the Order? Oh, yes. Edward Connell. It must have been him.
Ernst saw no use in playing coy.
“Yes.”
“Is that when he put out the hit on the Lady?”
Ernst stiffened and tried to hide it. “Yes.”
Jack frowned. “You hesitated.”
In truth, he didn’t know when the One had ordered the attack. Szeto never mentioned it.
Ernst dodged that. “May I inquire as to why you wish to know his whereabouts?”
“I’m going to kill him.”
Ernst barked a laugh. He couldn’t help it. He waved a hand. “I apologize. Kill the One? Your hubris borders on the surreal.”
Jack seemed unperturbed. “You think he’s invulnerable?”
“Well, no. But he’s so much older and wiser than you. If you know his taken name, then I’m sure you’re aware that he’s survived countless attacks over the thousands of years of his life, many of them launched by one of equal longevity who is far more capable than you. And yet he is still standing.”
“So is the one who made those attacks.”
“Ah, yes. The so-called Defender or Guardian or Paladin or whatever he’s called these days. But where is he?”
Jack rose from his seat. “That was my question to you: Where is the One?”
“I told you: I don’t know.”
Jack closed the distance between them and stood over him, reaching into the pocket of his jacket.
Now what? Ernst wondered. A knife? A bullet?
No… something small and metallic in his hand. Ernst flinched as it landed in his lap.
“Your little gizmo will work better with that.”
Ernst glanced down and saw the Taser’s battery, then looked at Jack’s retreating form.
“That’s it?”
Jack turned at the door and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his baseball cap. “That’s it.”
“But…” Ernst didn’t know what to say.
“You say you don’t know where he is or how to find him, and I believe you.”
He was baffled. “Why?”
“Because if you knew, you’d tell me. Right?”
It hadn’t occurred to Ernst until this moment, but if he did indeed know the whereabouts of the One…
“Yes… yes, I believe I would.”
“Because you think I don’t stand a chance against him, and you’d like to see me get my just deserts for thinking I can take him on. Right?”
“Exactly.” This was uncanny.
He shrugged as he opened the door. “So there’s no point in continuing this conversation.”
He stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him, leaving Ernst alone.
11
Ernst rose and locked the door. He felt a little safer after he slid the surface-mounted bolt into place, but not much.
What a jarring experience. But it had answered a slew of questions, solved some nagging mysteries.
Jack and the One had met… and the One had wanted to know more about Jack.
The man who had killed all those operatives Szeto had sent after the woman, stolen Thompson’s Compendium, Tasered Ernst in Central Park, and done who knew what else… all were the same person… all were Jack the lawn-cutting teen.
And Jack was working for the Enemy. Not only working, but looking for the One… to kill him.
And that raised another question.
Why wasn’t the Defender looking for the One? Why had an immortal sent a mortal to kill a fellow immortal?
It made no sense unless…
Ernst remembered his bizarre last meeting with the One. He had been enraged that the Jihad virus had not had the desired effect, and yet quite literally giddy-had actually laughed-about an unspecified event. He could hear his voice again as if he were in the room…
… something wonderful happened yesterday. Something I should have suspected, but never dreamed possible… something that changes everything… at last I can take direct action… take matters into my own hands. I will finish this myself. ”
Two obstacles had stood in the path between the One and bringing about the Change: the Defender and the Lady.
No question that the Lady remained-Szeto’s failed attempt on her life proved that.
… At last I can take direct action…
In all the One’s moves against the Lady, he had stayed out of the picture, kept his hand hidden. Even with the Fhinntmanchca, he had remained in the background, orchestrating the attack through the Order and the Dormentalists and the Kickers. He had never taken direct action.
Now he felt he could.
What had changed?
The Defender? Had something happened to him? That might explain why Jack was so openly searching for the One.
If the Defender was out of the picture-and really, that was a question being asked with increasing frequency over the years in the upper echelons of the Order: Where was the Defender?
During the months since the Fhinntmanchca debacle, it had become an incessant buzz.
Why hadn’t the Defender stepped in-if not in time to stop it, then at least making himself known afterward? The incident should have goaded him into some sort of action.
But no… nothing.
The Defender hadn’t been heard from since the dawn of World War II when it appeared he’d slain the One. No need for him to do anything after that. But then came the One’s reincarnation in 1968. He could have- should have-acted then. Countless opportunities to snuff out the One for good must have presented themselves during the years he was growing to manhood.
But again… nothing.
Was it possible he’d been killed in the war? Caught in Dresden during the firebombing, perhaps? In the wrong place when a V2 smashed into London during the battle of Britain?
