by Marcus Sakey
"What are you doing?"
"I'm… well, I'm trying to find out what's going on, buddy. I need to know why those guys came into your house."
"Oh." His voice sounded faint and far away.
"But," Jason spoke quickly, "it's going good. I think I'm starting to figure it out."
"Have you found the bad guys?"
"Some of them. Not all yet, but I will."
"What are you going to do then?"
He rubbed at the back of his neck. "I'm not sure."
"Are you going to kill them?" Billy's voice hard to read, a mix of sincerity and fear.
Jason had felt bullets chip cinderblock above his head, heard the ragged screams of wounded men, the raw prayers of desperate mothers. But he'd never heard anything quite so horrible as that question falling from eight-year-old lips. And all the worse because he didn't know the answer.
Did he want revenge? Oh, hell yes.
Would he murder for it?
He flashed on a class room in Basic, a lecture from a soft-spoken captain with sharp features. He had been talking about what defined a soldier, and a line had stuck in Jason's head even then. The difference between a thug and a soldier, the guy had said, was the moral courage of his cause.
"No," he said. "I'm not." He paused. "But I'll make sure that they can't hurt you ever again. I promised you that, and I meant it."
There was a long pause, and then Billy said, "I believe you."
Water spattered down the wide pipe, a constant chattering like autumn rain, like the dripping of ancient stalactites. A ragged man with dirt-pocked skin stooped, cupping his hands to catch the dark liquid. Splashed his face, moving calm as a suburbanite preparing to shave in the comfort of his own bathroom.
Jason slowed the Caddy, rolling down the ramp at a bare crawl. He'd never been down here before. What most people thought of as Lower Wacker was actually the second level, a throughway that wrapped along the river and provided a shortcut to dodge the traffic lights and gawking tourists of the surface streets. Everybody knew that Wacker, but he doubted many had taken the ramps down one more level, to the bowels of the city, a bleak lost place where service trucks moved between exhaust-stained roll doors under the timeless haze of yellow sodium light.
This world belonged to people the one above tended to forget. Garbagemen, repair crews, delivery drivers. Scores of homeless huddled under iron girders. They all had the same blanket, which baffled Jason until he realized where the blankets came from. They were hotel linens, grown too ratty for paying customers. Tossed in the Dumpster and repurposed by an army of the forgotten that slept shoulder to shoulder in the street beneath the Hyatt. The lowest tier of hotel guest.
It seemed like a beautiful, terrible symbol, though he couldn't have said of what, exactly.
Jason coasted to a stop where Stetson intersected Wacker. Felt that tingle in his fingers. He didn't know exactly when the meet would take place, but probably not till closer to midnight. It was eight now; he'd come early to see how it looked.
Lousy.
To the right, the street continued into darkness marked by signs indicating the city impound lot. The other direction dead-ended in a broad cul-de-sac of dingy concrete, wide enough for a mid-size rig to turn around. The roll doors were closed, but a faded sign marked the loading dock for the Hyatt. Crayola-orange shipping containers partly enclosed the area. A fence ran parallel; beyond it, a thin strip of grass led to the river, inky water sheened with reflections of convention hotels on the other side. Those glowing windows seemed a million miles distant from this misplaced netherworld, where the hum of cars and the fall of water swallowed sound, and the dingy light stole color. No security cameras, no traffic, and the only witnesses homeless men a block away, men who survived by not getting involved.
You could do just about anything down here.
Jason tapped a fingernail against his front teeth. There was no way to stay in his car without being spotted. The area was simply too vacant. Which meant he'd be on foot, outnumbered, and if what Dion had told him was true, dramatically outgunned.
He felt a pull for a drink, the desire to forget it, put on a nice shirt, hit a club. Find a girl who got wet at war stories, bury his troubles in booze and sex and the sweet forgetfulness of those moments before sleep, when everything washed away, and he didn't have to think about what came next, about owing anything to anybody.
Then he thought of the trust in Billy's voice. I believe you.
