by John Shirley
“You just sold information to my enemies about where I was going to be? So you came here to try and clear that PC, in case I found that bug...and Pussler caught you at it. And you stabbed him...”
“I didn’t want to! I...you’re Aiden Pearce! I knew they couldn’t hurt you! I just needed the money!”
“Because you’re a gambling addict. My own stupid fault for not researching you well enough, maybe. But you know they nearly did kill me, Clyde. Who’d you talk to about where I was?”
“I...there was a cop named Tranter. He was the only one. I heard at the casino he was looking for you and I knew him.”
“How’d you know Tranter?”
“He was collecting gambling vigs for the Club—moonlighting when he was off duty. I swear that’s all I know! He said he could get me off the hook if I could tell him where you might be! So I came over here and...”
Pearce nodded. “I figured.” He tossed the fallen pistol at the programmer’’s feet. “Here. Pick it up. . .Go on, pick it up or I’ll shoot you dead right fucking now. Make your move, Merwiss.” Pearce lowered his own gun. “You see? I’ve lowered my gun. Grab your weapon. Maybe you’re faster than you look. I’ll let you straighten up.”
Merwiss licked his slack lips...and then bent over, hastily grabbed up the gun, raised it toward Pearce...
And gasped as Pearce shot him through the heart.
Merwiss tried to aim the gun...but it dropped from his limp fingers. He fell on his heavy belly, bouncing a little on it, twitching in death.
Pearce turned and inspected Pussler. He was gone.
“Sorry...bro.” Pearce said.
He put his pistol away, and quickly left the apartment. His own belly was twisting, his head swimming again, from the concussion. He tried to ignore it.
Have to get those bodies cleaned up. What a pain in the ass. Maybe Blank could find someone to take them out of here.
Before dealing with that, Pearce had something else to look into—it was time to find out exactly what Mick Wolfe was up to. If he was up to anything.
There was a good chance that Mick Wolfe was dead, about now...
#
Wolfe was feeling half-dead with fatigue, but still keeping up with that Crown Victoria without being too obvious about it. He was maintaining the SUV at about half a block behind the unmarked car, hoping that whoever was driving it didn’t know he was on their tail.
Sleet was starting to fall again, and that actually helped. It blotted out the back window of the car up ahead, and blurred their sideview mirrors, so they didn’t have a good view of anything behind them.
Wolfe had the wipers going, and they labored at shoving the semi-frozen rain off the windshield. Some of it piled up in the corners.
The unmarked car was turning left up ahead, just as the light was turning red.
That could be a problem. If he went through the light they might see his headlights and think about how someone was going through the light just to keep up with them.
Wolfe stopped at the corner and waited impatiently. The light seemed to take forever to change to green, but at last it switched and he turned quickly left, the SUV fishtailing a little on the slushy street. Where was the Crown Victoria? Gone. He’d lost it. He drove up to the next corner, looked right—and saw the car pulling up at a brownstone about halfway down the block.
Wolfe kept going, then pulled up at the curb just out of the line of site of whoever was getting out of the unmarked car. He got out of the SUV as quietly as possible, then put his hand in his jacket on the butt of the .45.
He stole up to the corner, wormed through shrubs next to a modern apartment building, and peered round the building’s corner. Down the street he saw the familiar silhouettes of Tranter and Grampus crossing to the brownstone. Another man followed them, had the look of an off-duty police officer, to Wolfe. Probably another crooked cop, partnered with Tranter.
The phone in his pocket vibrated.
Wolfe drew back so Tranter wouldn’t spot him, and checked the PearcePhone. A text was showing on the screen.
Checking in. Ignore this if risky. P.
Wolfe clicked to call the number and in a moment Pearce answered. “Any progress?”
“Got messy. Interesting to see if they can keep it out of the news. I had to smoke a Graywater, for one thing.”
“You had to kill him, then you had to,” Pearce said, sounding completely unconcerned. “I had to snuff one of my own people today. He killed another one—one you know. Pussler.”
