Stay

by Victor Gischler

  “Yes, thank you for your assessment, Yousef,” Payne said sharply. “I realize I should have waited for you to handle things. You’ve made that abundantly clear, so give it a rest.”

  Yousef shrugged and appraised the other three gunmen in the room—the living ones. Upon first blush all of them seemed competent and dangerous, but there was something about the Chechen that gave him pause. Arrogant hostility boiled just below the surface, some festering resentment that threatened to erupt. If that happened at the wrong moment, it could be bad. They all carried scars inside and out, harbored grudges, nursed vendettas. Yousef himself had been lured to the city for just such a chance at payback. But a man waited until the right time, kept control of himself, remained professional.

  The young Chechen—Reagan was his name, Yousef recalled—seemed on a hair trigger. He would bear watching.

  Payne cursed and paced the room. He paused over one of the corpses, the fat one. He kicked it, hard. “Useless bastard!”

  The body shifted, and something that had been half hidden underneath the body caught Payne’s eye, he bent and picked it up, showed it triumphantly to Yousef. A small package wrapped brightly in red. The relief upon seeing the package erased all thoughts of the ruined carpet.

  “You see, Yousef, my methods are not entirely without merit after all,” Payne said smugly. “Here we’ve won half the battle already.”

  Payne unwrapped the package slowly, savoring the moment. He tossed the wrapping aside. He opened the box, looked into it, and the smiled dropped abruptly from his face.

  He slowly withdrew the ceramic mug, turned it over in his hands like he was examining some obscure alien artifact. There was a crude illustration of a curvaceous woman in a skimpy nurse’s uniform followed by the words Get Well Soon. There are better things to do in bed.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Payne hurled the mug against the wall where it shattered into dozens of pieces.

  Yousef turned his back to hide his grin and topped off his glass of wine.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Noodles. Pork. Duck. Ribs. Pot stickers. Egg rolls.” Charlie Finn scanned the table, frowning at the spread. “No, no, something’s missing.”

  “There’s enough here to feed Hong Kong,” David said.

  “There is a delicate balance of flavors at stake here,” Charlie explained. “I need just a little bit of every—” He snapped his fingers suddenly. “Dumplings!”

  Charlie flagged down the waitress and reminded her to bring pork dumplings.

  David anxiously pushed rice around on his plate with a fork. He wasn’t hungry and didn’t have time for this. But Charlie Finn was doing him a favor. Another one.

  “You’re not hungry?” Charlie shoveled noodles into his mouth with chopsticks.

  “I’m worried,” David said. “I’m not getting the job done.”

  He’d already related to Charlie his failure at Payne’s building, how he’d almost gotten himself shot. And the police had chased him away when he’d tried to get in to see Amy. Getting back inside, onto the elevator and up to the top floor to see her would be too risky until matters were finished. Getting arrested wasn’t an option. He wouldn’t be able to fix this situation from a jail cell.

  “I don’t mean to spoil your meal, Charlie. But I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “You’re not spoiling it,” Charlie said. “This is the best kind of Chinese food.”

  “What kind is that?”

  “Free. You’re still paying, right?”

  David allowed himself a tired smile. “I thought you were the hot dog cart czar of New York. Surely, you can afford your own noodles.”

  “I never pay for Chinese food.”

  “Explain.”

  “Because it’s my favorite.”

  “Explain better.”

  “I started eating it all the time.” Charlie paused to bite off half an egg roll. “It became less special. It got old. It was my favorite, but it got old and dull, and your favorite’s not supposed to do that. So I decided I’d never buy it again. It could only be a gift. And now it’s special again. Like Christmas.”

  “You’re a philosopher, Charlie.”

  “Philosophy is just tricks you play on yourself to get through the week.”

  The dumplings arrived, and Charlie snatched one with his chopsticks almost before the dish hit the table. He popped it into his mouth. The look on his face might have indicated the dumpling had been flown straight from China just for him.

  David put his napkin on the table. “Charlie, I gotta go. It’s not that I don’t want to hang around eating noodles…”

  Charlie’s face turned serious. “Yeah. It was just, you know, good eating with you. Let me see the flash drive.”

  “Here?”

  “Might as well.”

  Charlie’s leather satchel hung from the back of his chair. He pulled it around onto his lap, opened it, and took out a laptop and some little black piece of hardware David didn’t recognize. It was connected to the computer by a USB cord.

  Charlie reached out. “Let’s have it.”

  David looked around then took the flash drive out of his pocket and handed it over. Charlie plugged it into the black box then started typing at the laptop with one hand. He used the other to grab another egg roll.

  Charlie chewed and typed. David waited.

  “It’s going to take me awhile to get at these files,” Charlie said. “Better than average security on here. But half the time, they secure the files but not the directory, ya know? I mean, security, yeah, but not the same.”

  “You’re talking over my head, Charlie.”

  “Like a bank,” Charlie said. “They might lock up all the money, but nobody covers up the sign out front. They hide the money, not the bank. You can’t get inside, but at least you know which bank you can’t get inside of, right? If this guy used his own personal computer to save these files, the…” Charlie blinked at the computer screen. “Whoa.”

