Gia knew that, and that was why she loved him. And he loved her because she knew that.
Wait…
Jack shook his head. Did that make sense?
Sure it did. Of course it did. Wouldn't have thought it if it didn't.
Breaking a light sweat, heavier in the small of his back where the Glock 19 rested in its nylon holster, and more around his ankle where he'd strapped the Semmerling, but he needed those guns, needed them because there were people in his city, not many but always a few, who might try to take the city away from him and make it their own, so he had to be vigilant, ever vigilant.
But not today, no worry about that today, because it was all his today and he felt great. Laughed aloud.
"Top o' da world, Ma!"
Guy coming the other way gave him a strange look but Jack glared at him, daring him to say something, anything, to say one single goddamn word. Guy looked away.
Smart. Nobody gives me looks in my city.
Felt a growing pressure in his groin as he turned into Sutton Square. Something flitted through his head, a thought about looking out for a car, a car with two men, but it was a slippery thought and avoided his grasp every time he reached for it.
Who cared about cars anyway. All he cared about now was getting to Gia. Gia-Gia-Gia. Oh, this was going to be good, so very-very good. Do it in the kitchen, do it in the living room, and maybe even in bed. Dodo-do. All day, and all afternoon until Vicky came home. Then he'd take them both out on the town, his town, and show them a great time, the best time of their lives, the kind of time only he could show them.
Knocked on the door. Couldn't wait to see the joy beaming from Gia's face when she pulled it open and saw him, joy that would quickly turn to lust. And then he heard a child's voice, Vicky's, shouting on the far side of the door…
"Mom! It's Jack! Jack's here!"
And suddenly a cloud moved over his sun and sucked all the heat from his body.
Vicky was home. Gia wouldn't… she'd never… not with Vicky around.
"Jack!" Gia said, her smile bright as she opened the door. "What a surprise!"
"Yeah," he said through his teeth. Tried to force a smile but couldn't, just couldn't. Could do just about anything in this city of his, but right now he couldn't smile. Stepped through the door. "Some surprise."
"Hi, Jack!" Vicky said, looking up at him with a big happy stupid grin.
Ignored her and turned to Gia. "What's she doing home?"
"She's got a sore throat and a cough." Gia's smile was gone and she was looking at him strangely.
"Doesn't look sick."
"Yeah, I got a bad cough," Vicky said. "Wanna hear it?" She started hacking.
Jack wanted to belt her—one backhand swipe to knock her into the next room. She was ruining everything. Maybe he ought to just grab Gia right here and do it in the foyer, right in front of Vicky. Be a good lesson for her.
"Is something wrong, Jack?" Gia said, concern growing in her eyes as she stared at him.
"Wrong?" he said, feeling fury building like a thunderhead in his skull. "Yeah, there's plenty wrong. First off, you coddle this kid too much—"
"Jack!"
"Don't interrupt me!" he said, his voice rising. "I hate to be interrupted."
"Jack, what on earth's wrong with you?"
There, she'd done it again. Interrupted him. She'd never learn, would she. Only one way to handle someone like that.
He balled a fist and raised his arm—
"Jack!"
The terror in Gia's eyes as she cringed away hit him like a kick in the gut, a bucket of ice water in the face…
What am I doing? What's happening to me? Jeez, I was just about to punch Gia. What—?
And then in a flash of clarity Jack knew, and the realization struck like a knife through his skull.
Somehow, someway, he'd been dosed with Berzerk. The when and the where didn't matter right now. First thing he had to do was get out of here. Couldn't be with anybody, especially not Gia and Vicky.
Get… out!
Fighting panic, he turned toward the door. Remembered his guns—had to dump them. Mix a 9mm and a .45 with a snootful of Berzerk and a lot of people could wind up dead. Reached under the back of his T-shirt and pulled the Glock from its SOB holster, then ripped the Semmerling, leather straps and all, from his ankle. Shoved them into Gia's hands, then added his knife… and his wallet.
Immediately something made him want to snatch them back, pushed him to reach for them. What—was he crazy, giving his money and beloved weapons to this woman?
Forced himself to step back, to grit out words, "Something's wrong. Take these. Gotta go. Explain later."
She stared at him wide-eyed with fright and confusion. "What—?"
Didn't dare risk another word, another second here. Hanging onto control by his fingertips, could feel it wriggling away from him. Could maintain this grip only so long before it slipped away again. Wanted—needed—to be as far as possible from here when it did. Turned and ran out the door.
4
"Let's go," Vuk said, reaching into his coat.
Ivo shook his head. He didn't want to do this. "Wait a bit. Maybe he'll come out."
