Sympathy For the Devil

by Terrence McCauley

  Hicks felt himself smiling, too. “I’m not slipping. I’m just old enough to not push my luck when I don’t have to. The layout’s tricky and I’m going to have to extract one of the junkies. I’ll feel a lot better with you watching my back on the way out.”

  Tali looked at her glass again. “High dusting, just like you said.”

  “With minimal risk to you,” he reminded her. “Standard equipment should suffice.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Just send me the details and I’ll be in position before you get there.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “It’ll mean an early start, though. Your Texan won’t like that.”

  Tali shrugged her slender shoulders. “I’ll do what I always do. Give him his little blue pill; he passes out and I tell him he was wonderful.”

  “Good girl.” Hicks drained most of his scotch. The smoky burn felt good at the back of his throat. “Now, how do you want me to get out of here? If I just pay for my drink and leave, especially since we’ve been speaking Russian, the bartender might get suspicious. So you should act like I just...”

  She quickly turned away from him as if slapped and sat ramrod straight. She snapped her fingers at the bartender and said, “This man is bothering me. He is a rude and common pig. I want him removed immediately.” The act drew enough attention from the other patrons to be convincing, but not enough to be unbelievable.

  Hicks feigned drunkenness and threw up his hands. “I’m going, I’m going.” He drained his scotch and signaled for the check, which the bartender quickly printed up and gave to him.

  As he reviewed his bill, he said to the bartender, “Christ, this new crop of Russian broads sure are touchy, aren’t they? There was a time when speaking Russian got a guy special treatment from a Russian girl. Now? Nothing. Fucking Berlin Wall came down and now they all…” He made like his mind drifted as he tipped the bartender thirty percent. He’d always had a soft spot for bartenders and wanted to make sure he could come back to the bar again if he had to. A generous tip was a good way of staying on a bartender’s good side.

  Tali didn’t look at him as he walked out of the bar either, trailed by the murmurs of the well-heeled clientele of the Mark Bar.

  HICKS HAD already been in position for over an hour by the time sunrise rolled around. He was less than ten miles away from the stylish décor of the Mark Bar but, given his current surroundings, he might as well have been on the other side of the world.

  The convoluted absurdity of the entire situation wasn’t lost on Hicks. He’d just arranged for an Israeli sniper to watch his back as he raided a drug den to retrieve the junkie son of a money manager who would give him a hundred grand to finance an operation against a suspected Somali terrorist who may or may not be planning some kind of attack on U.S. soil. One thing led to another and none of it might lead anywhere except smack into a brick wall.

  Hicks felt the enormity of all the possibilities and intricacies begin to build up inside him again, so he closed his eyes and focused on his breathing until he cleared his mind and calmed down. Nothing was ever a straight line in the intelligence game. When it was, it was too good to be true and couldn’t be trusted. Every single thing was just one fucking serpentine path from one point to the next with the serpent frequently swallowing its own tail.

  Hicks had known all of that before he’d gotten into the intelligence game, but it still bothered him at times. He decided to push his doubts and frustrations aside and compartmentalize like the Dean had said; focusing on the immediate task at hand. He had to get Junior out of the shooting gallery and home to daddy so Hicks could get that hundred grand.

  When Hicks opened his eyes, the streetscape before him was still as bleak as it had been before. Rusting corrugated metal gates and dirty windows and sagging power lines stretched between termite ridden wooden poles. An old drunk adjusted his balls as he shambled across the street.

  “Christ,” Hicks thought, “maybe I should’ve gone into insurance after all.”

  In the light of a cold autumn dawn, the abandoned substation building looked even more rundown than it had on the OMNI feed. Its red brick façade had been faded by time, scorched by fire and tagged with layers of graffiti. Every pane of glass that could be broken had long since been broken and hastily boarded up in many places, but not all. The roof had long since gone to seed and bore the remnants of dead shrubs and weeds that sprouted up through the snow.