He parked the car in a delivery zone, hood up and hazards on. It took less than a minute to jog back, and he took the metal-slat fence like an obstacle at Basic, a sprint that culminated in a lunge, planting his toes against a post and shoving, letting momentum carry him up and over. Twenty feet of dry grass separated the river from the road. A bike path bisected it, but this late, in this dark place, he didn't anticipate any foot traffic, and the men coming shouldn't have any reason to look here. Jason checked the Beretta, then settled in to wait.
He'd lost friends in the dust of a foreign land. His Army didn't want him. His brother had been murdered for reasons he didn't understand. And now someone stalked the only family he had left.
If a cause was what separated a thug from a soldier, then he intended to be a soldier.
The time passed slowly, but he'd learned all about waiting in the Army. The trick was to find Zen, to not rush the moment, but simply to know that the moment would eventually come. He lay on his back, staring up at the skyline, listening to the buzz of cars, watching lights blink on in the high rises, normal people going about normal lives.
Across three hours, headlights flashed across the cul-de-sac only a couple of times. A few taxis and a low loader towing a BMW. The truck didn't hesitate, just made for the impound lot, and Jason flipped back over and tried to pick out stars through the city glow. Remembered the desert night, rolling from Baghdad to one of the settlements that dotted the landscape, how they'd stopped halfway and turned off the Humvee headlights, his team standing in the darkness with heads craned upwards, badass soldiers reduced to marveling boys by the majesty above. Stars like holes poked in the night, like the sky was a blanket and just beyond it was some great and glowing thing, a radiant world where everything was full of light.
He was wondering if Dion had lied to him when he saw a slim shape moving beside the river.
Adrenaline sang in his blood. Still forty yards away, nothing but a cutout against the gentle lapping of the water. But even from here he could see that the guy was dressed in black and staying low. This wasn't a citizen out for a walk. It was someone trying to be stealthy. And headed right for him.
He cursed silently, feeling the sweat in his palms, the muscles in his legs. If he moved now, he gave away his position. He could flatten himself to the ground, turn his face away. The guy might walk right by.
And if he doesn't?
The space was barely twenty feet wide, just dry grass and scrawny trees. Too big a risk. Jason eased the Beretta out, the grip warm from his skin, and clicked the safety off. He didn't intend to shoot anyone. But it wasn't murder if he was defending himself.
He took thin, shallow breaths. Watched the figure grow closer step by step. Counted down the feet. Twenty. Fifteen. At ten feet he couldn't stand it any more, and threw himself upwards, lunging forward and bringing the gun to bear quick. The figure reacted fast, one hand flying to a shoulder holster.
"Don't move!" He stepped closer, weapon ready, willing the guy not to draw, not to make him do anything he didn't want to. And as he did, he caught the cinnamon skin, the eyes wide with panic, and realized who the figure was, and then they both said it at the same time.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
CHAPTER 23
Crossed a Line
Jason lowered the weapon the moment he realized the slender guy was actually a woman, the moment he recognized her. His pulse pounded in his throat, panic and power mingling to make every breath surreal. Cruz stared at him warily, her hand still on the p
istol in her shoulder holster.
"You're part of this?" she asked, her voice incredulous.
"Part of what?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?"
"I was wondering the same thing about you," he said.
"I'm the police." Her voice firm, a brook-no-bullshit tone.
"Yeah, but why are you here?
She hesitated, then said. "I got a phone call. Anonymous. He told me there was something going down I would want to see." She took her fingers off the butt of her pistol. "Do you know what that is?"
"One of the men who killed my brother is coming here tonight. But who would have called you?"
"How about you put down the gun, we figure that out together?"
Jason looked at her, looked at the Beretta. He'd crossed a line when he'd pointed at her – shit, when she saw it. Still. "I'm sorry I scared you. But there's an explanation. Let me get through it, okay?"
She shrugged. "Mr. Palmer, you're holding a gun. I'll agree to pretty much anything you say."
