F Paul Wilson - Secret History 03

by Repairman Jack 09 - Infernal (v5. 0)

  Only one door visible in the rear wall. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Joey go through in a crouch, his pistol ahead of him. Jack kept the shotgun moving, back and forth, holding his breath as he waited for a burst of gunfire, a scream of pain. He heard doors opening and slamming shut—one… two… three…

  And then Joey returned carrying a pair of machine pistols.

  “Well, well, well. Look what I found. A couple of Tavor-twos. Imagine that.”

  Jack felt a fresh surge of rage.

  Joey moved toward the five prone men. “So this is Wrath of Allah. What a sorry bunch of fucks you are. If this is all Allah’s got going for him, he’s in deep shit.” He kicked the nearest Arab in the ribs. “What was the Wrath’s next target? A nursery school? An old-age home?” He kicked harder as the words strained through his clenched teeth. “Huh? Huh?”

  “Please!” the man wailed. “We have done nothing!”

  “Yeah?” He waved the Tavor. “Then what are these here for? Paperweights?” He stepped over to another and kicked him. “Which one of you did the shooting? Huh? Which one of you raghead fucks killed my brother?”

  A man on the opposite end began a panicked wail. “We did nothing! It wasn’t us!”

  “Really?” Jack said. “We have your pal Hamad’s phone records. We have a tape of his call to the papers to brag about his brave deed.”

  One of the men screamed something at Al-Kabeer in Arabic.

  Al-Kabeer cried out, “That was only because no one had taken credit! We decided we would. It is a made-up name!”

  Joey lifted the Tavors again. “And these are just made-up machine pistols, I guess?”

  As they all started to babble at once, Joey shot another in the leg. That shut them up. Except for the moans of the wounded, all became quiet.

  Joey began pacing back and forth before them.

  “Here’s how it’s gonna go down: You’re all gonna die.”

  More panicked wails.

  “Not all,” Jack said in a low voice.

  Joey stopped, glanced at him, and smiled. “All. But one will go a little later than the others.” Then he started pacing again. “Shut up, you shits! The only reason I’m telling you this is so you can feel what my brother and my friend’s father felt when they saw two of you mowing everybody down… how they felt when the barrels pointed their way.”

  More wails of, “We didn’t do it!”

  “Shut up, goddamn it! Here’s what you’ve got to look forward to. Me and my friend, we kill the five of you quick and easy. Me, I’d like to take a whole day with each of you, experimenting, seeing who takes the longest to die. Lucky for you that’s just a dream. But listen up. Here’s the really cool part. After you’re dead I’m gonna cut off your dicks and feed them to the pigs on a certain farm I know in South Jersey.”

  More wails, but some sobs and tears too.

  Jack cleared his throat. When Joey glanced his way he shot him a questioning look. This hadn’t been in the plan.

  Joey winked and said, “Stay with me. I know what I’m doing.”

  Jack had to trust him on that. Joey had made a very good living via his glib tongue.

  He nodded but said, “Hurry it up.”

  Joey returned to his pacing and preaching.

  “And what do you think Allah will say when you arrive in heaven without your dicks? No virgins for you. And when he finds out that your dicks have been turned into bacon, or baby-back ribs, he’s gonna be pissed. He’ll kick your hairy asses out of heaven and into hell. Who knows? Maybe he’ll invite the pigs to take your places.”

  They wailed louder.

  Joey’s pacing repeatedly put him between Jack and their prisoners. Jack wanted to tell him that was a bad idea, but Joey was on a roll and had worked up a head of steam.

  “And when your dickless bodies are found I’m gonna call the papers and tell them it was the work of the Wrath of Guido.”

  He laughed and turned to Jack. “Pretty good, huh? Just made that one up on the spot.”

  “No Fidel—remember?”

  “Just let me finish.” He turned back to the sobbing Arabs. “But there’s a way one of you—and only one of you—can avoid this fate worse than death. And that’s to identify the two shooters and tell us who’s behind Wrath of Allah. Because I know there’s got to be more to this than you losers.”

  Jack had been thinking the same thing. He so wanted those answers.

  The guy on the far left rose to his knees and jabbered in Arabic as he pointed to Al-Kabeer. Al-Kabeer made no reply.

  Joey put a bullet into the floor next to the speaker.

  “English! None of this dune-nigger speak!”

  The guy kept pointing at Al-Kabeer. “It was Hamad! It was his idea! It’s all his fault!”

  Al-Kabeer lifted his head and shouted a single Arabic word.

  “No! I will not be silent!” The Arab turned back to Joey. “I warned him, I warned them all that this would bring the enemy to our door, but they wouldn’t listen.” Back to Al-Kabeer. “Now see what you’ve done. You are to blame for whatever happens to us!”

  “Our old friend El-Kabong, eh?” Joey said. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What’ve you got to say for yourself?”