  “What?”

  “Pope,” Charlie said.

  “I’m having trouble believing this conspiracy goes as far as the Pope.”

  “Not the Pope,” Charlie said. “Calvin Pope.”

  A flicker of a spark deep in David’s brain. “Why do I know that name?”

  “You’ve met him. The debrief hangar when you’d bring somebody back,” Charlie reminded him.

  The debrief hangar. Any number of hangars on any number of American military bases in the world actually. When David had been an active solo operative, his mission could have been almost anything. Take a message to somebody deep undercover or bring a message back home. Blow something up. Bring somebody out or make sure somebody stayed lost. He’d been nearly killed a score of times, the worst being getting out of Iran with pictures of a uranium enrichment facility.

  On those occasions when he brought somebody out, they’d usually all end up in the debrief hangar, David taken to one end for his debriefing and whomever he’d rescued getting similar treatment on the other side. The hangar was simply the most immediate and convenient place to set up shop. After debriefings, they’d be escorted to separate aircraft and away they’d go never to cross paths again. David would be rotated back to a base in Italy or Germany for R&R before starting the brief for his next mission. The target would be turned over to some handler, usually a CIA spook or maybe somebody for Military Intelligence depending on the situation. More often than not, the guy was …

  David closed his eyes, using the memory recall exercise from training and remembered … the debrief hangar—

  —Men in uniforms—

  —Spooks in darks suits and—

  —The face of—

  Calvin Pope.

  David’s eyes popped open again, and he looked at Charlie. “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Charlie said. “But these are his files, or at least, somebody used his computer.”

  “How long to break the security?”

  Charli
e waved at the laptop. “I’ll need to use a setup with a little more horsepower than this. But, yeah. I’ll get in there. Maybe a few hours. What about you? You still hoping to take the battle to Dante Payne up close and personal?”

  “I was hoping … but I blew any chance of surprise.”

  “Maybe that could work for us. If he knows you’re coming at him, he’ll hole up, circle the wagons.”

  “So he holes up somewhere, but I don’t know where. You’re the one who told me how many properties he owned,” David said. “And even if I did find them, I’d be facing Payne’s entire goon squad, all of his guns against me alone.”

  “And how’s that different than what we did together for almost four years?” Charlie said. “Pakistan. Iran. Syria. You were trained to be surrounded and outnumbered. You run into the places where everyone else is running out.”

  Charlie grinned. “Remember what they used to say? What’s the good thing about being surrounded?”

  “You get to shoot in every direction,” David said.

  “Right.” Charlie speared another dumpling.

  David sighed. He’s right. I’ve already given up before I’ve even started. This is why, isn’t it? The Army saw something in me I couldn’t see in myself until now. This is why they sidelined me. I’ve lost my edge.

  “And one more thing,” Charlie said. “You’re not alone. You’ve got me. Just like old times. You running once more into the breach, and me as your eye in the sky.”

  Charlie reached into his shirt pocket and came out with a folded piece of paper. He unfolded the paper and slid it across the table toward David between the dish of dumplings and a pot of green tea. A computer printout. Five street addresses.

  David took the paper, squinted at it. “What’s this?”

  “You’re right about Payne having too many properties,” Charlie said. “So I narrowed them down. Anything purely commercial, I crossed off the list. There were plenty of residential properties but filled with tenants. It was easy to check. So I ended up with a list of five places where he might hide. It’s a place to start.”

  David nodded. “A place to start.” Running into places where everyone else is running out.

  “How long for you to get back to the Bronx and get set up?” David asked.

  “I don’t need to go back.” Charlie pointed out the window.

  David looked out the window at a hot dog cart parked next to a Con Ed step van. “One of yours?”

  Charlie glanced out the window. “The hot dog cart? No. Well, yes actually now that I get a look at it. I meant the Con Ed van. I have a complete setup in there, satellite dish on top with an uplink.” He handed David a Bluetooth. “And I’ll be in your ear every step of the way. There’s just one last thing.”

  David looked at him, waited.

  “My payment,” Charlie said.

  “Payment?”

  “If you ever get back inside,” Charlie said. “You take me with you.”

  David didn’t need to ask what he meant.

  “Charlie, the Army put me on indefinite leave. I gave up waiting for them to activate me again. I’m a washout.”

  “I know.” Charlie frowned. “I can see the give-up in your face. I know what it looks like because I’ve been there. So believe me, man, the first step back is just to say, hell yeah, I’ll grab the chance if it comes along. It might never come, but you’ll be ready if it does. Sounds simple, but it’s a very necessary attitude adjustment.”

  David thought about it, tried to think if that meant anything. It was important to Charlie, and that was enough.

  “Okay,” David said. “If they ever call me back, I’ll speak up for you. And be proud to do it.”

  They shook hands.

  “But first, I finish the dumplings,” Charlie said. “And you go on the hunt.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  David drove the Dodge Aspen through the park to the East Side, and affixed the Bluetooth to his right ear. “I’m online, eye in the sky.”

  “I’ve got you,” Charlie’s voice buzzed in his ear. The reception was strong and clear. Charlie only used the best equipment. “GPS has you heading east on the Sixty-fifth Street Transverse. Which one you trying first?”