“Pussler! I kind of liked that guy.”
“Yeah he was all fucked up but not a bad guy. So, Wolfe—I saw an area around that auditorium was blacked out awhile.”
“Yeah. This phone is pretty fly, man. I’m gonna sell it to a big corporation , make a billion dollars.”
“If you’re taking time to make jokes I assume you got away okay.”
“Yeah, and I followed Grampus. He went into a building about half a block from here with Tranter and a thuggish kinda guy I took to be a dirty cop out of uniform.”
“Grampus! You found him?”
“He was at the party, man. With Marlon Winters. They separated after the thing got messy. I’m afraid these Purity people are gonna start covering stuff up after this. I got in and got out, and they know it—anyway they know somebody did. They’ll get paranoid.”
“You mean more paranoid. But I see what you mean. Leave it to me, I’ll make them think it was some imaginary socialist with a gripe toward Winters. He’ll be eager to believe it.”
“How you going to do that?”
“Digital evidence can be faked evidence. Never mind. What was going on there?”
“Purity, is what. Invitation-only gathering for far-right militia types. They seem to be ramping up for ‘the coming social chaos’. Only Winters and Van Ness made it sound like it was something they were going to arrange for Chicago. Just to start with.”
“They didn’t say how?”
“Not when I was listening—and I doubt they announced what that’s going to be. Bad security. They were just spouting ideological hype and the giving the ‘get the Minutemen ready for the Redcoats’ kind of talk. You sure this line is secure, by the way?”
“I’m sure it is, as much as you can ever be. Was Verrick there?”
“Not that I saw. He could’ve been but, my guess is, he’d be too smart for that.”
“Good enough for now.”
“I should tell you where I am—”
“Don’t waste your breath, I know where you are. I’m tracking that phone.”
“Oh yeah, of course.”
“So this place they took him to—wait. I’ve got it. ctOS cameras caught them going in. I can see the address. Okay—I want to deal with this myself...I’ll tell you what I find out, later...”
“You’ll tell me if you get out alive. I think I should be there, back you up.”
“I told you—I’ll deal with it myself.”
Wolfe hesitated. “Pearce—wait—”
But Pearce hung up.
#
Aiden Pearce was there within half an hour, using a completely different vehicle than the one he’d taken to Pussler’s safehouse. He was sorry to have to abandon the Porsche but it was better security to change rides as often as possible.
He found a new, black Ford Explorer with electronic lock and ignition, and drove it to the block containing the brownstone where Stan Grampus was stowed away under the underworld version of police protection.
Pearce parked, switched off the lights and engine, and did a general area check with his phone. Checking the cameras all the way around the block, he didn’t see any Club sentries on the street, or any parked cops. There didn’t seem to be anybody on the roof of the building either. Yeah, Wolfe was right—these must be dirty cops. Bad cops were always overconfident.
He got out of the Explorer, walked through the thinning precipitation, across the slippery street to the sidewalk in front of the building, the
n turned left, strolled down the sidewalk a little. He glanced around to see if he was unobserved, then cut into a yard one door down, and circled around back of the building. Dogs barked in the contiguous yard; but the backyard here was clear. He climbed a short fence, his stomach complaining again, his head thumping painfully when he dropped to the ground.
Ouch. He was going to go home and go to bed, finish his convalescence...once he’’d taken care of this little matter of Stan Grampus. He walked through a garden shriveled with winter, and climbed another fence, into the backyard of the brownstone. He winced as he dropped to the ground again, and kept going to the backdoor.
Time to do some hacking...
He stepped into a dark place, between the fence and the side of the building, and performed a local wifi hack. It didn’t take long to get an image of a face scowling at the screen. A face he knew from the image enhancement software. Stan Grampus.
Grampus wasn’t looking at Pearce—it was a one-way view. He was looking at Grampus through a webcam on a PC.
