Cold City (Repairman Jack - the Early Years Trilogy)

by F. Paul Wilson

  While the gas was pumping, he climbed into the truck’s cab and stuck the Ruger into the back of his belt line. When he finished with the gas, he started the truck and left the door open as he walked back to the shop. If that didn’t shout Steal me, nothing did.

  Without going inside he asked loud and clear about a restroom. The guy jerked a thumb over his shoulder – toward the right side of the building.

  Jack rounded the corner and paused. After hearing two car doors slam, he ran to the restroom, pulled the door open, and checked the inside knob. As expected, a standard lever model with a push-button lock. He pushed the button and squeezed the toothpick in beside it, jamming it in locked position. Then he slammed the door and ran around the rear of the building.

  He emerged on the other side and checked the Cherokee – empty, with neither occupant in sight. If they were after his cargo, one of them would be behind the truck’s steering wheel and hauling ass out of here.

  So… they were after him.

  He would have preferred the former.

  He dashed past the Jeep to his truck. He wished he’d brought a knife so he could slash their tires or cut a couple of valve stems. He could shoot the tires, of course, but that would have the attendant calling 911.

  He hopped behind the wheel, slammed the door, and roared back toward the road. Along the way he saw two men outside the men’s room, tugging on the doorknob. They spotted him and started to run.

  All right. Now even more obvious that they were after him, not the cigarettes. Only one reason for that: to find the money. Which meant they’d want him alive. And that was a good thing.

  Jack’s heart was pounding now. He couldn’t outrun them, and he sure as hell couldn’t call the cops. So what the hell to do? Route 13 was a glorified country road around here. Should he stay on it or get off? He discarded the get-off option – the side roads were darker than 13 and looked like narrow, macadam traps. If he could find some other cars heading north he could hang with them, but the road was deserted. Okay, yeah, it was a Monday night – or early Tuesday morning, rather – but didn’t anybody around here go out during the week?

  He wished he had more experience with this sort of thing.

  He kept the gas pedal floored, passing eighty, pushing toward ninety miles an hour when headlights flashed in his mirror, coming up fast. Now what?

  The Cherokee swerved into the southbound lane and pulled up on his left side. The passenger was leaning out the window, his arm extended, gripping a semiautomatic. Jack instinctively ducked back, then noticed that the pistol was pointed down, not up.

  He was shooting at the truck’s tires.

  Maybe they wanted him alive, but a blowout at this speed could leave him just as dead as a bullet through the head.

  He saw muzzle flashes but the reports were reduced to pops through the closed window. He was reaching around to the small of his back, figuring two could play this game, when he realized: Hey, I’m bigger than they are.

  Taking a tight, two-handed grip on the steering wheel, he wrenched it left. The truck sideswiped the Cherokee, crushing the arm of the shooter and sending the Jeep careening off the road into a ditch where it flipped rear over front. The shooter flew from the window and pinwheeled through the air while the Jeep landed on its roof, pancaking the top and blowing out all the windows as it spun a one-eighty, then rolled onto its passenger side.

  Jack slammed on the brakes. After the truck swerved and skidded to a halt on the shoulder, he pulled his Ruger and ran back to see what was what. He had some questions that needed answering

  The Jeep’s engine had died but its headlights remained on and aimed across the road. The shooter’s semiauto lay in the middle of the blacktop. Jack kicked it to the side and approached the shooter himself. Pale-skinned with blond hair, he lay crumpled on the shoulder, eyes staring, arms, legs, and neck at impossible angles.

  No answers from this guy.

  He moved on to the side-resting car, approaching the crushed roof. The radiator was hissing, sending up plumes of steam. He looked down through the shattered window space and saw the roof resting on the headrests of the front seats. The driver, another white guy – Jack had expected Arabs – hung from his seatbelt. Jack leaned closer and saw bloody bubbles forming and popping between his slack lips. Alive, but not a font of information at the moment.

  “Looks like we wasted our time, bro.”

