"Then how are we going to—?"
"Just find what you can without getting yourself killed. Check the second floor. I'll take the third."
Hursey made his way upstairs, looking for trip wires across the steps. They'd already tramped up and down this route, so he doubted he'd find one, but he wasn't taking any chances.
He searched through the O's office and then the living quarters. The dresser drawers were all closed and he wasn't about to try them, but the closets were open—and empty but for a bunch of coat hangers.
When he returned to the first level, Miller was already there, scouring the area around the ruined console. Hursey wandered into the bunk area. The beds were stripped, just as they'd left them, and the lockers were open and emp—
He stopped and stared. All open except one.
He took a step closer. The door wasn't completely closed. Something jutting from the bottom was holding it open. When he saw what it was he took a quick step back.
"Miller! Want to take a look at this?"
When he entered Hursey gestured to the closed locker door.
Miller shook his head and almost smiled. "Now that's insulting. He must think we're idiots."
"Maybe, but look what's sticking out the bottom."
Miller looked, squinted, and said, "The bastard."
Together they approached the locker. Miller squatted and stared at the business end of the protruding Phillips-head screwdriver.
"This is like being in a fucking video game." He looked up at Hursey. "I used to be a pretty good RPGer. Let's see if we can find some string or twine, or anything we can use to open this from a safe distance."
"We've already been through the place. You see any string? I didn't. I—" He remembered that closet. "Wait a minute. There's a bunch of wire coat hangers upstairs. If we hook them together…"
Miller nodded. "Worth a try. Good thinking. Go get them."
Hursey hurried upstairs. He couldn't help smiling. They'd beat this sucker yet. And Miller had paid him a compliment. Must be the stress. Miller never complimented anybody.
He fairly ran to the closet, grabbed the hangers—had to be twenty or so—and rushed back to the first floor. They devised a quick and easy method. If they pulled down on the middle of the horizontal section, they could stretch the triangle of the hanger into a narrow diamond shape with a hook on one end.
They had nineteen. At a foot and a half or so apiece, hooked end to end in a daisy chain, the hangers gave them a thirty-foot head start.
To keep the locker door from opening prematurely they gingerly rested the back of a chair against it. Then they looped the hook of the last hanger into the handle and retreated to the chain's opposite end.
Miller shook his head. "Not as long as I'd like."
Hursey had been thinking the same thing. The best place to be was behind what was left of the monitoring console. Not a great place, but pretty much the only game in town. Problem was, it was still ten feet away.
"Well," Miller said through a sigh. "Gotta do what you've gotta do. When I pull, run like hell."
And then, with no further warning, not even a countdown, he yanked the goddamn chain.
Hursey saw the chair start to topple as the door swung open. He saw no more because he spun and dashed to the console, fell as he slid to a stop, and scrabbled behind it. He covered his ears—didn't want to lose any more hearing—and waited.
And waited.
After nearly a minute he lowered his hands and looked at Miller.
Miller shrugged. "Let's not get fooled. Could have a long delay to suck us in. We'll just sit here and wait."
So they waited.
After a good twenty minutes Miller reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter.
"Could be a misfire. Someone's got to check."
Hursey had a bad feeling about who that someone would be.
"Let's wait a little longer."
"Uh-uh. We need that screwdriver. Heads or tails? Call it in the air."
Miller flipped the coin but Hursey found his voice locked. He couldn't utter a sound.
Miller gave him a shove. "Come on, dammit. You wanna flip?"
He nodded. Miller handed him the coin. His hands shook but he managed to toss it into the air.
Miller said, "Heads."
The coin landed, rolled, came to a stop with George Washington's head showing.
"Looks like it's you. Get moving."
Hursey let out a shuddering breath. "I don't want to end up like Jolliff."
"Don't be a baby. Look, it'll be okay. I'll walk you halfway there."
"If it's so okay, why not walk me all the way?"
Miller's lips turned up at the corners. "Well, if I'm wrong, one of us has to escape this dump and get to the hospital to finish the job."
Hursey took a breath. Now or never.
"Okay. Let's go."
He rose and started walking toward the bunk area. True to his word, Miller came along. But he stopped at the doorway.
"Look," he said, pointing to the screwdriver that had fallen out of the now open locker onto the floor. "It's right there. All you've got to do is hustle over, pick it up, and bring it back. After that, we'll be out of here in twenty minutes, tops."
Hursey stared at the screwdriver. Seemed easy enough.
He swallowed. "Okay, here goes."
He dashed toward the locker, stooped, and grabbed the screwdriver. But before making the return trip, he couldn't resist a peek inside. And there in the locker he saw a timer sitting atop a bulging backpack. Numbers flashed on its LED readout.
…6…5…4…
"Bomb!" he screamed.
He turned and ran with everything he had; his feet slipped on the floor as he fought for traction. When he reached the doorway, he saw Miller hightailing it for the console. Not enough time for that. Neither of them would make it.
One thing Hursey knew he had to do was get clear of the doorway. The blast would funnel through it. He cleared the door and dove to his left, flattening himself on the floor and wrapping his arms over his head.