This wasn't how he wanted it to go. He bowed his head, rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, the muscles taut and hard. "I know how this seems." He looked up at her. "But will you just hear me out?"
After a pause, she said. "Okay. Who's the guy coming here?"
"His name is Anthony DiRisio, and he sells weapons. Military hardware. He's been selling to the gangs." He saw the confusion on her face. Spread his hands at his side, palms up. "Best I can guess, maybe Michael found out about it, and DiRisio killed him for it."
He thought he saw something pass behind her eyes, but all she said was, "How would the owner of a bar be mixed up in something like that?"
"Mikey was a crusader. Trying to save everyone," Jason said, remembering that last view of Michael, his brother's face angry and red. "Maybe someone he worked with told him, or maybe he just stumbled on it. But if he did find something like this, he wouldn't have been able to ignore it." He paused. "Wait a second. You said you knew him, that he'd talked to you about something. Was this it?"
Cruz shook her head. "He never said anything about weapons." She glanced around. "So. You're planning on shooting DiRisio?"
"No." He hesitated. "I don't know what I was going to do. I'm figuring this out as I go. All I know is that someone killed my brother and is trying to kill my nephew, and I'm not going to let that happen."
She nodded slowly, her forehead wrinkled, like she was thinking carefully. He let the moment stretch. Heard a car and glanced back at Lower Wacker, but didn't see anything. A soft wind carried a whiff of her perfume, something spicy and good, over a faint clean smell of sweat. "So now you know everything I know." He stared at her. "Thanks for hearing me out." She nodded, and he locked the safety on the Beretta and slid it into the back of his belt.
The moment his hands left the gun, Cruz kicked him in the balls.
He saw the move late, managed to shift position a little, but her foot still hit hard and square enough that the bottom fell out of his stomach and he gasped for breath, living that quarter second when his brain knew what was coming before his body felt it, and then wham!, ice-cold nausea flamed through his whole body, and he cupped his hands on his testicles and dropped to his knees, thinking shit, oh shit, and it took all his strength to process what he saw, her pulling her own gun, a businesslike automatic.
"Put your hands on your head."
He sucked air through his teeth. His last second shift in position meant that she hadn't connected fully, and he knew the worst of the agony would ease soon, but that was small comfort now.
"Hands on your goddamn head!" Cruz had the cop voice down: Firm, commanding, a weapon. His hands moved without him meaning for them to, the left and right finding each other, interlacing and squeezing hard to block out the pain. Cruz stepped behind him, gun never wavering.
He turned his head to look at her over his shoulder. "Jesus Christ, that hurt." Gasping the words.
"Shut up." She moved, and he felt his gun tugged away from his belt, heard it clatter against the earth. "Face forward."
He obeyed, his eyes on Lower Wacker, vision blurry. Knelt there, waiting to feel the cuff snap on his wrist, angry and frustrated and aching.
Which was when he saw headlights coming down the ramp.
CHAPTER 24
Dark Brown
Jason turned his head as best he could, fighting through the icy core of pain from his testicles. Cruz stood behind him, her gun holstered now, cuffs in one hand, the other reaching for his wrist. He could see that she was staring over him, past him, to where a black Odyssey was pulling down the ramp to the cul-de-sac. It was hard to tell from this angle, on his knees with his balls on fire, but she looked kind of spooked.
"Get down," he hissed, and pulled his hands from his head.
She saw him move and reached for her own gun. He froze with his hands up. "Look, arrest me later, okay?" He met her eyes, pleading. "That's the guy who killed my brother." Jason heard the engine grow closer, saw the sweep of headlights moving across the dead grass. "Get down."
She narrowed her eyes, and for a moment he thought she was going to refuse. Then she drew her pistol, and, training it on him, dropped just as headlights washed above them. The guard rail and fence on the side of Lower Wacker cast enough shadow that he doubted they'd been spotted.
The van was a couple of years old, dusty and dinged up in the way city cars tended to get. The driver pulled it in a circle, the front facing out, engine running. Ready to bolt at a moment's notice. Tactically sound. The windows were smoked, and he couldn't make out anyone inside.
