“How’s it going, Max? Did you make the drop? I haven’t heard from my people yet.”
“Change in plans. I’ll be delivering Nexus directly to you.”
“Why? What the hell—?”
Max digested not only his words, but how he said them—inflection, pauses, any clue in his speech that might reveal him to be dissembling. It troubled him to think that Ben might be part of the conspiracy to steal Nexus, yet he couldn’t rule it out after the safehouse. But Ben sounded genuinely perplexed at Max’s plan. Fuck, I hope so. To think that a man of Ben’s character would sell out seemed inconceivable. So do a lot of other ugly truths.
Max cut Ben off. “We’ll meet at nineteen hundred. I’ll call you one hour prior with the address.”
“Can’t you just give it to me now?”
Fuck no. “No, I’m not sure where it’ll be yet.” In truth he knew exactly where they would meet, the place he’d used to question and torture prisoners connected with his family’s murder. But he couldn’t give Ben the address, couldn’t risk one of his agents finding out and beating them to the location. He’d walked into nothing but ambushes since Saturday night.
After a pause Ben said, “Very well. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
Max thought he sounded a bit deflated. Again, he didn’t know what to make of it. You’ll know later if he’s part of the conspiracy. Hear him out tonight. “Okay, then. See you tonight.” Max terminated the call, then realized he hadn’t inquired about the search for Swift. With Shai’s life—or circuitry, he supposed—at stake, Swift didn’t seem so important at the moment.
“So we’re all set?” Leet asked, sounding almost hopeful again.
“Looks like it.”
“Where to now? What are we going to do with Daniel?”
“Good question.” And one Max had yet to ponder. Usually the bodies he collected during his quest wound up in unmarked graves or carrion snacks, but those were enemies. Daniel Farber deserved better than a shallow hole in the woods. “Does he have any family?”
“Not that I know of. His parents were killed by a terrorist bomb while riding a bus in Tel Aviv when he was just a boy. His grandparents raised him after that, but they passed a few years ago. He never mentioned anyone else.”
“We’ll take him to my storage unit; I have a tarp and some duct tape there. It’ll have to do until we can bury him properly.”
CHAPTER 16
At 1836, Max backed the Suburban into a narrow alley between two crumbling brick buildings sheathed in graffiti. Countless tv shows and movies depicted the pall thrown over the land in the wake of an apocalypse, making viewers shudder at this dark future for America. Few of them realized that it was already a reality in many areas. For a moment, Max wondered when the world ended in this part of town. Dusk was still an hour off, yet they had seen only a handful of winos, addicts, and thuggish gangbangers on the streets of this blighted sector of old DC, once an industrial mecca.
Max squeezed the SUV past a rusted-out dumpster and maneuvered behind it, hopefully hiding the vehicle from street view. Gunshots and screams attracted no attention in this neighborhood. In return for that level of privacy, he had to accept certain liabilities, such as his car being stolen. Usually he parked near the warehouse to keep a closer eye out; today, however, he wanted to conceal it in case his concerns about Ben proved true. Max had to keep reminding himself to let Ben talk, to give him benefit of the doubt as any brother would.
“Think we’ll be interrupted by any crackheads?” Leet asked as she alighted from the back seat.
“It’s been known to happen.” Max exited the vehicle, his heel crunching down on a heroin syringe. “They leave if you toss them a few bucks. And they sure as hell don’t ask questions.”
“How reassuring.” Leet took Shai’s hand.
The boy descended to the trash-littered cobblestones. He’d stopped sobbing by the time they reached the storage unit. There he had impassively watched Max and Leet wrap Daniel’s body in a plastic tarp. Still, despite possessing only rudimentary emotions—a concept Max still couldn’t grasp—he seemed somewhat dazed and now followed them as if on autopilot.
“How are you on ammo?” While at the storage unit stowing Daniel’s corpse, Max had topped off the magazines for his Glock 21. Now he realized he’d forgotten to inquire about Leet’s ammo supply. Dammit… He could have kicked himself, for he stocked .40 S&W rounds for use in his UMP40 back home. I could have offered her that too, not that she would have taken it.
