Hardbingers rj-10

by F. Paul Wilson

  Bay Ridge was a typical New York melting pot. People of all races, all shapes and sizes. The usual delicatessens, tae kwon do studios, travel agents, restaurants, bars, and bodegas lined its streets. A BP gas station, a limo service, Domino's Pizza. Jack noticed a store awning that proclaimed itself a Tea Room and sported Arabic script.

  While they waited at a red light at 99th and Third, two women wearing scarflike hijabs crossed in front of them, each pushing a baby carriage.

  Miller said, "Oh, yeah. This is the place."

  Davis turned onto Third Avenue. "I think we're too close to the bridge here."

  Jack agreed but didn't feel the need to say so.

  They were making progress, but to Jack it seemed maddeningly slow. If only they knew how much time they had.

  To his right, Zeklos peered out his window, studying the edges of the passing roofs. Jack kept a look out his side but also kept an eye ahead. Not an easy task with Miller's hulking carcass jammed in front of him.

  They kept doing their switchbacks, working the grid. On Third Avenue, between 92nd and 93rd, ahead and to the left, Jack spotted a three-story redbrick building with a cornice that might fit the Oculus's description. He wouldn't know until they were closer.

  He nudged Zeklos and pointed. The little guy looked, then turned to Jack, eyes wide. Jack nodded and pointed to the front seat.

  Zeklos hesitated only a second, then he leaned over the seat and pointed through the windshield.

  "There is something!"

  Davis slowed the car and craned his neck for a look. Miller leaned forward, doing the same.

  "You know," Davis said, "that could be it. Good eye, Zek."

  Zeklos glanced at Jack and said, "It was really—"

  Jack gave him a hard nudge and shook his head.

  Miller growled. "If he spotted it, you know it's wrong."

  "Pull over," Jack said.

  Davis stopped in an empty space before a fire hydrant and idled. Jack jumped out and looked at the building that faced the cornice. They could have been twins—three-story, brick-fronted apartment houses, but the second lacked a cornice.

  He leaned close to Davis's open window.

  "Give me your cell number."

  Davis jotted it down.

  "Okay. Drive around and keep looking while I check this out."

  "Since when does he give orders?" he heard Miller say.

  Jack walked away before he heard Davis's reply.

  A mini-mart advertising Te-Amo cigars and lottery tickets occupied the building's street level. The residential door stood to the left. He stepped up onto the front stoop and began pressing random call buttons. Finally a tinny voice spoke from the speaker.

  "Yes?"

  Jack pressed his hand over his mouth and pushed a garbled mishmash of syllables through the fingers.

  "What?"

  He repeated the mishmash.

  "Fuck it!"

  The buzzer sounded and he pushed the door open. Once in he bounded up the stairs to the roof door. It warned that an alarm would sound if he opened it, but he couldn't find any contacts. He pushed it open and…

  Silence.

  To assure he wouldn't get locked out, he took off a shoe and used it as a wedge. Then he walked to the parapet and stared at the roof across the street.

  The scene matched the Oculus's description: redbrick front, drape-and-inverted-heart cornice, and beyond that, angled to the south… the Verrazano Bridge.

  The Arabs were somewhere below his feet. He hoped they belonged to Wrath of Allah…

  He felt the darkness well up inside at the thought of them. He wanted—needed—to get one of those sons of bitches alone and extract a little information.

  He unclenched his fists and let out a long slow breath. That could be dealt with later. Maybe. Right now… step one completed.

  Jack called Davis. "I think we've found it."

  "Excellent!"

  "What's the next step?"

  Jack knew what his next step would be, but he thought it best to let Davis and Miller think he was deferring to them.

  "Come on down and we'll figure it out."

  Not what Jack had in mind.

  "Fine, but I don't know if I can get back in. How about this? I hang around up here and see if anyone goes in or out."

  "But you don't know the apartment."

  "The building's got four per floor: two front and two back. The only place you can see the roof across the street is from the third floor. That puts our guys in one of the two front apartments."