They'd parked in a BMW 750iL up the gentle slope of Fifty-eighth Street from where they had a narrow-angle view of the door. A purely residential block. Not a single store and few pedestrians. They'd been here only a few minutes when they saw their man arrive on foot and enter the town house.
"And maybe he won't." Vuk took out his pistol, his tried-and-true 7.62mm M57 semiautomatic, and checked the action. "You heard what Dragovic said. If we see him, we take him and bring him in."
Ivo licked his dry lips. "The woman and child might be there."
"Hope so." He checked his bleached hair in the rear-view mirror. "She's a beauty."
Ivo's palms were slick against the steering wheel. He'd sworn that his days of killing noncombatants were over. Vuk didn't care. Ivo doubted Vuk had ever given a second thought to what he'd done in Kosovo. He had to find a way to delay this.
"We need silencers," he said, grasping at the first idea to dart through his head. "Even a single shot in a neighborhood like this will bring the police."
"We'll have to risk it." Vuk reached for the door. "If we move fast enough, it won't matter."
Ivo grabbed his arm. "Wait."
He was trying desperately to think of something to say when movement by the town house caught his eye. The man was out again, almost running from the door.
"There he is!" he said, hoping the gush of relief was not apparent in his voice. "Moving fast."
"Don't let him out of your sight."
Ivo started the car and reached for the shift, then stopped. "He's coming this way."
The man broke into a jog as he crossed Sutton Place and started up the sidewalk.
"Coming right to us," Vuk said with a grin. "Perfect."
Ivo left the car in park and studied the approaching man. This was the first time he'd had a chance to see him since their brief encounter on the beach last week, and he looked… different. His expression was strange, somewhere between panic and rage. But his eyes… they'd been so mild last week. Now they were wild.
"Ready," Vuk said. The man would pass on his side. "You move when I do."
Ivo checked the street. Light traffic, only one or two pedestrians and none close by. When the man came to within a car length of their vehicle, Vuk opened his door. Ivo jumped out on the street side, drawing his own weapon, a FEG FP9, holding it low as he came around the rear bumper. He didn't chamber a round until Vuk had his weapon pointed at the man's chest.
"Into the car!" Vuk said.
Ivo pulled open the rear door with his free hand as the man skidded to a halt.
"What?" the man said.
"You heard!" Vuk said, gesturing with his pistol.
"You're the jerks from the beach. What are you doing in my city?"
"In!" Vuk lowered his barrel and pointed it at the
man's legs. "Inside or I shoot your knees and drag you in."
The man's wild eyes darted from Vuk's gun to the one in Ivo's hand, then back again. No fear there or in his expression, just a brief baring of the teeth, very much like a snarl as he moved toward the open door. Ivo glanced around as he stepped back to let him in. No one was paying them any attention. Yet.
"Stop right there," Vuk said. He did a quick pat-down and grinned at Ivo when he found the empty SOB holster. "I think we have our man." To the man: "Where is your gun?"
"Home."
"Good place for it." Vuk shoved the man into the seat on the passenger side. "Do not move a muscle."
Ivo covered him while Vuk ran around to the other side and got in. He sat in the rear, facing their captive, while Ivo returned to the driver seat. Safe behind the wheel again, he let loose a breath he'd been holding. No one had noticed them. The whole operation had taken perhaps thirty seconds.
"So," Vuk said as Ivo pulled from the parking space, "you are man who wrecked our cars, yes?"
"Your cars?" the man said. "If you bring a car into my city, it's my car."
"Who are you?"
"You know very well who I am. I am Moreau. Dr. Moreau. Dr. Jack Moreau. I created you."
Something wrong here, Ivo thought. The man on the beach didn't talk crazy like this.
He adjusted the rearview mirror. The brown eyes flashed toward him, strangely glittering eyes. The eyes of a madman. Fear began to nibble at Ivo's gut. He felt like someone who had set a possum trap and wound up with a bear.
What have we let into our car?
"So it was you," Vuk said.
The man was shaking his head. "The beast flesh… the stubborn beast flesh creeping back."
"Stop talking like fool. First you make fool of our boss, then you try to make fool of my friend Ivo and me too, yes?"
The traffic light on Sutton Place turned green as Ivo approached. He made a right and stopped at the red at Fifty-seventh.
"Ivo?" the man said to Vuk. "What kind of name is that? I didn't name him that when I created him from a dog. And you. I created you from a donkey, I think. An ass. But I did not give you that hair color. And why would I try to make a fool out of you when you do such a good job of it by trying to look like a carrot? Don't you own a mirror?"