“I’m okay, two full mags plus my sidearm.”
“You want to take my ankle piece as well? Clip it to your belt?”
“Shit, this again?” She shook her head. “Why would I need a third pistol? I think you need to tone down the cloak-and-dagger bullshit. You’re going to meet a guy you’ve known for twenty years, so I don’t get the apprehension.”
“Even after the safehouse? C’mon, you don’t believe in those kinds of coincidences.”
“That doesn’t mean he knew!” Her raised voice echoed off brick. She went on in a quieter tone, “You’re being really paranoid about this. Get your bearing on and be professional.”
“Fine, let’s go,” Max conceded, tired of arguing.
Perhaps she’s right, but I’ll be paranoid until I’m certain. No one liked to live not trusting anyone, but the times Max didn’t trust his gut instincts, he regretted it.
Max pulled the Saint from between the front seat and the center console, grabbed the three remaining mags, and slipped them into his plate carrier. He locked the Suburban and led them into the warren of alleys separating the various buildings. He’d scouted the area thoroughly last year before choosing it as his secluded spot for torturing prisoners, even going so far as to map the alleys in case he ever needed to escape. Not likely, as homicide detectives were the only cops who visited this area and only as a perfunctory duty in the aftermath of murder. But Max always chose to cover his ass when given the option.
No vagrants slept in the back alleys tonight; no thugs lurked in the shadows. The only living things they saw were roosting pigeons and about a dozen well-fed rats gnawing on a dog carcass. The rodents didn’t even scatter as they passed.
“You picked a hell of a spot,” Leet said.
“I’d find a cozy place in the suburbs if the cops weren’t so nosy.”
They reached the warehouse after walking several hundred feet through the labyrinth of alleys. This side of the loading dock consisted of several archways cut into the side of the building that were once used for loading railway boxcars. Double doors of rotten wood still barred access through a couple of the archways; the others had all been sundered in some fashion, either decomposed or torn down by vandals. Practically all of the glass was shattered in the banks of windows high in the walls of the two-story structure. Ben would likely enter the warehouse from the other side, where there was space to park in front of the truck loading dock.
Max led them up a short flight of rusty metal stairs. An open steel door hanging askew on one hinge granted them entrance. They cut across the long room accessing the old railcar docks, the cracked cement floor strewn with garbage, wine bottles, and bum bedding, yet no bums.
“You should put that thing away,” Leet whispered, regarding the Saint. “What’s Ben gonna think when he sees you with that?”
“Not much if I have to put a hole in his head.”
Stepping into a wide archway that accessed the warehouse proper, Max took quick stock of the place. Shadows, harbingers of another desolate night, crowded in amongst the miscellaneous junk abandoned in the cavernous room: busted office furniture, metal shelving both upright and fallen, a line of very rusty 55-gallon drums stacked two high, forklift skids scattered about or stacked in leaning piles. An ancient forklift sat forlorn a few feet away, stripped of its engine long ago. The walls of the main warehouse room soared upward thirty feet to the metal roof trusses overhead. To Max’s right, the buildi
ng became a two-floor affair, with a flight of metal stairs and a conveyor belt ascending to a catwalk that fronted more storage space packed with detritus of the dead industrial age.
Max always questioned his prisoners deep in the dark recess beneath the second-floor overhang. The place hadn’t changed a bit. Small fires lit by the homeless had spread in certain areas, yet none had sparked the building into oblivion.
Leet sighed behind him. “This place smells like pigeon shit.”
“I wonder why? Keep your eyes open.”
“We’re fifteen minutes early. I’m sure we’ll know when Ben arrives, provided he didn’t get carjacked on the way.”
“He’s a big boy. Don’t worry about it.” Max stepped into the room, Leet and Shai close behind.
A faint, lone smack marked when a blob of pigeon shit fell from the rafters and splattered nearby. Taking a quick glance backward, Max noticed Shai staring intently at the second-floor catwalk.
“Well, I guess there’s nothing to do now but wait—”
“Look out!” Shai shouted.