  "And if someone comes out?"

  "You guys grab him or follow him or whatever you think you should do." Jack hoped they'd follow him. "You any good at bird-dogging?"

  "Miller's the best."

  Jack nodded to himself. Okay. He'd planted the follow seed.

  Davis said, "What if someone goes in?"

  "Then I come downstairs, let you in, and we pay them a visit."

  "Sounds like a plan. Hang on." Some muffled conversation followed—Davis obviously had his hand over the speaker—then, "Okay. We'll try it for a while. But if nothing happens, we'll bust in."

  "Which one?"

  "Both."

  "Okay. And hey, send Zeklos up with a pack of cigarettes."

  "What the hell for?"

  "I need an excuse for hanging out in the hall."

  8

  Ten minutes later Jack opened the front door for Zeklos, who handed over a pack of Marlboros.

  Jack stared at the pack. "Filtered? I want manly, unnltered ciggies—Camels, Lucky Strike, Pall Mall."

  "I do not think they make those anymore in this country."

  As Zeklos turned to go, Jack grabbed his arm. "Hey, why don't you keep me company?"

  Zeklos glanced at Jack, then back to the street.

  "Miller told me drop these off and come right back."

  Jack raised his eyebrows. "And your point is…?"

  Zeklos paused, then nodded and gave Jack a buck-toothed grin.

  "Yes. Fuck Miller."

  They headed up to the third floor where they sat on the chipped tile and leaned against the wall near the top of the stairwell. A melange of sounds and odors swirled around them: a little opera, a little hip-hop, an argument, a child being scolded, frying bacon, boiling cabbage, sauteing onions.

  Jack opened the Marlboros and offered one to Zeklos.

  He shook his head. "No, thank you. I am quitted."

  "I never really started, but we've got to look like we have a reason for hanging out in the hallway."

  Zeklos took one and stuck it in his mouth. Jack did the same, then pulled out a disposable butane lighter.

  "If you are quit, how do you have lighter?"

  Jack shrugged. "Never know when you're gonna need fire."

  He lit Zeklos's, then his own, and took a drag. And got a head rush. And coughed.

  "Now I know why I never liked these things."

  He'd simply pretend to inhale.

  Zeklos lowered his volume. "Can I ask you something?"

  "Go ahead."

  "Okay. I want to know…" He seemed hesitant. "I want to know what is your amusement."

  "Amusement? Oh, you mean game?"

  "Yes. That is it. You stop me from killing me, but you take my, um, metal, which make me feel worse."

  "Well, I didn't want to have wasted my time."

  "I understand. But then you return it."

  "Because it was yours, and I figured if you were still alive by morning you'd most likely stay that way."

  Jack didn't mention the part about messing with his head.

  "But then you take my part this morning, and then you ask me to come along to search. Why is this?"

  Jack had felt genuinely sorry for him, but that hadn't been the whole reason. He needed an asset, and Zeklos had been part of the inner circle before being pushed outside. Might be more forthcoming than the others if Jack needed more information.

  And Jack had one more reason.


  "Well, I haven't known Miller long, but I do love pissing him off."

  Zeklos laughed. "I like you…" His voice trailed off. "What should I call you? 'Heir'?"

  "You do and you're going straight back to Miller. Jack will do just fine."

  Jack figured they'd seem less suspicious if they jabbered about something while they waited. So he started an ersatz argument over the relative merits of American football versus Romanian football—known over here as soccer.

  They were each on their third ciggie—making sure to pocket the butts—when a young brunette, her waitress uniform visible within her open coat, stepped out of an apartment to their left. She stopped in her doorway, giving them a wary look.

  "Sorry about the smog," Jack said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "My sister won't let us smoke in her place."

  She said nothing as she locked her door and hurried past them to the stairs.

  Jack crossed 5C off his mental list.

  Halfway through cigarette number six, with Jack's tongue taking on a funky feel, his TracFone vibrated. He pulled it out and checked the readout: Abe.

  Must be important. Abe usually left voice mail unless he had something that couldn't wait.