  Slowly, painfully, Al-Kabeer began to rise.

  Joey raised his pistol. “Easy…”

  “I would speak.”

  Jack kept a closer eye on the rest as Al-Kabeer rose and stood awkwardly, favoring his bloody left leg.

  “All right,” Joey said. “What was your part in this? Who were the shooters?”

  Al-Kabeer sneered. “I do not answer to you, only to Allah. I only wish there had been more than two heroes. I wish there had been dozens of them running through the whole of the airport killing everyone in sight. I wish they had killed hundreds, thousands. I wish such a fate on every infidel in this stinking manure pile of a country.”

  Joey took a bead on Al-Kabeer’s face. “And I wish the same about you dune niggers. Consider this a start.”

  “One more thing,” Al-Kabeer said, looking Joey straight in the eye. “May cancerous swine devour your whore of a mother and shit her out on the grave of your illegitimate brother.”

  Phut! Phut!

  Joey’s first shot went wide but the second caught Al-Kabeer in the neck. He fell backward and lay writhing and kicking as he clutched his throat.

  And then a screaming bearded man stormed into the room through the rear door, firing a pistol as he ran. Joey was between Jack and the attacker. He must have caught one because he crashed back into Jack. As Joey went down Jack whipped the shotgun around and fired. A deafening boom shocked his eardrums as the double-ought blew open the newcomer’s chest. Pumping a new cartridge, Jack swiveled to find the three unwounded Arabs charging him, their eyes on the Tavors that had slipped from Joey’s grasp.

  A shot rang out and one of the three screamed and doubled over, clutching his abdomen. Joey was down but not out. Jack’s second blast tore into the remaining pair as they charged, shoulder to shoulder. He’d aimed off center so that the one on the right would take the brunt of the buck—he had plans for his buddy—but the sawed-off’s short, unchoked barrel allowed too wide a pattern. Both went down.

  Jack looked around. Last man standing.

  Shit! This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

  He knelt beside Joey. He looked like hell—white face, shallow, stuttering breaths. His bluish lips moved. Jack could barely hear him through the whine in his ears.

  “Looks like I fucked up.”

  Yeah, he sure as hell had. But Jack didn’t belabor it. The poor guy was paying the price of his rushed search.

  He slipped his arms under Joey and lifted him.

  “Let’s get you out of here.”

  Jack did a quick scan as he stepped through the door and onto the sidewalk. Nobody near enough to matter. He carried Joey to the car, eased him into the passenger seat, then hurried back inside. A quick check of the Arabs yielded one survivor: Al-
Kabeer, moaning and writhing as he clutched his bloody throat.

  Perfect.

  Jack hauled him out to the car and dumped him on the backseat.

  Now he did a careful scan. Spotted a couple of people to his left approaching cautiously along the sidewalk, another to his right running down the middle of the street.

  Jack pulled his Glock, turned, and fired three shots back through the open door at the Center’s rear wall. That seemed to discourage the curious—two threw themselves flat and the third made a quick U-turn and booked.

  Jack ran around the car, jumped behind the wheel, fished the keys from under the seat, and did some booking himself.

  * * *

  -14:44

  Joey didn’t make it.

  After racing toward Interstate 80, Jack turned just before the on ramp and cruised local streets at the speed limit. He wound through neighborhoods of clapboard two-family homes and rundown apartment houses, heading generally east, talking nonstop to Joey as he looked for a hospital, or at least one of those blue signs with the white H.

  Finally he found one, pointing left. As he stopped at a red light, he leaned over and grabbed Joey’s shoulder.

  “Almost there, buddy.”

  Joey made no reply, but then he’d done little more than grunt now and then during the ride.

  He was too badly hurt for Doc Hargus, so Jack’s plan was to carry him into the first ER he found and give a story about finding him on the street. As soon as Joey was under medical care, Jack would disappear.

  But Joey looked awfully still right now.

  He shook him. “Joey?”

  “We fucked up, Jack,” he said in a voice like a mouse scratching a wall.

  Yeah, we did.

  “It’s okay, Joey.”

  Jack saw his lips moving and leaned closer to hear.

  “Ain’t okay, Jack. We didn’t get them.”

  “We did. The only survivor is in the backseat.”

  “No. I been stunad. It wasn’t them.”

  Jack felt his gut go cold.

  “What’re you saying?”

  “It’s bigger than them. Something else going on.”

  “How can you know that? What makes you think—?”

  “You know stuff when you’re dead.”

  And then he fell silent.

  Jack shook him again.

  “Joey?”

  Joey slumped further in his seat, then slid off. His head banged the dashboard.

  “Oh, shit!”

  Jack rotated Joey’s face toward him. His skin felt cold. And even in this faint light the slack features and staring eyes left no doubt. Now old Frank Castellano had no sons.

  “Aw, Joey,” Jack said. “Dammit, I knew this was a bad idea.”