  The building had once been part of a mighty transportation network that took goods and people out to and back from Long Island. Now it was a forgotten ruin from the near-past; a haven for junkies looking for a quiet place to shoot poison into their veins for temporary peace.

  Hicks had parked more than a block away from the building to avoid being spotted by any of Devron’s lookouts. He didn’t want to be mistaken for a cop—or worse—a rival drug dealer. Although he could see the building from where he’d parked, he got a bird’s eye view of the entire facility via the OMNI feed on his handheld and dashboard screen.

  The substation was set up in an ideal spot for a small incursion with minimal collateral damage. And, in clandestine work, minimal collateral damage meant minimal attention from any police patrols that happened to be rolling by.

  The old substation was located in a seemingly forgotten industrial area that didn’t see much traffic until later in the morning when workers showed up for their shifts. Across the street from the substation: an overgrown embankment lead up to the deserted railway; overgrown with trees and weeds. It afforded no cover whatsoever for anyone, including Devron’s men.

  If Hicks had been given enough time to plan, he could sweep in there with three guys; take out the guards and pull Junior out in a minute flat. Unfortunately, time and resources were not on his side. He felt his temper spike again. Fucking Colin.

  An apartment building across the street from the near side of the substation offered a perfect sniper’s perch for Tali, assuming shooting would be necessary. And Hicks fully expected shooting to be necessary.

  The OMNI viewpoint high overhead showed two men guarding the front door. One appeared to be a black man, the other appeared to be Latin. Both of them were wearing polar fleece with the sleeves cut off despite the temperature being just above freezing. The fashion statement revealed veined arms and bulging biceps. The Latin man was sporting some impressive ink: a tattoo of a grinning skeleton showing five playing cards over his bony shoulder: a red queen, two black aces, and two black eights. Commonly known as ‘A Dead Man’s Hand.’ The name ‘Death Dealer’ was written in calligraphy beneath it.

  Hicks knew Tali would nail Death Dealer first. She hated tattoos. His partner would die next, probably from the same bullet if she could get the angle right. Hicks smiled. That woman was nothing if not efficient.

  The OMNI feed didn’t reveal anyone else outside the building, so he flipped it back to thermal feed. He picked up the heat signatures of about a dozen people still inside. Junior hadn’t moved from the spot where he’d been sprawled out for the past few hours. Only three other people appeared to be ambulatory, strolling around the prone figures on the floor.

  Hicks didn’t bother adjusting the satellite’s camera to check if Tali was in position. It was easer just to ping her handheld directly. “You in position?”

  Her answer was immediate. A red dot appeared on his chest over his heart.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” he said.

  The red dot disappeared.

  Hicks put his Ruger in his lap and slipped the Buick into gear. “Look sharp because here we go.”

  AS SOON as Hicks pulled up in front of the substation, Death Dealer and his friend puffed out their chests as they swaggered toward the car.

  Death Dealer was the taller of the two and made a big show of bending to look into the car. Hicks didn’t roll down the window.

  Death Dealer yelled, “You best be moving that car, asshole, if you don’t want to get hurt.”

  The .308 round from Tali�
�s M24 rifle punched a hole in Death Dealer’s chest. His partner was sprayed with a red mist, but had less than a second to react before a round slammed into his skull. Both men were dead on the sidewalk before the last echo of Tali’s shots died away.

  Hicks put the car in park and kept the motor running as he got out of the car. He kept his Ruger flat against his leg as he quickly walked toward the substation. He could see the doors were locked and was thinking about going back to pat down the corpses for a key when Tali fired and blew the lock to pieces. Hicks kicked the doors in the rest of the way and walked inside.

  Hicks recognized Devron from his mug shot. He was walking toward him; his phone still pressed to his ear. He lowered the phone when he heard the door bang open. “What the fuck is goin’ on out there, G-Dog. I already told you about keeping that…”

  At the same moment that Devron realized Hicks wasn’t G-Dog; Hicks leveled him with a headshot at near point blank range.