His fingers were a bit clumsy with the cold and it took Pearce a few extra seconds to access what Grampus was doing. The hitman was writing an email. It read,
Kribble frebb snortum bogus ++8 Freeb %# Clodno Neanderthal snout Imperial flagon Squag...
Well, that was unhelpful.
It was heavily encrypted—Grampus was using a program that hid the text in code the moment it was typed. Must be hard to copyedit.
Pearce ran a decryption program on the text...and came up blank. There was always a new encryption system; it always had to be decrypted or hacked. Leading to a new system—and so on.
He told his system to copy the message in its entirety and any reply, then checked for any cell calls from the building.
He heard Tranter’s voice, which he knew from his intermittent surveillance of the detective. “...Yeah I’m heading out, I am gonna find that prick, he’s out there somewhere...might still be in that neighborhood...Later.”
Tranter cut the connection; another call came into Pearce’s scanning field. “So I says to her, you get your ass into that bed and flip it up toward me and do your duty, wife, or I’ll give you a smack right on the beezer, and she throws a lamp at me, just misses my head. Well that always gets her excited and two minutes later we were...”
No useful information there.
He shifted to another tactic—another one of the men had left his cell turned on, and it was easy enough for Pearce to hack into it and turn on its speakerphone...
Through the speakerphone he heard a background conversation—three gruff male voices. A little faint but audible enough.
“You going to bet or not, Burfy?”
“I’m lookin’ at my cards, awright? Okay, Witchoo, if I look at my cards?”
The third voice piped up, “I’ll be glad when this gig is over so I can get back to a regular detail. This kinda shit makes me nervous.”
“What you nervous about?” came the first voice. “We don’t know nothin’ about this guy in the next room so we got no complicity, see? It’s all on Tranter. And he’s paying us real cash on the barrelhead...”
Now that was worth hearing. They were playing cards in another room from Grampus. And Stan Grampus, sending a secret message, was naturally alone.
Pearce opened up ctOS records for the address’s building plans, and superimposed the cell phones and wifi signals.
The signals were clearly marked: Most of them were on the second floor, with Grampus using that PC in a front bedroom, and the other three guys in the adjacent den. The one talking on the phone to somebody about his wife’s sexual predilections was on the first floor. Some downstairs guard in the living room out front.
The front bedroom. Mistake, Grampus.
Pearce froze, hearing a sound from the front of the building. A door opening and closing. He heard footsteps on the front walk, more crossing the street.
Tranter, heading for his car.
Catch up with you later, Tranter.
#
The wind had let up. The sleet was no longer falling.
Wolfe was sitting in the SUV listening to the news on the radio. He hadn’t gone anywhere—he was still thinking that Pearce might need his help in that brownstone.
“The strange events across from Golden Fish and Chicken on the Southside have authorities puzzled,” said the announcer on the radio. “Several men died in the conflagration—but one of them seems to have died from gunshot wounds. The ctOS cameras show nothing clearly...Police believe they may have been interfered with...”
Wolfe thought, Maybe I should ignore Pearce’s orders and back him up anyway...
But that’s when he saw Tranter driving by in the Crown Victoria.
Here was another opportunity...
Wolfe watched Tranter drive past, ducking down to keep the detective from spotting him. After a few moments he raised up, used the PearcePhone to start the SUV. He waited till Tranter was a good distance down the street and then started the SUV and drove after him.
A quarter mile on, he realized that Tranter was looking into his rearview. He suspected he was being followed.
And a moment later Wolfe saw Tranter speaking into a hand-mic. Calling it in, on some pretense. They’d use ctOS to check the license on this vehicle—they might well find that it was a stolen vehicle. Probably it had been reported by now. There must be a way to scramble ctOS’s view of that license plate. Too late now. There ought to be a way to send a signal to stop those cops from coming...but he was deeply fatigued...he couldn’t remember if there was a way to do that or not...
Crap. A shitload of cops were about to descend on him.
Two tight spots in one night, Wolfe. Brilliant job.
Wolfe heard sirens approaching. He sighed and hit the brakes, spun the car around, and cut down the nearest side street.