  An aching, stifling melancholy enveloped him. Such a waste… the airport, the Arabs, Joey… senseless. The futility of it all hammered at him, and he felt himself bend beneath the blows.

  If only circumstances had been different… with just a little more time he could have reined Joey in and come up with a good plan. But there’d been no time. Because of the Lilitongue. And the Lilitongue was here because Tom had tricked him into looking for it, had pulled it from its resting place, had brought it into Jack’s home.

  Joey’s death… one more thing to park on his brother. That and—

  Al-Kabeer! Christ, had he kicked too?

  Jack leaned over the back rest and poked Allah’s courageous warrior. He stirred and moaned.

  A horn blared behind him. He looked up and saw the light had changed. He ditched the left turn and kept heading east.

  Eventually he came to a river. He didn’t know its name. The Hacken-sack? The Passaic? Wasn’t sure what town or even what county he was in. To the south he could see a highway arching high over the water. Probably Route 80.

  With his lights out he eased down to the littered bank and bounced through the thick underbrush until he found a clear spot under the span. He parked, turned off the engine, and sat.

  Here it was: the do-or-die moment. Somehow he had to smooth-talk the murdering oxygen waster in the backseat into wanting the Stain, into taking the Stain.

  If that was possible.

  Worry about that later. First he had to snow Al-Kabeer. He wished he had Joey’s gift. Joey would have had people lined up and paying for a chance to grab the Stain for themselves.

  Jack took a breath, let it out, then pulled the backpack from under Joey’s limp legs. He got out and opened the rear door. The overhead courtesy light revealed a very bloody Al-Kabeer curled into the fetal position, clutching his bleeding throat.

  Besides calling the papers, he wondered, what was your part in this? He wanted to scream it, but held back. What were you? Were you the man who shot my father with lead and cyanide? Or were you a planner? Or maybe a money man?

  Al-Kabeer groaned in a hoarse voice, “Take me to a hospital.”

  Fat chance.

  Jack noticed the blood flecking his lips and dribbling onto his beard. Not much time left. Better move this along.

  Jack kept his voice soft, sympathetic, almost friendly. Not easy.

  “All in good time, my friend.”

  “Allaabu Akbar.”

  “If you say so. Listen, Hamad. Here’s the situation: The doctors may be able to save you, but even if they do, what then? You’re still going to be hurting for days. And after that you’re going to have to answer all sorts of questions, and if you haven’t got good answers, you’re going to land in the pokey.”

  He looked up at Jack, a plea in his eyes. “You won’t… you won’t sever my manhood and feed it to a pig? Please, no.”

  “I won’t.” Truth. Jack wanted no part of that. It had been Joey’s riff, to put a little fear of Allah in them. At least Jack assumed it was. “But that other man—”

  “No! Please!”

  “He’s not here now. But if he comes back I may not be able to stop him.”

  Hamad closed his eyes and whispered, “Allaabu Akbar.”

  Jack unzipped the backpack and removed the Tupperware container. Then he unbuttoned his coverall and slipped out down to his waist. An icy gust clawed his back.

  Christ, it was cold. Another reason to hurry this along.

  “But there is a way for you to escape—not just him, but also escape your pain, and escape the police and the federal agents who will be hounding you.”

  He pointed to the black band all but encircling his chest. The ends of the Stain were less than two inches apart. He tried not to think about that.

  “See this, Hamad? This is the mark of Allah—”

  “Allaabu Akbar.”

  “—and it has special powers. It will help you escape all enemies. Forever.”

  Jack opened the container and grabbed one of Hamad’s bloody hands. He dipped it into the Stain remover, then pressed the dripping fingers against the blackened band on his chest. The hand felt cold.

  “All you’ve got to do now is wish, Hamad. Wish to take the Mark of Allah for yourself.”

  His voice was a scrape, a rustle. “You are not of Islam.”

  “I’m a secret special agent of Islam. Undercover. I pretend to be an infidel, but I’m really on Allah’s side.”

  “No…”

  “It’s true. The Mark of Allah was given to me many years ago by the Ayatollah Khomeini himself, to save me in an hour of direst need, and now I’m giving it to you. All you have to do is wish for it, Hamad. You want to be safe from your enemies, don’t you. Sure you do. This is guaranteed to work. Trust me on this, Hamad. I’m telling you the truth. All you need do is wish.”

  Al-Kabeer squinted up at him, as if trying to focus.

  “This is true?”

  “The truest. Go ahead. Wish. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Just say it: I wish the mark for myself.”

  The Arab coughed, spraying Jack with blood. He swallowed, then whispered, “I wish the mark for myself.”

  Jack closed his eyes, took a breath, then lo
oked down at his chest.

  No change. The Stain was still there.

  Shit.

  “Try it again, Hamad. Maybe you didn’t wish hard e—”