Whatever the reason, the Defender had been conspicuous by his absence. And now Jack was taking on the task that should be the Defender’s.
As Americans liked to say: What’s wrong with this picture?
Everything.
… Something I should have suspected, but never dreamed possible… something that changes everything…
That “something” could only be that the Defender was no longer around. Which would indeed leave the One free to take
direct action.
So… all that stood between the One and the Lady now was a lone mortal.
Jack didn’t stand a chance.
Or did he?
Was that why the One had been asking about him? He couldn’t possibly fear Jack… could he?
For some reason Jack seemed to think he could bring it off. Ernst had gathered from their brief conversation that the intelligent boy he’d known as a teen had not grown into a fool, so why did he think he could win? Did he know something Ernst didn’t?
If he did succeed, the Change would be forestalled… indefinitely.
And that possibility brought back other things Jack had said, frightening things that had struck home…
12
Hank had kept up a brisk pace on his trek and found himself puffing a little by the time he stopped at the corner across the street from Drexler’s apartment building.
Out of shape. Back in the day before he became a best-selling author, he earned his pay through hard physical labor-and every so often he missed the simplicity of his slaughterhouse job. But, despite all the pain-in-the-ass picayune bullshit it entailed, being the King of Kickerdom was better. He had a purpose now, something he’d lacked before.
As he waited for the light to change he saw a guy in a hoodie come out the front entrance and signal an approaching cab. Hank gave him a casual glance and was turning away when the cab’s headlights caught his face.
He knew that face. Where-?
Him! Shit, it was him!
Tyleski-the guy who stole the Compendium.
A burst of rage pushed Hank off the curb but he reined it in after two steps and stopped. The guy was getting into the cab and Hank would never reach him.
But he couldn’t let him get away again. No fucking way.
He looked upstream and saw a couple of cabs barreling his way. He waved an arm and the one in the lead swerved across three lanes to stop in front of him. Hank jumped in and pointed to Tyleski’s departing taxi across the street.
“Follow that cab!” he said, realizing how the words sounded as they spilled out.
But no wisecrack from the driver. He just hit the gas and followed.
Now what? Think.
Follow the guy home, find out where he lived, then arrange payback.
Wait. Shit happened. What if traffic snarled and he got away? This was a precious opportunity. Couldn’t let chance screw it up. He needed backup. He could call Kewan and No. Szeto-call Szeto. Good chance this was the same guy he was looking for. He’d be more aggressive than Kewan. Tons more. He had a real hard-on for this guy.
He found his number and punched SEND.
“Yes.”
“Hey, it’s me. You know that guy we were talking about today, the guy you’ve been looking for? I’m following him in a cab as we speak, but I’m afraid I might lose him, so-”
“Do not lose him! I will call you right back.”
Szeto was gone.
Hank looked at his phone and said, “‘Do not lose him’? Well, fuck you.”
Ahead, the guy’s cab stopped at a light. Hank’s pulled up right behind it. As they idled, waiting for green, Hank watched the silhouette of the guy’s head. And wondered what the hell Szeto was planning. Had to be up to something. He wanted this guy.
The light changed and they started moving again. Hank drummed his fingers on his leg. Well, so far so good. Maybe he wouldn’t need backup. Maybe His phone rang.
“Where are you?” Szeto said. His voice echoed like he was in hands-free mode or using the speaker on his phone.
Hank gave him the intersection.
“Going uptown?”
“You got it.”
“What side he is seated?”
Wondering why that mattered, Hank double-checked the silhouette ahead.
“He’s on the right.”
“Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Just stay on phone and keep me posted.”
Hank felt his steam rising.
“Hey, look. I brought you in as backup. I don’t need-”
“Just stay with him. I will handle this.”
Hank bit back a remark and let it go. Maybe better to let Szeto call the shots. That way, if they came up empty-handed, he’d have no one to blame but himself.
So he kept Szeto informed of their uptown progress, wondering what the enforcer had in mind, and wishing he’d get to it before A bright yellow Hummer roared through a red light and T-boned the right side of the cab ahead of Hank, knocking it a good half dozen feet sideways. Hank’s own cab screeched to a halt. A second later Szeto, carrying a pistol, jumped out of the Hummer. Hank watched, stunned and slack-jawed, as he ran around to the undamaged side. He pulled open the rear door and looked inside, then shoved the pistol into a shoulder holster and signaled to Hank to come help him.
Hank shook off his paralysis and jumped out. By the time he reached the damaged cab, Szeto was dragging an unconscious guy in a hoodie out the door. A van screeched to a halt beside them and the side door slid open. Hank helped load the guy into the van, then jumped in behind Szeto. They roared off, leaving the cab and the Hummer behind.
