"That's where you're a-droppin' me off."
Dropping him off… Cal liked the sound of that.
They reached Canal, bustling despite the cold.
"This here looks good. Pull over and pop the tailgate."
"And what if I don't?"
"Then I step over some twitchin' bodies and go out a side door. Yer call."
Cal pulled over and popped the tailgate.
"I'll drop this bag o' guns off in a trash can about a block upstream. You can pick 'em up there."
As the guy turned to go, Miller swung an arm back and grabbed the sleeve of his jacket—just a few fingers' worth. In a blur of motion the guy had the muzzle of the Glock between Miller's eyes.
"Miller, no!"
"That's right, Miller. Y'all've played real nice up till now. Let's not go ruin it."
Cal tried to see his face but could make out only a few features in the darkness back there. His hand snaked toward the courtesy-light button, but he pulled it back. Not a good idea to startle the guy while he had a gun to Miller's head.
"Not ruining anything," Miller said softly. "Just want to know where I can get in touch with you, so we can, you know, grab a beer, get acquainted."
"You can't."
"Who are you?" Cal said. Not that he expected an answer.
"No one."
"Who're you working for?"
"Me."
And then the guy was out of the car and walking away with his shopping bag.
"After that son of a bitch!" Miller said.
Cal's sentiments exactly. But backing up on Canal was out of the question. So was a U-turn. Had to be on foot.
He jumped out of the car and hurried along the sidewalk, angling this way and that through the pedestrians. Miller started out behind but soon took the lead. Cal could tell by the bunch of his huge shoulders that he was in a barely contained rage, ready to grab and toss aside anyone who got in his way. People must have sensed that because they veered out of his path.
They collected stares, and why not. Three guys in black suits and hats and dark glasses barreling along the sidewalk.
"Hey!" said Zeklos from the rear. "I have found them!"
Cal turned and saw him by a trash can holding a Gristedes shopping bag. He reached Zeklos first and had the bag tucked under his arm by the time Miller arrived.
"Gimme mine," Miller said.
Cal shook his head. "Not here."
Miller's face reddened. "I want—"
Cal nodded toward the subway entrance on the corner.
"He's gone. We'll never catch him now."
Miller surprised him by smiling—a real smile lasting more than a nanosecond. "That's what you think. And that's what he thinks. But you're both wrong."
"Care to enlighten me?"
"You know those RF transponders we were gonna use to trace the creeps?"
"Yeah. So—?" And then he understood. "You stuck one on him?"
"Damn straight. When I grabbed his coat."
Cal had to smile. "Miller, sometimes you really surprise me."
"Not as surprised as this asshole when we show up at his front door."
Zeklos was rubbing his mouth.
"My teeth are not so bad as he say, yes?"
6
What a weird night.
Jack sat alone at his table in Julio's. After training up from Chinatown he'd stopped in to do some thinking over a brew or two. Halfway through his first and still hadn't found any answers.
For a while there he hadn't been sure he'd ever make it back, not with how Rico had almost blown it. He'd seen Jack climb into the rear of the Suburban and decided it was time to collect his money.
But the suits had been too intent on getting the girl into the car to pay any attention. Just another sidewalk crazy.
The suits… those three guys… armed to the teeth with quality heat and about as ruthless as they come. What were they—vigilantes?
And what was it with the black suits and fedoras? Some sort of uniform?
What Jack really wanted to know was where they'd gotten their information. They'd burst in as if they knew exactly what they'd find. But the question was, had they been there to interrupt some sort of ceremony and save the victim, or was it Cailin in particular they were protecting? Was there something special about her?
And who the hell sent them? Timmy?
Just then the man in question turned from the bar and, cell phone in hand, all but fell over himself rushing to his table.
"Jack! My God, Jack, you did it!"
"Did what?"
Timmy sat and lowered his voice. "My sister just called. They found Cailin out cold on a park bench downtown."
"Great! She okay?"
"Yes! That's the beauty part. She was drugged but she's out of it now. No sign of being, you know, molested or anything. The only thing out of line was her clothes were missing and someone had drawn these designs all over her body. Really weird-looking stuff, according to Sally."
"Well, that's great news."
"Trouble is the cops want to take pictures of the squiggles and Sally's fighting them. They say it's a clue and it's evidence, she says she's not going to have pictures of her little girl in the buff floating around every precinct locker room in the city." He puddled up and sniffed. "Thanks, Jack."
"What makes you so sure I had anything to do with it?"
"Come on, Jack. You bullshitting a bullshitter?"
This was always a problem when he did something for someone he knew—something they might want to brag about. Yeah, I told this friend of mine and he took care of it for me. Just like that. And then people want to know who the friend is. Most of Jack's fix-its involved means and methods that his paying customers preferred not to be connected with, so they kept mum.
Just as Jack would keep mum and let that good Samaritan get all the credit for finding her. The downside of that was he'd have to pay Louie and the two or three connections downstream from him—including crazy Rico—out of his own pocket, probably to the tune of a couple of grand.
But it was worth it. Jack hadn't felt this alive in weeks.
"You put anyone else on her trail, Timmy?"