Max couldn’t believe Shai had the strength to shove him so forcefully. Apparently, Daniel had overbuilt his body as well as his mind. Good thing. Swift wouldn’t have missed otherwise. The boy’s keen senses and herculean strength had saved Max’s life.
As Max instinctively darted for cover behind the abandoned forklift, something like a speeding locomotive struck him in the small of his back and knocked him forward onto his hands and knees next to the forklift. The firecracker pops of a submachine gun echoed throughout the warehouse, startling the pigeons overhead into a mass exodus through the broken windows. Bullets ricocheted off brick, cement, even the solid steel mass of the forklift.
Shai landed next to him. “He’s up there!” He jerked his head toward the catwalk.
“Catwalk!” shouted Leet, who had retreated back through the archway to the loading dock.
“Hola, Max!” a basso voice boomed.
Swift! How the fuck?
“You ain’t the only one workin’ on your stealth,” Swift continued. “But how hard is it to surprise you? You’re gettin’ predictable in your old age, Ahlgren. Didn’t take much snoopin’ and poopin’ to find your little hidey hole.”
“Hope you like it, Carter. I’m gonna bury you here.”
Swift rumbled a laugh. “Wishful thinkin’, amigo. But by all means, come on up and try.” He fired a single shot that clanked off the forklift.
“Did you see where he is?” Max whispered to Shai.
“Just the flash. Between a couple of crates near the middle.”
“Gotcha.” Max put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Stay right here.”
Leet squeezed off two shots from the archway. “Go, Max, I’ll cover.”
“Good to know, sweetie,” Swift said. “Now stick your little split tail out again.” Swift fired another short burst, this time at the archway.
Max tensed, broke cover, scrambled to a rusty 55-gallon drum the derelicts used as a fire barrel. Bullets marked his path, snapping over his head in a July 4th crescendo of sparks. Leet answered Swift with several shots that drove him back into cover. Max peered around the barrel, caught a glimpse of moving black, and fired a burst with the Saint that elicited an angry oath from Swift. Whether Max had struck him didn’t really matter; if Swift could still curse, he was still a threat.
Max sprinted for the beckoning steel stairway twenty feet away, firing on the run. Leet still had his back. Between them, they tore up the rotting crates stacked along the catwalk. But Swift didn’t remain rooted in one spot and returned fire as he picked his way through cover.
As he ran, Max spied the flash from Swift’s Uzi—his reliable, vintage weapon of choice—and put two shots into the vicinity. He reached the stairs and took them two at a time, the rusty metal structure bouncing and creaking beneath his weight. Fucking idiot, trying to take us out by himself. Leet fired again. No reply from Swift, who had likely retreated to the second floor, where Max remembered a wreckage of metal shelving, wooden crates, and assorted garbage.
“Margaret, watch out!” Shai cried.
Another rapid burst of gunfire erupted, the high-caliber reports louder than the Uzi. A fucking machine gun! Not from the catwalk but rather from behind Max. A hearty laugh heralded more machine gun fire.
Leet shouted something as she returned fire.
Whatever was happening downstairs, Max couldn’t worry about it. He and Leet were each on their own, come whatever may. Reaching the second floor, Max immediately dove into cover behind a crate and began hunting for Swift.
***
The unexpected arrival of the second gunman startled Leet.
Shai watched with grave concern from where he crouched beside the forklift. He needed better cover now that bullets were flying from two directions. “Get under the lift!” she shouted, running to find cover of her own.
She didn’t have the benefit of someone covering her as she raced to engage her adversary with murder on her mind. Him! She’d only glimpsed him as of yet, but she knew.
The image of Don bleeding out filled her mind, how his blood pooled an inch deep as it covered the dingy train station tiles.
Bullets chased her into hiding behind a leaning tower of forklift skids. Splinters flew as more rounds tore into rotting wood and toppled the skids, which crashed down in a cloud of dust, but she’d already moved on to take cover behind an overturned desk. Her adversary ceased fire. He might have lost track of her or paused to reload.
