Vigilante

by Robin Parrish

  “I see,” said the president. “So not only is the OCI a colossal failure, it’s incompetent as well.”

  “Now, hold on,” said Pryce. “The lives that were lost in this operation were far from innocent. At minimum, they were known associates to the work of Yuri Vasko. For all we know, they may have had a firmer hand in his business than is widely assumed. I think ‘failure’ is far too harsh a word to characterize this operation, Mr. President.”

  “Too harsh, Director?” chimed in Marcus Bailey, Hastings’ right-hand man, who was seated directly across the table from Pryce. “If it wasn’t a failure, then what would you call it?”

  “It was a perfectly executed undertaking that unfortunately was based on compromised intelligence,” said Pryce.

  “Don’t you mean unintelligence?” Marcus shot back.

  “Gentlemen,” said Hastings. “The bottom line is that everything we’ve worked for is over. The OCI cannot possibly survive this disaster.”

  “Sir, if I may?” said Jonah Janssen, rising from his seat. Hastings noticed that Janssen tossed the briefest of glances at his partner, Coral Lively, who hadn’t said one word since taking her seat. Hastings understood why; he’d read her report and knew that her partner had pulled the trigger that killed fifteen-year-old Olena Vasko. Lively herself had shot and killed Lilya Vasko, Olena’s mother and Yuri’s wife. As her partner stood from the table to move toward its head, she cast her numb gaze in the opposite direction, at nothing in particular.

  “I believe that last night has presented us with a unique opportunity,” said Agent Janssen.

  “Son, this administration does not want to hear the phrase ‘cover-up,’ ” said a very bitter Marcus. “That’s not how we do things.”

  Pryce shook his head. “A cover-up would be pointless; the destruction of Vasko’s home is a matter of public record, with hundreds of eyewitnesses.”

  Hastings wondered if he’d made the right choice in his appointment of OCI director. Pryce had fit the profile perfectly, with a long background as an assistant director at the CIA and a history of fighting organized crime. But Hastings didn’t like the way Pryce had struck down any thoughts of lying about what had happened; he’d objected not because it was wrong, but because it was logistically impossible.

  The room turned back to Janssen, who touched the enormous monitor behind the president’s seat. Hastings had no idea what his confident young agent was up to, but he didn’t like the photograph that came up on the screen.

  “I’m sure everyone in this room is familiar with the New York–based vigilante known as The Hand,” Janssen said, nodding at the larger-than-life close-up on The Hand’s hood-covered head. “He showed up at Vasko’s home last night.”

  “Why?” asked the president, eyeing the photo carefully. “What was he doing there?”

  Hastings had followed the headlines about this enigmatic individual and was impressed by his accomplishments. Not only had he pulled off some extraordinary feats, but he’d displayed some fine detective work as well. Just last week, The Hand had tracked down and brought to justice a serial killer guilty of thirteen vicious murders. The culprit had eluded the NYPD for months. And hadn’t he heard something recently about a Mafia-backed business in Clinton that The Hand had shut down?

  “We’re not entirely certain, sir,” replied Janssen, glancing again at Agent Lively. “We suspect he may have been conducting surveillance on our field op. Maybe he hoped to take credit for our success, but changed his mind after . . . well, after what happened.”

  “Why would he need to take credit for OCI operations when he has so many successes of his own already on record?” Hastings asked rhetorically. It was a ridiculous notion.

  “As I said, sir, we believe that his presence last night presents an opportunity. A chance to kill two birds with one stone.”

  Hastings could guess the direction this was heading. But he decided to hear the man out. “Go on.”

  “The Hand is a vigilante. His activities—however noble in their intent, however commendable in their success—are illegal by definition. Americans do not take the law into their own hands. Not ever. He’s a wild card, Mr. President, and we have no idea to whom or what he’s ultimately loyal. As long as he’s allowed to continue his actions, organizations like the OCI are at risk. How can we conduct operations when we can’t keep this man from interfering? And consider this. It’s no secret that he’s extremely popular among New Yorkers, and his notoriety is on the rise across the nation. What happens when his influence and fame become so great that they overshadow your administration? With all due respect, the nation is being held together by a thread as it is.”

  Marcus made a show of rolling his eyes. “You’re reaching, Agent Janssen. If you think pinning the blame for your blunder on some misguided vigilante is all it’ll take to save the OCI from extinction, you’re living in a fantasy world. Besides, this Hand character is a mild curiosity at best, a novelty. He’ll be old news within a month.”

  “What if you’re wrong about that?” Janssen challenged the chief of staff, but then turned to Hastings. “Sir, we have an obligation to stop him before he gets someone hurt or killed. Not to mention our larger responsibility to end the reign of this nation’s crime regime. No one feels the weight of what happened last night more than Agent Lively and I, and we grieve for the lives that were lost, but one mistake cannot be allowed to prevent this agency from fighting and winning this war. If the OCI goes out of business, then the United States government is telling the cartels and the terrorists that it’s open season to drag this country into chaos and devastation.”