  The Ruger was designed for impact, not stealth, and the shot boomed like a thunderclap in the cavernous substation. Every junkie anywhere near consciousness jumped to their feet and bolted for the door. The huge windows on the street side of the building had only been boarded up halfway to the top. Hicks knew that, from her vantage point across the street, Tali would be able to provide some cover if he needed it.

  Hicks did his best to dodge the herd of staggering junkies as he tried to locate the two other men he’d seen on the thermal OMNI feed. They may have been guards. They may have already run away when they heard the gunfire. Either way, they were unaccounted for and most likely armed. Hicks kept an eye out for them as he made his way to where he thought Junior was passed out.

  Hicks found the young man lying in the same position where he’d been for the past few hours, still unconscious; a backpack as a pillow and a river of drool running from the corner of his mouth. His arm was draped over a woman next to him, but there was nothing romantic about the gesture. The woman’s eyes were open and vacant. Hicks figured she was either dead from opiate shock or was well on her way. Too far along for Hicks to try saving.

  He saw Junior’s chest rise and fall in ragged, shallow breaths and knew the little bastard was still alive. And Hicks was that much closer to a hundred grand.

  He was about to pull Junior up off the floor when he caught movement near an old piece of machinery to his right. It wasn’t the panicked movement of fleeing junkies, but the deliberate movement of someone moving into position.

  Hicks managed to hit the deck just as the man opened fire from behind an old turbine. The rounds sailed high above his head, striking the brickwork of the wall behind him. He rolled clear and came up ready to fire just as the gunman’s weapon clicked dry.

  Hicks had a clear shot on the gunman and was about to fire when Tali’s bullet punched a hole through the center of the gunman’s chest; spinning him away from the machinery. Hicks held fire. No sense in wasting a bullet on a dead man.

  In his ear, Tali said, “Get the boy and move. I’ll cover you from here.”

  Hicks scrambled to his feet and went back to Junior. The young man was still too out of it to move on his own, so Hicks snatched him by the collar, jerked him to his feet, and threw him onto his left shoulder. The effort was easier than it should’ve been for a kid his size. Junior was only about a hundred pounds; heroin scrawny.

  Anyone aware enough to get out of the building had already taken off by then. There were still a fair amount of people still on the substation floor; completely oblivious to what was going on around them.

  Just as Hicks carried Junior back to the entrance; a shot rang out before he reached the door. Hicks doubled back and laid Junior down behind an old turbine. He crouched low while he talked to Tali.

  “You got an angle on this asshole?”

  “Negative,” she said. “He ducked for cover just as you fell back. I don’t have a shot. Your best bet is to leave the kid where he is and search for the gunman on your own. I’ll take him if I get the shot.”

  Hicks knew he could wait out the gunman, but that would take time and time wasn’t on his side. Despite the early hour, someone had either heard the shots or seen the horde of crackheads that had just hit the street and called the cops. He wanted to put as much space as possible between him and that substation as soon as possible, but turning his back on a man with a gun would be suicide, especially with Junior weighing him down.

  To Tali, he said, “I need you to fire a round at his last position. See if that makes him jump.”

  Tali began firing into the old machinery at the far end of the building, Hicks broke cover and ran at a crouch toward the row where he’d last seen the gunman. He found the man lying flat on the ground, hands covering his head. As soon as Tali stopped firing, the man began to get to his feet, but turned when he saw Hicks walking toward him.

  The man slowly raised his hands, but didn’t make an effort to drop the gun. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He wasn’t one of the strung out junkies. He’d gotten a good look at Hicks’ face. Hicks put him down with a single headshot.

  “All clear,” he said to Tali as he tucked away the Ruger and went back to grab Junior, “Just keep an eye out. There may be one or two more hiding in here someplace.”

  He threw Junior over his shoulder again and humped it outside; dumping him in the back seat of the Buick before climbing in behind the wheel. He was glad he’d kept the motor running. He did a tight U-turn and headed back down the street toward Manhattan.

  As he sped off down the street, he asked Tali: “We are clear. Any sign of survivors?”