  "Gotta take this."

  Why not? He wouldn't say anything meaningful to anyone else.

  Zeklos shrugged.

  "Hey, Abe. What's up?"

  "Just heard from my Balkan associate. Tuesday's the day."

  "So soon?"

  "Why wait? You want I should put him off? May be a while before he can line up all these ducks."

  "No, I guess not." The day after tomorrow. Scary. "Tell him to expect me."

  "Your first leg starts at six a.m. The location of the dock slip I'll give you later. The reason I'm calling is you'd better make plans to fly out tomorrow so you can be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Tuesday morning."

  "Okay, Abe. I'm a little tied up today."

  "On a Sunday you work? You should be resting for your trip."

  "Bye, Abe."

  As Jack cut the connection, a swarthy type with a close-cropped beard stepped out of 5A. Jack gave him a careful once-over. The guy wore a snug blue nylon warm-up. No telltale bulge of a loaded vest.

  He closed his door and glared at them.

  "You are not to be smoking out here," he said with a thick accent.

  Jack decided on a more New York response than he'd offered the waitress.

  "What's it to you, pussy face?"

  The guy flinched as if he'd been slapped, but quickly recovered.

  "You could start a fire."

  Yeah, he thought. Bet you're extra worried about a fire.

  "Yo, Achmed, I'll start a fire in your ass you don't shut up and get outta my sight real quick."

  The guy's lips tightened but he said nothing. Instead he double-locked his door and stomped down the stairs.

  "Hey," Jack said, nudging Zeklos. "What say we order some takeout?"

  Had to be careful what he said because his words would echo down the stairs.

  Zeklos caught on immediately. "Of course. Pizza would be very good at this time."

  Jack dialed Davis's number.

  "Yo, Angelo's? Need a large pie to go."

  "What?" Davis said. "Jack?"

  "Yeah. Pie to go. You deaf?"

  "I assume you're telling me someone's coming down."

  "You got it."

  "We'll be ready."

  "Okay. And don't lose my order."

  Jack flipped his phone closed and stared at the door to 5A.

  Zeklos whispered, "We should go in?"

  Jack thought about that. "Let's wait a little. Maybe someone else will show."

  9

  After twenty minutes of nothing but thinking about his impending trip to the Balkans he decided the time had come to give the door a try.

  He signaled Zeklos to draw his weapon and crouch to one side of the door. Glock ready, Jack crouched opposite him and knocked.

  No response.

  He knocked again. Harder.

  Nothing.

  One more time: "Hello? Falafel-gram!"

  Had to be empty. Who could resist that?

  He pulled on a pair of thin leather gloves. Time for the autopick.

  The two Yales yielded quickly. Now what?

  Zeklos raised his eyebrows. "Booby trap?"

  Jack shrugged. Made sense: Blow up their explosives if the wrong person found them. But would the door be boobied, or just the explosives inside?

  Jack thought back to the bearded guy as he'd come through the door. He hadn't been particularly careful as he'd shut it. He'd even jiggled the knob after keying the locks. A good sign, but it didn't mean a whole helluva lot.

  Had to risk it. The stakes were too high.

  He waved Zeklos away. "Get back by the stairs. I'm going to peek inside."

  Zeklos shook his head. "No. You get by stairs. You are Heir."

  No time to argue about it. Jack turned the knob and eased the door in a fraction of an inch, then another, and another…

  Finally it opened enough to allow a sliver-view of a ratty couch. A little further and he saw the whole couch, then the window. He stepped to the side and gave the door a gentle push. It swung in on creaky hinges, revealing an empty front room.

  Jack signaled to Zeklos and they both went in low, pistols before them. Two bedrooms to the left—empty.

  Except for pizza boxes, burger wrappers, and scattered papers, the damn apartment was empty. No sign of explosives, no primers or timers. Nada.

  Jack prayed they were in the wrong place.

  He positioned himself before the window and looked out. He saw the north edge of the Verrazano to the left, the drape cornice of the brick building across the street, just as the Oculus had described. But no plastique-stuffed vests.