He was going to have to make a run for it.
#
Pearce went to the backdoor—and found nothing electronic to hack. He’d have to do this the old fashioned way. He took a thin tool from an inner coat pocket, used it to jimmy the lock. He drew his pistol, opened the door, slipped into the back kitchen. It was an old fashioned place, with mid 20th century stove and cabinets, but would be pretty expensive in this part of Chicago. Probably some place Tranter owned.
On the wall was a series of sharp kitchen knives lined up on a magnet. Pearce took a particularly wicked looking butcher knife down, and slipped it into his belt.
He went to the doorway into the front part of the house, looked up the narrow hallway. On his left was a wooden stairs; straight ahead was a hall with hardwood floors. He heard the guard downstairs talking. “...so I said to her, you don’t want me to fool around, then you don’t be boinkin’ that Spinning instructor, yeah I know about that bitch...so she says...”
Pearce was pretty sure the three up in the den would have the door open so they could keep an idea on the upstairs hall. And these old wooden steps would creak. He needed a decoy.
He moved down the hallway, taking three steps in ten seconds, aware of the creaking, and then opened the closet under the stairway, and slipped into it. He closed it, finding himself in musty darkness. He drew out his phone, and checked out the house’s electrical system.
There—the fire alarm in the kitchen...
He flicked on the cursor, sent a pulse that would activate the alarm.
Immediately a high pitched warbling shrieked from the kitchen.
“What the hell!” yelled the guard in the front. Pearce heard him thumping past. Then he heard a stampede of footsteps overhead as the upstairs guards rushed along the upper hall, and down the stairs.
Pearce waited a few more moments, then put his phone away and stepped out of the closet, went to the stairs—the men in the kitchen were crowded around the fire alarm, their backs to him.
“What the fuck! There’s no damn fire in here!”
“Probably just a crossed wire. These old buildings...”
�
�Well maybe somebody screwed widdit!”
Pearce was moving up the stairs, his footsteps hidden under the wailing alarm. The alarm soon shut off, but Pearce was already partway down the hall.
He glanced through the open door of the den. He could see the poker cards laid out on the desk. He hurried to the door at the end of the hall, opened it, slipped through, one hand pointing the gun at Grampus, who was just turning away from the PC. Pearce closed the door behind him.
“What’s all that noise from...” Grampus stared, seeing it was Pearce—-and seeing the gun in Pearce’s hand.
Pearce put a finger over his lips. “Remember me, Grampus?” he whispered. You tried to kill me not long ago. Now, stand up, slowly and quietly, Grampus, and I won’t shoot you. Give you my word.”
Grampus licked his lips, then slowly stood up. He glanced at the desk—there was a Mack 10 lying on the desk.
Pearce grinned at him and shook his head. He took a step closer. “Move away from the gun...”
Grampus took a reluctant step, a small one, away from the gun.
The guards were returning up the stairs, arguing. “You don’t know if it was just an accident...”
Grampus opened his mouth to yell—and stopped short when Pearce jerked the knife from his belt and plunged it up, into the soft skin under Grampus’s jawline, up through his lower palate, through his tongue.
Grampus choked, and flailed at Pearce’s arm.
Pearce twisted the knife to make sure Grampus couldn’t say anything. Blood choked the hitman’s throat so he couldn’t even scream.
Pulling the knife free, Pearce winked and whispered. “Promised I wouldn’t shoot you and I didn’t.” Then he stabbed Grampus under the ribs, driving it to the hilt, up into his heart.
Stan Grampus crumpled.
Pearce wiped the blood off the knife onto Grampus, and put the knife in his belt.
“I say we check on Grampus...” someone said from the hall.
Pearce pulled out turned and locked the door. That wouldn’t hold them long. He’d like to have taken the PC or get the hard drive out of it...but there wasn’t time for that. Not even time to hack it with the phone. And in fact someone was already trying the door. “Hey, is this door supposed to be locked, Burfy?”