  “You put these places in order of likelihood?” David asked.

  “Yeah. I ran a program that sorted according to proximity, square footage, defensibility—”

  “I trust you,” David said. “Let’s not sweat the details. Number two on the list is closest.”

  “That’s East Sixty-ninth Street. Hold on.” Charlie came back a moment later and said, “No police activity in the area. I think you’re clear.”

  “Good. Tell me about this place.”

  “A bar called Jerry’s,” Charlie said. “One of the first buildings Dante Payne bought when he was an up-and-comer. I’m pulling up the financials now. Looks like he took over payments from the old owner. Probably some kind of strong arm situation there.”

  “Why did this place make the list?”

  “I’m looking at construction permits,” Charlie said. “The entire upstairs was done over residential two years ago. Payne could be hunkered down there with his boys, no problem.”

  “Charlie, how do we know he didn’t check into a hotel suite or hop a plane to Hawaii?”

  “He hasn’t used his credit card.”

  “You know that?”

  “I know everything.”

  “How’s it coming with the flash drive?” David asked.

  “I have a code breaker program running now, wrote the software myself. Just a matter of time.”

  “Let me know.”

  On the other side of the park, David turned the Dodge north on Madison and then hung a right on Sixty-ninth. A few blocks later he spotted the old neon sign flickering the word JERRY’S in dingy red. He parked on the street.

  “I’m offline for a bit, Charlie.”

  “Understood. Good hunting.”

  David took off the Bluetooth and slipped it into his pants pocket. He checked his pistols. He used one of the calming techniques to prepare. He took in a deep breath. He was an instrument of cold metal. His veins flowed with ice. He imagined himself in a world of cool blue colors. He let the breath out slowly.

  David got out of the Dodge and entered through the bar’s open door, pausing just inside.

  The interior was dim, lighting from behind the bar and over the pool table and an old glowing jukebox in the corner. David’s eyes raked the place. Head count: bartender behind the bar. Two guys playing cards at a table to the right. Two more shooting pool to the left.

  Exits: Two doors for restrooms near the bar. On the far side of the room beyond the pool table another door with a sign on it saying private.

  He mentally flagged that door for later.

  All heads turned to David, hard men with grim eyes. This wasn’t a drinking establishment. It was a weigh station disguised as a bar. These troops probably reported to some lieutenant instead of to Payne directly, low-level bagmen and leg breakers, running numbers, keeping the streetwalkers in line, and making sure the dime bag pushers were supplied. Payne likely had places such as this all over the city, the cash flowing up through the food chain, laundered along the way before finding its way into various safe deposit boxes.

  Payne was rich now. He didn’t need the pittance of tribute a place like this would produce. For a man like Payne, it was the network that was more valuable to him, ground troops to do his bidding, his eyes and ears.

  “We’re closed,” the bartender said.

  David ignored him and walked toward the bar, keeping an eye on the men playing cards and pool in the mirror behind the bartender. They were clumsy bruisers, and David almost dismissed the need to keep track of them in the reflection.

  But he did anyway. Instinct. Training.

  “I guess you didn’t hear me, friend. We’re closed.”

  David leaned on the bar. His smile didn’t touch his eyes. “You look open to me.”

>   “Fuck how it looks to you. Turn around and start walking.”

  “Is Dante Payne upstairs?”

  The name made the bartender’s eye twitch.

  In the mirror, David watched one of the card players push away from his table and rise. He went to the front of the bar, pulled the door closed, and turned the lock.

  David’s eyes shifted to watch one of the pool players coming toward him, gripping a cue like a club. He moved with quiet confidence like a man about to calmly and routinely take out the trash.

  “You made a mistake,” said the bartender.

  The guy behind David swung the pool cue at his head.

  David spun and caught the fat part of the cue in his palm with a loud smack. His other hand shot out to strike his attacker in the solar plexus. The guy staggered back, mouth working for air.

  David spun back to the bar, bringing the pool cue around fast. The bartender had produced a double barrel shotgun and leveled it at David’s face.

  David knocked the shotgun upward with the stick, and both barrels discharged into a rack of glasses over the bar, glass spraying over the scene.

  David jabbed the end of the cue hard into the bartender’s eye. He screamed and dropped the shotgun, turning away to paw at his face.

  The others closed on David.

  He broke the cue over the other pool player’s head with a crack, and the guy went down. David kicked him in the face for good measure, felt his jaw crunch and go loose on impact.

  A glint of metal caught David’s eye.

  One of the card players thrust a wicked little stiletto straight at David’s gut.

  David sidestepped and grabbed the attacker’s wrist and twisted until he heard a sickening snap. The man screamed and dropped the knife, and David kicked him back into the last man and both went over into a heap on the floor.

  The man with the broken wrist writhed and moaned.

  The other one was still game and began scrambling to his feet. David closed on him in a split second, slamming a fist into the cheekbone under his left eye. His head spun around, and he went down and stayed there.

  “Shit, you broke my wrist,” said the other one. “Fucking broke it.”

  David kicked him hard in the head, and the complaining stopped.