"You're the only guy like you I know."
Jack didn't know whether to believe him or not.
"Well, Tim, maybe she was kidnapped by some mad doodler who wanted her to be a living work of art."
"Doodler? Guy's a sicko."
Okay. He talked like the snatch was a solo act and he'd just used the present tense. Obviously he didn't know what had gone down in that basement.
Timmy was staring at him. "You sure you didn't have anything to do with this?"
Jack lifted a hand, palm out. "I made some calls, but Timmy I swear I did not put your niece on that bench."
"Okay, then." He rose and extended his hand. "But thanks anyway for trying. I've got to get down to the hospital. I—" Timmy stopped, frowned, and pointed to the bench next to Jack. "Hey, you got something stuck on your coat."
And then he was heading for the door.
Jack looked down at his bomber jacket and saw a black, dime-size disk stuck to the leather. He pulled it off and held it up to the light.
Damn thing looked like an electronic bug or—
He went cold.
Or a tracking device.
And if so, he'd led them here.
But maybe not yet. Maybe he still had a chance.
Timmy, he thought as he hopped from his seat and hurried toward Julio's front door, you just paid me back more than you'll ever know.
7
Cal rode shotgun with the mobile tracking receiver on his lap while Zeklos drove and Miller hung over the backrest, watching the blip on the tracker.
"Looks like Upper West Side," Miller said.
Cal nodded as he studied the screen. Things looked good. They were stuck on Amsterdam and 70th in the perpetual traffic jam where Broadway pushed through on a diagonal. The transponder was signaling from almost dead ahead. The guy hadn't moved for maybe
ten minutes.
"Mid eighties is my guess."
Zeklos said, "It will not be long now."
They'd already had the tracking receiver in the car because the original plan—before Miller killed them—had been to follow the three mouth breathers to others of their breed. But the black suits were a problem, so they'd stopped long enough for a change. The suits had their uses, but not when sneaking up on somebody who might have an eye out for them. They'd chosen nondescript civvies from the collection in the back of the truck, but layered. Who knew—they might have to spend some time out in the cold.
"My guess is he's home."
Miller leaned back.
"Isn't that nice. Probably warming his feet by a fire. Hope he's comfy. He's about to have company."
"Yes, he is, but no shooting unless you have to. I want to know who this guy is and where he fits into the big picture."
"Fine," Miller said, "but he's got some dues to pay for sticking that gun in the back of my neck."
Miller… a goddamn loose cannon. And Zeklos… Zeklos had competency issues.
"Look, he could have pulled the trigger, but he didn't. He didn't mess with the girl and he gave us back our hardware. We're no worse for the wear. Not even a scratch. So ease up."
"Nobody does that to me and walks away scot-free."
"Yes," said Zeklos. "And I do not forget what he has said about my teeth."
Cal ground his own teeth.
"You guys got the best look at him. Remember anything else about him?"
Zeklos shrugged. "Average-looking man. In the middle of his thirties perhaps. Leather jacket and jeans."
"Wasn't very big, I can tell you that," Miller said.
"Short?"
"Nah. In between."
"Great. An average-looking, average-height guy in his mid-thirties dressed like a zillion others like him. What happened to all your observational training?"
"His knit hat—it was pulled low," Zeklos said. "That hides very much."
"We're going to have to be right on top of him before we know it's him."
Zeklos said, "I will know him when I see him. And then we see who has bad teeth."
Cal turned back to the screen and saw something he didn't like.
"Damn! He's moving again."
Miller bungeed up against the backrest. "Where?"
"Looks like downtown. Make your next right, Zek. Maybe we can head him off."
Crosstown was a slow go, but when they hit Central Park West the transponder was signaling from the right.
"He's downtown from here. Go!"
The trouble with these RF trackers was they didn't give you a good idea of distance to the object. Could be three cars ahead, could be a mile.
They followed the signal down Broadway and had just passed Times Square when it suddenly veered to the left and then behind.
"Stop!"
The truck was still moving as Cal jumped out with the tracking receiver in hand. He ran back and watched the blip veer right. He looked up and saw a guy in an overcoat getting out of a cab.
"There he is!"
The guy looked up, surprised, then terrified as Miller and Zeklos closed in on him.
"Wait," Zeklos said. "This is not him."
Miller was shaking his head. "Yeah. Too tall."
"Check the driver," Cal said.
Miller yanked open the door and hauled out a confused and frightened-looking black guy babbling in some foreign tongue.
Strike two.
But the tracker said the transponder was here.
Cal checked the rear of the cab, the fenders, the trunk lid, the license—
There. A black disk stuck to the license plate. Cal ripped it off.
The bastard.
"Let them go, guys." He held up the disk. "Looks like we've got a player on our hands." An idea struck. "You!" he said to the passenger, who still had a deer-in-the-headlights expression. "Where'd you catch this cab?"
"C-C-Columbus."
"Where on Columbus?"
"The eighties, I think."
"You think?"
"I wasn't watching. I kept walking as I looked for a cab."
Cal turned back toward the car. "All right. Columbus in the eighties. That's where we're going."
Zeklos moaned. "We will never find him."