She reloaded as well, though she reckoned a couple of rounds remained in the magazine. Charging such awesome firepower without a full mag would amount to suicide. She suddenly regretted her refusal of Max’s offered sidearm. She might very well die this evening, perhaps in the next minute or two.
Not before I kill you, motherfucker!
Swift’s voice droned down from the second floor—shit talking from the sound of it—but she heard nothing from Max.
“Give up the boy, Special Agent Leet,” said her opponent, smug with confidence. She had no idea where he might be hiding now. “The chase is over. We won’t settle for Monopoly money. We’re going to get what we paid for. Maybe we’ll send you a few megs of RAM when we’re done taking that kid apart.”
She wanted to shout at him, curse him and the bitch who’d brought him into the world. Let him fuck up. That thought seemed the epitome of wishful thinking. She shook her head, got control of herself. Can’t stay here! The graphite top on the metal desk might have protected her from 9mm rounds but certainly wouldn’t stop whatever this guy was putting downrange.
Thankfully, he seemed to be just as wary as she was, holding his fire and sticking deep in cover, reluctant to reveal his position by firing another burst. If he decided to open up on the desk…
Lying on her side, she peeked around the edge of the desk through her pistol’s reflex sight. Darkness had nearly descended, a blessing and a curse. She saw very little—a broken computer monitor on the floor, two low stacks of skids, the row of rusty drums off to the left stacked two high.
A shadow twitched ever so slightly behind the skid stack nearest the drums. She opened fire, four rapid shots that drove him scuttling for better cover. Bent in a crouch, he made for the 55-gallon drums.
She led him but he was quick. Four more shots and he cried out when her final shot tagged him in the ribs as he dove behind the drums. Presuming he wore body armor, he wouldn’t be in pain for long. She had to move.
Leet turned and sprinted for the other end of the drum stack, reaching it unscathed. He hadn’t even fired at her. Perhaps she had incapacitated him.
Her pistol at the ready, she peered around the drum and found him on his knees. One of her wide shots had punctured a drum, releasing a steady stream of liquid. He responded with a burst of half a dozen rounds, all of which flew past her as she retreated behind the drums.
Fuck this! She took off around the other sid
e of the stack, pistol at the high ready. The muzzle of his weapon and a sliver of arm appeared a moment later around the far barrel.
They fired simultaneously, each a single shot that hit home. Sparks flew when Leet’s bullet ricocheted off the top of his weapon and traveled on into his arm, eliciting a cry of surprise and pain as it drove him backward away from the drums. The world’s toughest hornet stung her at the same time, right at the belt line on her right side, just below her vest. The impact spun her sideways; the instant pain nearly blacked her out.
She came to in a couple of moments, turned, and saw him lying flat on his back in a puddle of fluid from the barrel she’d hit. He slowly raised his submachine gun to finish her off. She steadied against a barrel, her aim shaky from the bullet wound, and fired just as he brought his weapon level.
His almost inhuman scream eclipsed all other sound in the vicinity. He floundered in the fluid, dropped his submachine gun, a SIG MPX .357, not for sale to the public. His screaming intensified when he jerked his head up and caught a glimpse of the hole in the crotch of his pants. His gray head dropped back into the puddle, acknowledgment of Leet’s victory by involuntary castration.
Leet felt the blood starting to soak her jeans front and back as she advanced, pain howling up her spine and battering her brain as she staggered forward. She reached him, calmly put the dot in her sight firmly between his eyes, just above that aquiline, patrician nose. Those eyes were closed; he didn’t even notice her. The fluid—acetone from the smell of it—had soaked his urban camo tactical suit.
A bullet was too good for him—too neat, too quick. Leet had quit smoking but still carried a lighter with her everywhere, just as other former smokers kept one last pack of unopened cigarettes to steel their willpower. “Never know when you might need one.” She barely heard her own words as she found the Zippo in her pocket. She opened it with a finger snap, high school bathroom style, and sparked it to life with a flick of her index finger. After backing off a few feet, she tossed the flaming lighter into the puddle, turned, and tried to run.
Nexus Page 14