  Hastings was silent as all eyes fell on him. In the course of one briefing, his opinion had changed about several of the people in the room.

  He hated that Janssen was right. The fight against crime was bigger than one mistake, and millions of Americans were counting on them to bring an end to the corruption, violence, and death. He had been elected on that very promise. Whoever this Hand guy was, even though he was operating outside of the law, he was doing real good in a part of the nation that needed all the good it could get. He didn’t deserve to take the fall for the mistakes of the people in this room.

  But Hastings had learned—as all presidents do—not long after taking the oath of office, that the choices his job required were never, ever easy.

  32

  A gnes Ellerbee was sitting at her desk, scanning a collection of old Special Forces records, hoping she might come across a candidate whose build and abilities might line up with her mysterious quarry, when her phone vibrated inside her purse.

  No one else in the office heard it; they were too busy following the TV reports about last night’s incendiary raid on a New York crime boss by the OCI. Lynn Tremaine stood in the center of the office and barked out orders about what angles of the story to cover and who would be covering it. Agnes’s name was never called.

  She didn’t mind. The number on her ringing phone was unknown, but being a reporter, she couldn’t afford not to answer it. You never knew when an anonymous tip might come in or a source might be trying to reach out to the media. Granted, the chances of someone like that calling her, of all people, were slim, when there were much more famous and respected reporters out there to choose from.

  But she could dream.

  “Ellerbee,” she said into the receiver.

  “It’s Tommy,” said the caller in a terse, urgent tone. It took a few seconds for her to put it together. “You need to get down here.”

  The hacker!

  She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper so that none of her colleagues in the office could hear. “Do you have it? Did you get his face? Do you know what he looks like?”

  “There wasn’t enough to go on to put his whole face together,” Tommy replied. “But I have something you’re going to want to see.”

  Agnes dropped the phone into her carryall and darted for the exit.

  ———

  Out of breath,
Agnes raced into the bar and didn’t bother stopping to see what the reaction to her presence was this time. She raced to the tiny back room that Tommy Serra called home and banged on the door.

  “Who is it?” Tommy called out.

  “It’s the Easter bunny,” Agnes replied, impatient and gulping deep lungfuls of air.

  Tommy flung the door open and she stepped quickly inside.

  Without a word, he returned to his desk chair and entered a series of keystrokes. The center screen on his panel went black and then the wireframe shape of a human head appeared there, rotating slowly. But it was just an outline. It had no skin or features, nothing to identify it.

  With a few more keystrokes, Tommy input the sum total of his work on the photos Agnes had given him, and the bottommost portion of the face was filled in with skin textures that had been lifted from the photos and wrapped around the 3-D model. It wasn’t much—just the bottom inch or so of the man’s face and the top of his neck. His chin was almost completely filled in, but there were tiny blank spots here and there where Tommy hadn’t found a photograph to fill it in.

  “That’s all you could get?” Agnes asked, unable to hide her disappointment.

  “From the pics, yeah,” said Tommy. “But then I applied this algorithm I’ve been working on that extrapolates the most probable data for the empty spaces and fills them in with what they look like. And . . . there.” Tommy tapped a single key and suddenly the empty spaces were filled in on the wireframe model, along with another inch or so of skin above the part that was already there.

  Agnes leaned in. Now she was intrigued. “What is that?” she asked, pointing at something on the face.

  Tommy shook his head. “Can’t be sure . . . But to me it looks like a scar. And this is one over here, too,” he added, pointing to a second scar. Both of them extended up into the parts of the face that weren’t filled in, but what they could see definitely looked like mangled skin that had been damaged beyond repair, with some hasty stitching to sew up the flesh wounds.

  Agnes took in a sharp breath, then let it out slowly. “He’s . . . disfigured.”

  Her mind spun with thoughts, mostly about how this drastically reduced the number of potential candidates. Because how many people could there be in the world who had faces mangled so badly? A few hundred? A few thousand? Even at that, she could further narrow down the list by including only those who were highly trained at hand-to-hand combat. Maybe she could even find someone who was equally skilled and could tell her which martial arts disciplines The Hand used. . . .

  Her thoughts returned to the present when she saw that Tommy was staring at her.

  “Can you get me a—”

  “—a copy?” he finished for her, holding up a tiny data card. “Includes both versions.”

  She accepted the item and then got out her wallet to give the young man any amount of money he wanted. However much it would cost her—even if she had to take out a second mortgage—she didn’t care. Tommy Serra had been worth every penny.

  33

  Yuri Vasko’s dead hand rested on his desk, and his eyes fell on it and would not move.

  Marko stood close, as ever, prepared to obey his master’s every command, but more interested in their profits than all other concerns. He might as well have been incorporeal as far as Vasko was concerned. Vasko cared no more about money at this moment than he did any of the other random thoughts that came to mind.

  The hour was late, the sun nearing the bottom of the big picture window behind him, causing his own frame to cast a long shadow over his desk and the floor beyond. Any other day, he would be preparing to head home right now.