  Jack spun, Ruger raised.

  “Whoa!” said one of the two figures approaching across the road.

  They both stopped midway and raised their hands. A dark blue sedan idled with its lights out on the opposite shoulder. He hadn’t heard it over the hissing steam.

  “We’re on your side.”

  Jack recognized that voice. Deacon Blue. The Mikulskis.

  “What are you two doing here?”

  “Looking out for your ass,” said Blue as they resumed their approach. “But you seem to have taken care of business.”

  Black picked up the shooter’s pistol. He turned it over in his gloved hands, popped the magazine, and examined it. He shook his head, tsking.

  “Trying to shoot out a spinning truck tire with nine-millimeter hollowpoints.”

  “Really,” said Blue as he crouched beside the dead shooter. “Somebody was watching too many movies.”

  He patted the shooter’s body and removed his wallet. Pocketing it, he rose and moved toward the Jeep.

  “I don’t get it,” Jack said.

  “Low percentage shot. ’Specially with hollowpoints.”

  Black was turning the pistol over in his hands. “I’ll be damned. It’s a Tokarev.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Old Russian Army pistol now made by the Chinese.”

  Jack looked down at the shooter. “He’s not Chinese.”

  “They’re still popular in Europe.”

  “Piece of crap,” Black said and tossed it into the field at the side of the road.

  Blue looked in on the driver. “Hey, this guy’s still breathing.”

  He reached in with both arms. After fumbling around a bit, he came up with a second wallet. He reinserted his arms and made a sharp jerking motion.

  Jack stepped forward. “What’d you just do?”

  “Solved the breathing problem.”

  “What? I wanted to talk to him!”

  “Wasn’t going to happen,” Blue said. “If he survived long enough to get to a hospital, he wouldn’t be talking for days. And we’ve all got to get out of here.”

  “Haven’t you learned your lesson?” Black said, stepping closer. “You leaving the wrong guy alive is why we’re all standing here.”

  The accusation startled Jack. “You think Reggie–?”

  “Is this the route you and him followed up to Staten Island?”

  Jack nodded as a sick feeling grew in his stomach. “Yeah.” Reggie must have laid out the path for whoever was after the money. “But why are you guys here?”

  Black said, “We figured this might happen. I kind of blame myself for letting a green newbie make a decision that I just knew was going to come back and bite him in the ass.”

  “Not so green,” Blue said. “Take a look around.”

  “Yeah, you did all right. But you were lucky. The bad news is Reggie wasn’t in the Jeep. That means you’re going to have to deal with him again.”

  Blue patted the pocket where he’d stowed the wallets. “Maybe these guys can give us an idea as to who’s behind this.”

  “Meanwhile,” Black said, looking up and down the road,” let’s get out of here. We may be in the sticks, but sooner or later somebody’s gonna come along.”

  “Thanks, guys,” Jack said.

  The brothers headed back toward their car.

  “We didn’t do shit,” Black said.

  “Still, I appreciate the thought.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll follow you back,” Blue said, “but from here on we’re staying home. And you should do the same. You make another
one of these runs, you’re on your own.”

  “I hear ya.”

  He hurried back to his truck and resumed the trek north.

  Good advice from the Mikulskis. And he was going to take it.

  Bertel was going to be royally pissed, but too bad. Jack was a sitting duck out here on the road. Next time he might be the one lying in a ditch.

  3

  Kris had dialed his car phone about a dozen times, but his buddies in the Jeep weren’t answering.

  Not good. Not that Reggie thought for an instant that Lonnie had bested those two Eurothugs. He might be quick with his hands when a guy wasn’t suspecting anything, but this was different. The guys after him were about Reggie’s age, maybe older, and carried themselves like seasoned vets. Lonnie wasn’t going to sucker-punch those two. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t have got themselves on the wrong side of some state or local mounties.

  “Maybe we’d better cruise on down the road apiece and see what’s what,” Reggie said.

  “Orders are to stay.”