But just before he closed his eyes he saw the handwriting on the floor.
Hursey screamed.
The blast caught Miller from behind, slamming him against the ruined console. He felt ribs crack. As he bounced off, his knees buckled and he dropped to the floor. He landed prone. He lay there and rode the spinning floor. Finally it slowed, then stopped.
He opened his eyes and found himself facing the bunk area. A gaping hole had been blasted through the bottom half of one of the walls. What was left of Hursey—a charred, smoking lump of flesh—had been blown ten feet away.
The explosion… what triggered it? Not opening the locker—they'd waited too long after that. And the bomber couldn't have known that Hursey would wind up in that spot.
Or maybe he could have.
Miller remembered the signs on the floor to the right and left of the door. BAD MOVE. And it sure as hell had been a bad move for Hursey to wind up on one of them. But how had the bomber known he'd end up there?
Unless he'd put something in the locker to make Hursey think a bomb was going to go off any second. Then yeah, the only thing to do was get to the other side of the wall and dive for cover.
And the rat bastard had counted on that. The signs on the floor were his way of flipping them the bird.
But what if Hursey had turned left instead of right? Miller could understand if the walls on both sides of the door had exploded, covering either contingency, but only Hursey's side had blown. Which meant there was some sort of detector—
—or the guy was watching.
Miller pounded his fist on the floor. That had to be it.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up. Christ, he hurt everywhere. The best he could do was roll over, and that started the building spinning again. Must have a concussion too.
He waited until things steadied, then looked around, concentrating on the ceiling.
And there he found it, in the right up
per corner of the room: a little black box with a lens in the middle.
The fucker had been watching the whole time. He could pick and choose which side of the wall to trigger, and when.
Miller repressed an urge to pound his fists and kick his feet like some spoiled brat in a tantrum. He was furious with himself. This guy had played them like a tin flute. And he'd allowed it.
He calmed himself. Anger was no good here. Had to be cool—at least as cool as the guy playing him. Cooler even.
Because this guy was a pro. Got the drop on them in their own car, sent them on a wild goose chase by palming his tracer off on a taxi, slipped by them at the bar. And now this.
Had to admit he had style. Could have blown the whole building as soon as they'd stepped inside. Instead he'd done surgery, taking them out one at a time. His style said he was a thinker, a planner. And a guy who knew people. He'd known someone would not be able to resist tuning the radio. And he'd known someone would eventually turn on the monitoring console. And he'd known they'd be suspicious of a single closed locker door. Could have closed them all, but no. He'd known they'd be suspicious about just one.
But all that aside, the most important question facing Miller now was what to do.
At the most basic level, he had two options: get up or stay put.
In his present condition, if he got up now he'd be staggering around and might blunder into another bomb.
But if he stayed put…
If he just lay here and played dead or badly wounded, maybe he could suck the guy in. And maybe not. Maybe the guy would figure he'd done his day's work and run off to whatever rat hole he called home.
Either way was okay. If he didn't deal with the fucker now, he'd do it later. The end was going to be the same: payback. He'd hunt him to the ends of the Earth, and sometime before his dying day he'd collect for Jolliff, Hursey, and Gold.
But for now, he'd have to put on a show.
He rolled over and pushed himself to his hands and knees. This time the room held steady. He made a show of trying to straighten up, then let himself fall back to the floor.
He'd give it an hour like this. If the guy didn't show, he'd risk ducking into the bunk area to grab the screwdriver, then he'd get to work on those locks.
If the guy did show… he'd have to leave wherever he was receiving that camera feed and unlock the front door. Miller would listen for the sound of those locks, and when he heard the first bolt click back he'd be up and moving. By the time the third was open he'd be at the door and ready to kick the shit—
Wait. He'd never hear the locks over the roaring in his ears. How was he going to work this?
He'd figure something.
Jack watched Miller's prone form on the laptop's screen and waited for him to move again. He didn't.
Dead?
Jack hoped to hell not. He'd planned to leave one man standing, or at least alive enough to answer a few questions. The answers were of critical importance to Jack.
He watched a little longer. The camera's lens didn't provide enough resolution to see if his chest was moving. From here Miller didn't seem to be breathing, but he could be simply knocked out.
Or faking it.
Always that possibility. But if so, he'd deal with it. At least he wouldn't be walking in blind.
He disconnected the laptop from the cigarette lighter socket. The screen flickered as it switched to battery power, then stabilized. He cradled it as he opened the car door and kept an eye on the screen on his way to the warehouse.
When he reached the door he pulled out his keys and began unlocking the deadbolts. One… two… three.
Miller didn't budge.
Jack pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The place reeked of burned flesh. A thin layer of white smoke, disturbed by the open door, undulated in the air. Jack eased it closed behind him, then placed the laptop on the floor and drew his Glock.
Slowly he stepped toward Miller with all the caution of a lost camper approaching a sleeping bear.
Miller felt rather than heard the footsteps—a vibration from the floor into his skull. He hadn't heard the door, but no question about it, someone was here.