13
Every jounce and bounce rammed a spike of pain through Jack’s head. Vaguely familiar voices, one accented, echoed through cottony air…
“… about the Hummer?… Stolen. This is he?… Yeah, that’s him. Think he’s your guy?… We will find out…”
Lying on his back. Where? What happened? He remembered leaving Drexler’s, grabbing a cab, and then… what?
Seemed to be moving. Still in the cab?
No. Hard floor against his back.
God, his head. And his stomach felt ready to hurl.
Tried to open his eyes but the reluctant lids allowed him only a brief glimpse of blurred figures before losing strength and collapsing.
Tried to move but couldn’t. Seemed to be-alarm shot through him as he struggled to move his arms. They’d been tied or taped.
The lump of his Glock was missing against the small of his back.
And then the cab or whatever he was in hit a pothole or a curb and took a big bounce and the world faded away…
14
Kristof stared at the man blinking up at him from the chair. He was securely taped into it. His Glock and backup pistol had been removed.
He turned to Thompson. “You are absolutely sure this is man who rob you?”
“Sure as shit.” He flung the man’s wallet across the room. “All his ID backs that up. John Fucking Tyleski.” He leaned closer to the man, almost nose to nose. “Ain’t that right?”
Tyleski looked up at him. Kristof was quite sure that was not his real name, but it would do for now. They would know his real name before this night was over. He had seemed confused before but his eyes had cleared and he appeared more alert now.
He blinked at Thompson. “Who are you?”
“You know goddamn well who I am.”
“Never saw you before in my life.”
Thompson bared his teeth as he cocked his right fist. Kristof grabbed his arm before he could strike.
“I do not want him knocked out again.”
“I owe this guy, Szeto. So do you.”
“I want him to talk. He cannot talk if he is unconscious.”
“Talk, huh? You want talk? I saw a hardware store down the block. How about I pick us up a few tools to loosen him up?”
Kristof nodded. The Order had owned this top-floor loft and the one below it since the days before the meatpacking district became trendy. Thompson had kept his distance while Dieter and Erich were dragging Tyleski up the stairs from the street. But he’d gained swagger and confidence once the man was secured to the chair.
Just then Dieter and Erich returned from hiding the van.
Dieter stared at Tyleski. His English carried a thick German accent. “Kristof! I thought he looked familiar before, but now in the light, I am sure: This is the man from the park yesterday, the one who killed Clau
diu and wounded Filip.”
“Is he now?” Erich said with an equally heavy accent as he pulled out his pistol.
The revelation triggered an explosion of rage within Kristof but he managed to contain it. He raised a hand and stopped Erich.
“No. We have time for that later.”
He pulled his own pistol from its holster and a three-inch suppressor from a side pocket. He made a show of screwing it onto the threaded end of the barrel.
“How much later?” Dieter asked, looking equally itchy to inflict damage on this man.
“After I have learned what I want to know, we shall play Last Shot Loser, the three of us-and Mister Thompson too, if he wishes.”
“What’s that?” Thompson said.
“We take turns shooting Mister Tyleski with one bullet each.”
Thompson smiled. “Count me in. How do I win?”
“By not losing. You lose by killing him. The one who fires the kill shot must pay each of the other players one thousand dollars.”
Thompson’s grin broadened. “Oh, I’m definitely in. The way I see it, even if I lose, I win.”
“But first, your suggestion about hardware store is excellent. Get whatever tools appeal to you, but for me… you are familiar with something called X-Acto knife?”
“Course I am.”
“Get me one, or something quite like it.”
“Planning a little cosmetic surgery?”
“In a way. First thing I do is cut off eyelids so he must watch whatever we do to him.”
Dieter and Erich slapped palms as Thompson turned to Tyleski. “You are soooo fucked!”
Tyleski didn’t react. Szeto hadn’t expected much from him. A man like this would know better than to show fear, even if he were quaking inside. And the prospect of losing his eyelids should cause deep quaking. Kristof had seen men broken by that alone. Not so much because of the pain, but because of the finality of the mutilation, the realization that even if he survived, his life was changed, horribly and forever.
Thompson turned at the door. “Hey, we forgot about Drexler. Think he might be in on-oh, shit. You think he might have hit Drexler?”
That had occurred to Kristof, but he hadn’t had time to check on it. Not that it would be such a terrible loss. Ernst Drexler had been bypassed by the One. That meant that the High Council might decide to elevate someone else to Actuator status. And since the One was dealing directly with Kristof Szeto, who better to choose?
The Dark at the End rj-15 Page 10