  Zeklos pointed to the side wall. "Look at this."

  The scrawl had registered with Jack as he'd entered but he'd had other things on his mind. He checked it out now.

  Giant-size Arabic script had been scribbled with a black Sharpie. It meant nothing to Jack.

  "You read that gibberish?"

  Zeklos shook his head. "I have enough trouble with English."

  Jack pawed through the debris looking for diagrams, photos, timetables, a list of names, a computer, anything that would provide a hint of whatever they'd planned. But these weren't amateurs. They knew better. Keep it in your head.

  But Jack kept rummaging. Wouldn't feel right if he blew off any possibility.

  He came across a pair of calendars—last year's and this. He flipped through the first and found occasional time numerals combined with Arabic scrawl. Probably meeting times. No help there. In the later one the January page had a few notations in the first two weeks, then a blacked-out box.

  The fourteenth.

  And no notations after that.

  Jesus!

  "Tomorrow's the day! Got to be. They're out there with their vests and their car bombs right now."

  Made sense. Monday morning rush hours were the worst of the week. If you wanted to wreak maximum panic and damage, that was the time to do it.

  Shit.

  Jack thumbed the recall button on his phone. Davis answered.

  "That guy who left here," Jack said. "Tell me you're still on him!"

  "Better than that. We've got him—as in Miller's standing here with his foot on his neck."

  "He wearing a vest?"

  "No. What's the problem?"

  "The apartment's empty."

  "That's okay. He led us to the stash. You wouldn't believe what they've got here."

  He gave Jack an address on Richmond Terrace in Staten Island.

  10

  "Guy didn't have a clue he was being followed," Davis was saying. "No decoy maneuvers, nothing. Led us a straight shot over the bridge to here. Even unlocked it for us." He gestured around him. "You believe this?"

  Jack didn't want to believe what he was looking at.

  He and Ze
klos had headed for the island as soon as they found a cab. Something about the Richmond Terrace address rang a bell, and then Jack remembered that one of last year's more interesting customers had a business there.

  Richmond Terrace ran along Staten Island's north shore. A heady mixture of brine and fumes filled the air. At its southernmost end it started off scenic and well kept, with waterfront promenades and views of the Manhattan skyline. But it rapidly deteriorated from there, devolving into junkyards and chop shops and plumbing supply warehouses sprinkled among the piers and dry docks. Between the tugboats and through the forest of cargo cranes along the waterfront, the northern stretches offered a breathtaking view of Bayonne's tank farms just a short hop across the river.

  A truly desolate stretch of road—overgrown fences, rotting wharves, graffiti-scarred buildings, potholed pavement—a place where small businesses come to die.

  Jack's instincts had told him it might not be a good idea to have the address logged in the cab's record, so he'd told the driver he didn't have an address and to cruise Richmond Terrace until they saw the place they were looking for. When they'd passed the address—a self-storage cubicle farm—he let the cab drive on until they reached Sal's Salvage, Inc. They'd got out there and walked back.

  North Shore Self Storage occupied a waterfront plot that used to be a dry dock—some of the docks and bays still remained. After finding the yenigeri-mobile in the parking lot, he and Zeklos had searched around until they spotted Davis standing in front of one of the units. He'd rolled up the corrugated steel door to let them in, then rolled it three-quarters down after them.

  Jack instinctively reached to remove his new sunglasses and realized he didn't have to. They'd adjusted to the lower light.

  He stared at the four black, fifty-five-gallon drums arrayed on the concrete slab, then turned to Davis.

  "Tell me they're not full of—"

  Davis nodded. "Yeah. Semtex A."

  Zeklos gasped. "Dumnezeule!"

  Jack didn't know what that meant, but it probably echoed his own shock. His gaze wandered to the bound-and-gagged figure on the floor. Miller stood over him.

  "What do we know about him?"

  Davis shrugged. "His license says he's Shabbir Something-or-other at the address where you spotted him. But who knows if that's legit."