"You're probably right. But who knows? We may get lucky."
8
The obvious move would have been to go home and keep his head down. But Jack wanted to know if the suits had been able to triangulate on him. If so, they'd either wait outside Julio's to grab him, or follow him home.
So after sticking the disk on that cab's license plate, he'd returned to the table and kept an eye on the door and front window.
Half an hour passed with nothing. Then an hour. Good. Looked like he'd been lucky. But just to be sure, he'd duck out through the back alley.
He was reaching for his jacket when he saw a familiar face pop into view outside the front window.
Jack ducked his head as alarm dieseled through his gut. What had they called the little guy? Zeklos? Whatever. No mistaking his Freddie Mercury overbite. They'd found him.
Or had they? They hadn't seen much of him, didn't even know his hair color. Maybe…
No, had to assume the worst.
So much for luck.
He rose and strolled to the bar where he motioned Julio over. The muscular little man leaned close. A cloying odor preceded him.
Jack winced. Where did he find these colognes?
Julio frowned. "You don' like my new scent, meng?"
"It exceeds your usual standards. You should buy another bottle and throw them both away." Jack leaned closer. "Might be a little trouble."
Julio glanced around and smoothed his pencil-thin mustache with a thumb and forefinger.
"Yeah? Who?"
Jack had been watching the window from the corner of his eye, and now he saw Miller's face pop up and down.
That nailed it. They'd found him.
"They're outside. Probably three of them. Might come in, might not. But it wouldn't hurt to get folks properly arranged."
"Okay. I spread the word. Where you gon' be?"
Jack looked around. Good question.
"Lend me your zapper."
9
Cal watched Miller dodge a cab as he hurried back from the bar across the street.
"Him all right."
"Did I not tell you?" Zeklos said.
Cal said, "Did he see you? Either of you?"
Miller shook his head. "He was too busy talking to the bartender."
Zeklos stared across the street at the bar. "It is a strange place, yes? All of the plants in the window, they are dead. Why hang plants if one is not going to care for them?"
"Worry about that later," Cal said. "Let's find our vantage points and wait for him to come out."
Miller was still shaking his head. "Uh-uh. We go in in uniform and drag him out."
"Listen to me," Cal said, fighting a burst of anger. "I'm team leader and I say—"
"You were team leader for getting the girl. That's over and done. Now there is no team. We're just three yenigeri out to find out who's screwing with us."
He'd been seeing a steady decline in yenigeri discipline in the last year. Here was further proof.
Cal turned to Zeklos. "What do you say?"
Zeklos shrugged and looked away. "I do not wish for hours to stand in this freezing cold."
Cal found himself speechless for a few heartbeats. Zeklos hated Miller. Cal couldn't believe he'd take his side on anything. But then again, it was pretty damn cold.
Miller clapped his hands. "I guess that's it then. Let's get into uniform."
"Why not just do it now—as we are?"
Miller shook his head. "No way. This is a public appearance and I want it known that this jerk was hauled away by men in black."
Cal sighed. "All right. But one of us should be stationed at that alley over there, just in case there's a
back way out."
"Good idea," Miller said. "Zeklos—think you can handle that without screwing up?"
The little man glowered at him. "You are driving the car of obnoxiousness, Miller."
He turned and started across the street.
"You forgot your suit," Miller said.
Without turning, Zeklos raised his right hand and gave the single-digit salute.
"You've been coming down pretty heavy on him. Lighten up."
Miller snarled. "Everybody cuts him too much slack. He's a fuck-up. We trusted him with that simple hit-and-run last November and he blew it. He should be working in Home Depot or something."
They returned to the Suburban where they struggled back into their black suits, ties, hats, and sunglasses.
Back on the sidewalk Cal gave himself the up and down, then Miller. They both looked rumpled.
"Not exactly our usual clean, pressed look."
"It'll do." Miller pulled out his H-K and checked the breech. "What do you think: yes or no to the suppressors?"
"Yes. They're scary."
"Okay. Let's do it."
"Do what, exactly? What's the plan? We need to be synched up before we go in there."
"We'll keep it simple. We go in guns out. You keep everyone down—maybe crease one or two if they start to look restless—while I grab the asshole and haul him out. We jump in the car, blindfold him, then take him Home where we can work on him. Good enough?"
No. It was cowboy stuff. Cal preferred a more finessed approach.
"I'd rather let him come to us. Grab him out here."
Miller turned on him. "Look. I'm going in. Either you're with me or you ain't, but I'm going in."
Discipline… going, going…
Cal sighed. "Okay. Let's go."
He let Miller take the lead, and nodded to Zeklos standing at the mouth of the alley. Then they were through the door and standing just inside it with their pistols waving back and forth.
"This is gonna make you think you're in a bad movie," Miller shouted, "but if everyone sits quiet, no one gets hurt."
Cal scanned the room. To the right nothing but empty tables, a jukebox, and the dead plants. A couple of guys at the bar along the left wall. Another dozen-fifteen guys sat at tables arranged in a semicircle across the middle of the room. No one to either side… everyone in front of them. Something wrong with this picture but he couldn't say just what.
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