  “Yeah, well, you’ve done your stayin’, now it’s time do a little reconnoiterin’.”

  “We must wait for them here.”

  “If they were coming, they’d be here by now, or they would have called. Something’s wrong, Kris. That’s obvious. And your higher-ups might be asking you later why you didn’t go see if you could help.”

  Kris chewed his upper lip for a few seconds, then gave a quick nod. He threw the car in gear and started rolling. A couple of miles past the truck stop they came across a couple of cop cars with their lights flashing. Behind them a steaming Jeep Cherokee lay on its side.

  Reggie let slip a “Holy shit!” while Kris blurted something unintelligible and Kadir mentioned Allah before slapping a hand over his mouth. They slowed to watch a cop covering a sprawled body with some sort of tarp. A second cop was crouched by the Jeep shining a light into the front compartment. The first cop looked up from the body and motioned them to keep moving.

  Where was the truck? Where was Lonnie?

  Kris seemed mesmerized and the cop repeated the move-on signal.

  “Do what he says, Kris. We don’t wanna get stopped and have to explain what we’re doing out at this hour.”

  Kris gave it some gas and picked up the car phone. This time he got an answer and started babbling in foreignese.

  Looked like it was Lonnie two, the Order zero. How the fuck had that happened? He’d been alone in that truck. How’d he flip the Jeep?

  Who cared? The fact was he was running free and Reggie had two broke knees and was stuck with these sinister weirdos. Not fair. Not fucking fair at all.

  Then again, on the plus side, this guy Lonnie had just earned himself a lot more enemies. And that could work for Reggie in a big way.

  4

  Jack made it to the Jersey City drop spot before dawn. He figured he’d have to wait for the Arabs to show, but they were ready and waiting. Bertel hadn’t been kidding: These guys were hungry for ciggies.

  As soon as the door rolled down and the unloading began, Jack retreated to a corner, the Ruger in his belt, his hand close to it. He didn’t know if the Arabs had anything to do with the incident this morning, and none of them seemed to have the slightest interest in him, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

  He kept an eye out for the Mummy who’d been running the operation in the past. When Jack didn’t see him, he motioned one of the unloaders over.

  “Where’s the man with the money?”

  “Not here,” the guy said, shaking his head. “Other man come soon.”

  “What’s wrong? Is he sick?”

  The guy shrugged. “Not here.”

  Not here…yeah, Jack could see that. But was his not-here-ness temporary or permanent? Bertel said he’d talked to him since the shoot-out, but had he? Had the Mummy been the guy in the limo the Mikulskis had blown away?

  If so, that hinted at a possible link between Bertel and the sex-slave trade. It didn’t mean Bertel was involved, or even knew about it, but it opened the unpleasant possibility.

  Then the man himself appeared.

  Bertel strolled in through the side door and stopped next to Jack.

  “You made it on time,” he said, nodding approval. “Good job.”

  “Also the last job.”

  Bertel’s expression slackened with surprise. “What? Hey, now, you promised me three.”

  Jack crooked a finger and led him around to the driver’s side. He pointed to the scraped and dented fender. Bertel stiffened, then stepped closer and ran a hand over the dents until he found a bullet hole. He jerked upright and faced Jack.

  “What the–?”

  Jack decided to play dumb about the real purpose behind the incident.

  “Somebody tried to hijack me.”

  “Come on!”

  “I’m not imagining those bullet holes. They tried to shoot out my tires outside Salisbury.”

  “What happened?”

  “I ran them off the road.”

  “No idea who they were?”

  Jack shook his head. “And even less idea how they knew my route. Or that I was making a run. You and I knew it. So did Vern.”

  “Vern doesn’t know the route.”

  “Who else then?”

  “No one.”

  “Well, I sure as hell didn’t set myself up.”

  Bertel stiffened when he caught Jack’s stare. “Now wait a minute. You can’t think–”

  Jack didn’t. Bertel was all about profit, and if he was going to set Jack up, it would not be while he was ferrying his precious cigarettes to a payday. But no reason not to let him feel a little heat.