Jason looked over at Cruz. "Now do you believe me?"
She glanced back at him. "All I see is a van," she said, but her voice had lost its gruff edge.
"Wait."
"For what?"
As if on cue, a second set of headlights bounced off the drab concrete. "The buyers."
A lowered pickup, bright purple, with a spoiler, rolled next to the van. Two men got out, the echoes of the car doors hollow and flat. At this distance, he couldn't make out much about them beyond Hispanic coloring, shaved heads, and tattoos.
Cruz turned, her gaze appraising. "How did you find out about this?"
Before he could answer, the door to the van opened, and the world stopped turning.
The man stood six-two, with the stocky build of a dockworker, heavy slabs of muscle that came from labor. Balding and in need of a shave. The unmistakable bulge of a shoulder holster. Carriage at once rigid and languorous, the way career soldiers could make standing at attention look as comfortable as a sprawl in a hammock.
His were the last eyes Michael had seen before he died.
Jason knew it, knew it beyond doubt. It wasn't just that the guy looked the way Billy described him. There was something elemental, something that shivered the air between them. He tasted bile, a dark brown that burned his mouth. His brother was dead. Michael, with his good laugh and bad temper, who had bought Jason his first beer, who had told him what to expect under Mary Ellen Jabrowski's bra, and what to do with what he found there. Murdered and burned and his son hunted, and this man, standing right here, was responsible.
"Anthony DiRisio?" Cruz whispered.
Jason nodded. Reached for the gun. His hand found nothing but belt and shirt, and he remembered she'd taken it off him. He looked over, found her watching, eyes narrowed and weapon ready.
"Don't make me regret not cuffing you," she said.
He took a deep breath, blew it through his mouth. Fought a wave of nausea that was only partly to do with her kick. Turned to look at his enemies and tried to steady his thinking.
The two gangbangers headed for the rear of the Odyssey. DiRisio waited like they were gardeners he was ordering around his yard, acknowledged them with a nod and a smile that looked fake even from here, then turned and opened the back of the van. Inside, Jason could see what looked like wooden shipping crates. Then he realized what had to be in those crates, and ice chips
flooded his veins.
The taller gangbanger, a mustachioed muscle-boy with a barbed-wire tattoo, hooted and slapped his partner on the shoulder. Looking like a kid on Christmas, he stepped toward the van.
DiRisio casually put a hand against his chest and shoved.
The guy flew, all stunned expression and swinging arms. The other banger yelled, reaching behind his back. He froze when he saw what DiRisio had taken from the van. Jason had never carried one, but knew it on sight. One of the world's most recognizable weapons, preferred by military and special ops teams in Christ-knew how many countries. Two feet of blued-steel capable of firing eight hundred rounds a minute.
A Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun.
The passenger door of the van opened, and another man stepped out, sighting down the barrel of another MP5. A trim suit and a stern expression beneath neat salt-and-pepper hair.
Cruz gasped, cut the sound off with one hand over her mouth. Jason felt his fists clench. Even knowing what this was about, it wasn't something he'd been ready to see. For some reason, he thought of the gang house earlier, the kids playing video games.
Under the threat of 1,600 rounds a minute, the standing gangbanger had taken a step back, raised his hands. His partner on the ground had the dazed expression of a a kid who'd fallen from his bike.
"Money first," DiRisio said. His voice bounced oddly off the concrete.
The gangbangers nodded, began moving slowly toward the pickup. Jason turned to Cruz. She stared straight ahead, her face slack.
"This is why Michael was killed. Those have to be the guys Billy saw in the bar."
She nodded numbly.
Suddenly an idea occurred to him. A beautiful, simple, perfect idea, and the weight of the world lifted off his back. This was the perfect opportunity. He couldn't have planned it better: Gangbangers, arms dealer, and weapons all in one place. No need for personal campaigns, and he'd be able to keep his promise to Billy. Both his promises.