  Today, there was no home. No one was waiting to welcome him, to shower him with daughterly affection in that special manner that Olena possessed. No beloved wife to talk to, dine with, take long walks with, or make love to. They were gone. He’d carried them both from the fire himself, refusing the police their autopsy examination. Their bodies had been so badly burned in the fire, he’d had them both secretly cremated this afternoon.

  Turned to nothing but ash.

  How could they be dead?

  Without them, what did he have left? What was his purpose?

  Was it his business? He was good at what he did but he would gladly trade it all to hold his wife and daughter again. They were his world, and the world was hollow without them. A lonely, empty place that was offensive and alien.

  How Vasko wished that he could have died with them!

  No. He had to put such thoughts aside. They would not serve him.

  Marko was babbling something about believing one or more of his rivals to be responsible for this tragedy. Vasko didn’t hear him.

  He had to decide what to do now. Yes, that was important. It would make Marko happy to see him get back to work. But why did he care about making Marko happy? The man was a sycophant who secretly siphoned a fraction of Vasko’s income for himself. Vasko had known for years, but Marko was so good at keeping the books—and keeping the company’s nose clean—that he would be impossible to replace. Besides, with their shared heritage, Marko was the closest thing he had to a friend in this world.

  The man who stole from him was his only real friend. What a sad commentary on his life this was. But it was what it was: his life.

  Vasko pounced; rocketing to his feet, he upturned his massive walnut desk with an animal’s furious roar. He looked up at the ceiling and howled a scream that was like nothing that had ever escaped from his throat before. Its volume and rage surprised even him.

  “Yuri!” said Marko.

  “Shut up,” Vasko cut him off, plopping back down in his seat again, his manner suddenly calm. “I’m thinking.”

  My life.

  That was what triggered the outburst. Those two words. He knew Marko was looking at him in fear, the way one looks at a madman. But he didn’t care. The very notion of thinking any longer about his life as if it were something normal, something everyday, was insulting on a primal level. It was an affront to his wife and daughter—two glorious, beautiful women who’d lost their lives to an end that was not of their own making.

  His life was not his life. Not anymore. Without the ones he loved, it no longer made sense to him. There was nowhere for him to go should he leave this office. This place was all he had left. What would the world have him do now, if he was no longer truly alive?

  He cared nothing for his business. Not now. It was a means to an end, a way of providing the ones he loved with contentment, safety, and peace. Now it may as well have been as dead as the lifeless fingers on his ruined hand. As dead as . . .

  No!

  He burst from his chair, ready to howl once more, but stopped. His thoughts had been circling one lone notion all day, but he kept pushing it aside, kept turning back to the grief of losing his dearest ones.

  No more. There was another emotion clawing to the surface, one far more powerful than sorrow, and he would take refuge inside it.

  Vasko turned, stepped up to the window.

  “I know you’re out there,” he said softly. He stretched his arms open wide, and when next he spoke, his voice carried a hollow-throated thunder. “I know you want me! So come on, then! Let’s have it!”

  This city worshiped The Hand. Even the media loved him. They called him “The Hand of God,” “The Hand of Life.” The city’s “champion” and “rescuer.” The man had saved countless lives. But he didn’t save Lilya and Olena. For all Vasko knew, he was their murderer. He knew the OCI had raided his home. This was something he’d learned soon after the slaughter. And he knew he had made things easy on them by removing his loved ones’ bodies after the attack; had their bodies been found there by the police, the OCI would have been skewered by the press. But as it was, the bodies of more than a dozen of his men had been found at the scene. That would have to do. The OCI would get their due in time.

  For now, he was more interested in another. When Vasko had found his home on fire, the OCI was gone. But
he was there, standing over his daughter’s body holding a gun—a gun which he’d this morning matched to the bullet that killed Olena.

  The Hand had never murdered before—at least, that anyone knew of. Why had the man come after him and his family? There was only one reason that made sense: Yuri was a warning to every other crime boss on his to-do list. Get out of this business, or your loved ones pay the price.

  Vasko looked down at his own black sickly hand. It was a thing of death.

  The Hand of Life.

  The hand of death.

  Plans took shape in his mind before he’d consciously decided to formulate them. This business of his, this company—it had always been a means to an end. If that end was gone, if he no longer had any life within him, then he would see the business become a means to a new end.

  Vasko took a step closer to the window, so close he saw his breath condense on the glass, and he scanned the city. That man was out there right now, not dead as he’d initially hoped from that gunshot to the head, but recovering from his encounter with Vasko. Or maybe he was back on his feet already, somewhere on the streets or the rooftops, saving someone’s life or stopping a robbery or tracking down some heinous criminal.

  Vasko’s plans would take time to see to fruition. Meticulous, elaborate plotting would be required to countermove against the intricate plans of the The Hand, as he had told Marko not that long ago. It was all the better this way; it would keep Vasko going, giving him the purpose he needed.

  His new trade was the business of hate.