  “Just saying.”

  “Well, you can goddamn stop ‘just saying’ anything like that.” His eyes narrowed. “When you brought that other cargo north… what route did you take?”

  Hard to slip one past this buzzard.

  “The same. And yeah, someone followed me then in another truck.”

  Reggie.

  “And where is this someone now?”

  “I don’t know. But I saw the two guys in the car at a rest stop before they made their move and he wasn’t one of them.”

  “But he could have been on watch along the route. He knows the type of truck you drive, and what you look like.”

  That seemed the only reasonable explanation.

  A skinny guy in a skullcap emerged from the office and handed Bertel an envelope. No words were exchanged.

  “Where’s the Mummy?” Jack said.

  Bertel shrugged as he thumbed through the bills in the envelope. “Told me he’d had a death in the family.”

  “A death, huh?”

  Bertel looked at him. “Why’re you suddenly so interested in our fat friend?”

  Jack wondered who had died and if it might have been due to multiple lead projectiles acquired on Staten Island, but left the question unasked.

  “Maybe I wanted to bid him au revoir.”

  “Yeah, right. The important thing is, the money’s right.” Instead of waiting until they were outside, Bertel paid Jack his cut now. “Sure this is your last trip?” he said as he pressed the bills into Jack’s hand.

  Probably thought the feel of the cash against his palm would be a potent persuader.

  Not. At least not anymore.

  Jack shook his head. “Sorry. You’re a good boss but even without hijackers, the job’s got far more exposure than I want.”

  “You got something better lined up?”

  “No.”

  “You got anything lined up?”

  “No.”

  “Then why not–?”

  “I’ll be keeping busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  He opened the truck door and pointed out the Krispy Kreme box. “Delivering donuts to needy people.”

  “Cut the bullshit.”

  “I’m not kidding. You don’t think Abe is needy?”

  “Not in need of donuts.” He sighed. �
�Ah, well. Take the truck back to where you got it.” He stuck out his hand. “Hey, good luck. But if you ever change your mind, or you ever need anything…”

  “Thanks. Hey, maybe you could help me with something I’m looking into.”

  “Shoot.”

  Jack had to smile at the unintentional irony of the expression.

  “You know any hit men or enforcer types?”

  He burst out laughing at Bertel’s expression.

  5

  Ernst arrived early at Roman Trejador’s suite. He knew what he was going to hear and wanted to get the bad news over with. Al-Thani let him in, then excused himself. The remains of lunch cluttered a table back by the floor-to-ceiling windows. The Spaniard sat on the couch in the front room, watching CNN.

  “The swords are rattling louder and louder in the desert. War in the Middle East soon.”

  “That will be good for the One.”

  The One thrived on chaos.

  “But over too quickly, I fear.” He clicked off the TV and looked at Ernst. “Your men are dead.”

  Men? That meant both. Ernst already knew about one. Young Kristof had called with news of the crash, certain that one of the operatives was dead, and the other was either a prisoner, comatose, or dead.

  These had been experienced men. But he maintained a placid exterior.

  “By what means?”

  “Massive trauma due to an automobile accident. The police say their vehicle shows evidence of a recent collision which they believe caused them to lose control. The passenger wasn’t wearing a seatbelt and was thrown free. The driver suffered a broken neck.”

  “No gun play?”

  “Weapons were found at the scene, and one had been fired, but no wounds on your men.”

  “This is tragic. They were good men.”

  The Spaniard’s eyebrows lifted. “Not good enough to stop a boy in a rental truck, apparently.”

  Very troubling, that. Kristof had reported that the driver was alone when the operatives gave chase. The slaver had identified him as the mysterious Lonnie.

  Mysterious indeed. Ernst could not comprehend how a youth – assuming the description from their slave-running informant had been accurate – could have run two seasoned operatives off the road. Then again, no one knew for how long he had been a courier.