  “OMNI shows no active threats,” Talia reported. “Just sleeping junkies and dead bad guys. You didn’t need me at all.”

  “Couldn’t have done it without you, Ace.” Hicks saw the street ahead of him was clear, so he floored it. “That was some real Oswald shit you pulled back there, young lady. I owe you one.”

  “Oswald was a pussy,” she said, “and you don’t owe me anything. Colin was a friend. So are you. Stay safe.”

  Hicks didn’t bother asking if she needed a ride. She’d probably just give him another smartass response and that would kill his growing good mood. Tali had gotten out of much worse places than an industrial site in Queens. He knew she’d be long gone before the cops even got there.

  Hicks already had a good idea of how the cops would play it, too. They’d roll up on the scene and work it like the place had been hit by a rival drug gang. The ballistics from Tali’s rifle would probably throw them off a bit, but the ordinance was the same that American and European forces were using in Iraq and Afghanistan. The cops would figure a vet must be working with one of the gangs. They’d waste time running down all snipers with priors who’d just rotated back into the world. The cops would be extra cautious for a while until they began to forget all about the substation and think the sniper thing was just a fluke.

  He doubted the NYPD would look too hard for whoever shot up the shooting gallery anyway. No citizens had been killed and no one would be calling out a manhunt to find the guys who’d killed half a dozen drug dealers. The event itself might make the eleven o’clock news, but it would be forgotten by the weekend. The cops might even forget it before then.

  Hicks turned off the main avenue and hit the highway to take Junior back home. He stole a glance back at Junior and saw he was still passed out cold; coasting from the shit he’d pumped into his veins.

  Now that he could see Junior in the growing daylight, he noticed all the junkie signs clearly: the sunken eyes and pockmarked yellowed skin and thinning hair that came from years of dedicated abuse. Junior was only twenty years old but looked like a hard fifty. His demons had him by the throat and whatever treatment his father had gotten for him hadn’t done him much good so far.

  All of that was going to change. Hicks was going to see to that. For Junior’s sake. But more importantly, for the University’s sake, as well.

  AFTER TELLING Russo he’d rescued Junior, Hicks drove ar
ound killing time until the money man texted him he’d gathered the hundred grand.

  It was just before ten in the morning by the time Hicks rolled into Russo’s street. The cul-de-sac was buzzing with people going about their post rush hour routine. People getting a late start into work and parents coming back from morning errands. Just a regular day in suburbia; a humdrum morning gradually blending into a humdrum lunchtime. Ham and Swiss on white, no crust, and a glass of soy milk. Carrot sticks for desert. Gotta stay healthy. Life is so boring. Nothing ever happens in the suburbs. Woe is fucking me.

  It was all part of a sleepy, privileged existence they took for granted because they didn’t understand what true lawlessness was like. They didn’t know how easily their comfortable lives could be thrown into turmoil by just a few people with bad intentions at the right place and time.

  The people on Russo’s street complained about boredom, but didn’t have the slightest idea of how much work went into keeping life that way. But Hicks knew because he’d made a career of doling out controlled doses of order and anarchy in order to keep everything in balance.

  Hicks pulled up in front of Russo’s house and got the money man on the phone. He wasn’t surprised that he answered on the first ring. “Is that your car out front just now? Do you have him? Is he okay?”

  “First things first, Vinny,” Hicks said. “Do you have the hundred grand?”

  “Yes, I gathered it quickly. I lied about having it in several banks. I only had it in one box. I went and got it as soon as they opened this morning. You can check if you want to. How is my boy?”

  Hicks only cared about his own questions, not Russo’s. “And you have all one hundred grand?”

  “Yes, goddamn you. All of it in cash just like we agreed. Now tell me how he is and you tell me now!”

  “You’ll see for yourself in about thirty seconds,” Hicks said. “You’re going to bring the money out to the car, nice and slow, open the passenger’s side door and get inside. You fuck around or waste my time, I drive away, and you don’t see your son again.”