He snaked his right arm under him where he could grip his H-K. Then he waited, tensing his muscles. Closer… closer…
A work boot edged into view, but not close enough to grab. Then a second. Someone in jeans and steel-toed boots stood about four feet away, probably staring at him, wondering if he was dead.
Come on… just a couple of feet closer.
But the shoes didn't budge.
Okay. Right time or not, he had to make his move now!
He pulled the pistol, rolled as he brought it out and up and then the crack! of a shot and a stab of blinding pain in his arm. His fingers went numb and he dropped the pistol.
The fucker had been waiting for just that move.
Miller ignored the agony in his bloody arm and lunged for those jeans. He grabbed air instead. Where'd he go?
He scrambled to his feet, spun about and saw him. Yeah. Him. The Heir… or Jack… or whatever his name was. He had Miller's H-K in his left hand and what looked like a Glock in his right, but he had them pointed toward the floor. He stood by what was left of Hursey, and the thought of what had happened to him and Jolliff and Gold turned the air red.
With a roar he charged.
But the guy wasn't there when he arrived. He felt an explosion of pain in his left knee, and then he was losing his balance, tripping over Hursey to land by the blown-out wall.
He cheeked his knee. He hadn't heard a shot. No blood. Must have kicked him.
Miller fought to his feet but the knee barely held him. He found the guy standing about a dozen feet away, silent, expressionless, looking like someone waiting for a green light so he could cross the street.
He charged again, but it was an ungainly, limping charge. The guy easily ducked to his right, and though Miller saw the kick coming, he could do nothing to avoid it. The heavy work boot rammed the side of his other knee. He felt ligaments rip and cartilage tear. He crumbled to the floor.
Two blown-out knees. Goddammit! He was playing with him, just like he'd played with the bombs. Surgery. Carving out one life at a time—only here it was one limb at a time.
Miller tried to rise but he had the use of his left arm and nothing more. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry like a baby. He'd lost. Goddammit he'd lost.
The guy squatted half a dozen feet away and stared at him. He still hadn't said a word.
"All right. You got me, asshole. No way that'd happen if you hadn't softened me up with your bombs. So do your worst. Come on. Get it over with."
And still the guy said nothing.
"You had the 0 fooled, and Davis too, but I was on to you. Knew from day one you were a phony. Have to admit, though, I didn't think you were working for the other side."
The guy shook his head and said, "I'm not."
The words seemed to echo down a long tunnel through the ringing in his ears.
"You gotta be. You've got no reason to do all this. You gotta be working for the Otherness."
Another slow shake of his head.
Miller gave him a closer look and noticed his eyes. This wasn't the same guy who'd tagged along when they did the Arabs Sunday night. That guy'd been a nothing, a schlub. This guy was scary. On the outside he looked like a cross between a stone-cold hard-ass doing some extermination work. But from somewhere in his eyes, his face, his voice came a whisper that this was all personal. Very personal.
"Then why? Who do you work for?"
"I work for me."
"Why, dammit! What did we ever do to you?"
"I had no beef with the MV at the start. Didn't want to join, but I was per-feetly content to live and let live, let you go your way and me go mine. And that's the way it would have stayed. But then you and your crew effectively killed the two most important people in my world."
What was he talking about?
"Who? When?"
"The woman and child you ran down."
"You knew them?"
A nod. "I was going to marry the woman; I was going to make her little girl my own. The woman was carrying our child."
He pulled something from a pocket and held it out.
Miller squinted at what seemed to be a black-and-white photo, but he couldn't make it out.
"That supposed to mean something?"
"It's a sonogram of my daughter. We were going to name her Emma. But now her mother and sister are vegetables and Emma's dead. Because of you."
Miller tried but couldn't quite grasp what he'd just been told. It was too far out, too crazy.
"But the Ally wanted them dead. The only reason for that would be they were connected to the Otherness."
His head did a slow shake. "No. No Otherness connection. Because they're connected to me."
"Then you must be Otherness connected."
Another head shake and a sigh—a tragic, despondent sound, weighted with incalculable grief.
"No, I'm Ally connected."
"Make sense, dammit!"
"Too late for that. But I've answered your questions, you answer one for me."
"If it's about the new 0—"
"We'll get to her in a minute." He pulled something from his pocket and set it on the floor between them. "It's about LaGuardia."
Miller's gut tightened when he saw what it was: a cyanide-tipped 5.56mm NATO round. He'd filled the hollow with cyanide himself.
"Where'd you get that?"
"Found it under one of the lockers. That was an MV operation, wasn't it."
"Fuck you."
"Might as well tell me. It's not going to change the outcome here. And confession is good for the soul."
"I repeat: Fuck you."
The guy shook his head. "How do you do that? How do you stand there and mow down fifty-odd innocent people?"
"You should know. Between yesterday and today, look how many yeniceri you took out."
"I had nothing to do with yesterday, but I take full credit for tonight."
For some reason, Miller believed him, but he wasn't about to admit that.
"So you say."
"I'll ask again: How do you stand there and mow down fifty-plus innocent people just to get to one man?"
He knows! How the fuck does he know?
Hardbingers rj-10 Page 28