Ivo could hear the strain in Vuk's voice. "I can shoot off your knees now, but that would mean I have to carry you inside to speak to our boss, and later I have to clean up the mess. But once we are inside, the boss will want you to speak, and I will be very happy to be one to make sure you tell everything he wish to know."
Ivo crossed Fifty-seventh, keeping as much of a watch in his rearview as he did through the windshield.
"You would do well not to anger me by breaking the Law," the man said. "You remember the Law, don't you? Are you not men? Has the stubborn beast flesh crept back so far that you've forgotten the law? Break the Law and it's off to the House of Pain with you. I told you: I am Moreau."
"You are no one," Vuk said. "You are nothing. But you somehow manage to find yourself a fine-looking woman. Do you know what will happen after our boss is through with you? Ivo and I are going to come back and pay little visit to your woman. We are going to fuck her."
What is Vuk doing? Ivo wondered, anxiety building like a pressure in his chest. Why is he taunting him? Doesn't he see the man's eyes? Can't he tell that he's completely insane?
And an insane man is capable of anything.
As Ivo turned onto Fifty-fifth he said, "I think that's enough for now."
"No, Ivo. Not nearly enough. I want him to know how we will take turns with his woman and how she will love it because she has never had real man before. And then perhaps we move on to little girl."
Ivo felt the air within the car thicken, become charged, as if lightning were readying a strike.
"Vuk, please!"
"Vuk?" The man laughed. "That's a name? Sounds like someone puking. But I guess it goes with the rest of you, donkey-man. Dumb name, dumb hair, dumb ass."
Ivo sensed sudden movement behind him and knew, just knew that Vuk was swinging his pistol at the man's face. And he saw the burst of triumph in the captive's eyes that said this was just what he had been waiting for.
"Vuk, no!"
Ivo yanked the wheel to the right and slammed on the brakes. As the car lurched to a halt he pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster. But it was too late.
He heard the man roar, "You turn upon your creator?" The shot from the rear seat sounded like a cannon as warm droplets sprayed the back of Ivo's neck. "You two are beyond salvage!"
Ivo had his pistol on the rise, about chest high, and was swinging his head around when the muzzle of Vuk's M57 appeared, an inch from his right eye. As he gazed down that narrow tunnel to eternity, a flash bloomed in his vision and all became bright white light, engulfing him, consuming him.
5
Half blind with rage, he jumps out and aims Carrot Top's pistol at the car. Occupants already dead, which is just what they should be for threatening to harm his women.
A vagrant thought intrudes: Wasn't I just thinking of harming them myself a few minutes ago? but he brushes it aside. Yeah but that was different. What I do is one thing. Doesn't mean anybody else can do the same.
Took a supreme effort of his magnificent will not to tear their heads off as soon as they'd accosted him. But he wanted to give them a chance to redeem themselves.
After all, he created them, and he is nothing if not a benign creator.
He is Moreau. Dr. Jack Moreau.
No fear is the key. A lesser being would have been afraid of the gun and the manlike thing holding it, but not him. He has no fear, and no fear means no hesitation, means no self-doubt, means simply doing what must be done, taking what you want when you want it with full knowledge that you can do it and that none of these lesser beings has the right or the means to stop you.
Oh, he was good in that car, so good, so fast, so much faster than the two creatures who dared to oppose him. But why should he be surprised? After all, hadn't he created them, transformed them from lower species? A shame to waste them, but they were reverting to their lower forms, the beast flesh had crept back so far that they forgot the Law, and forgetting the Law is punishable by death.
No, wait. Breaking the Law means a trip back to the House of Pain. Not death. He must have forgot. Oh, well.
So the manlike things he created are good and dead, but the Beamer must die too. Belongs to an enemy, someone who wants to take the city away from him. Can't send the car to the House of Pain, so he must execute it.
He pulls the trigger, shooting wildly, punching hole after hole in the fenders. Aware of screams, only a few, from up and down the street, and fleeing people dart through his peripheral vision, but he keeps yanking on the trigger.
Suddenly a wall of flame erupts from the rear of the car, knocking him off his feet and searing him with a blast of heat, peppering him with flying glass.
Half-dazed, he struggles to his knees, blinking, coughing, then to his feet. Notices that the dark hair on his arms is singed into tight, tiny pale curls and the skin is scorched and blackened. His shirt is torn and he's bleeding from a couple of spots on his already scarred chest. Shakes his head to clear the buzzing from his ears.
Across the street the Beamer is toast. Dead. Not merely dead, but clearly and sincerely dead, or however that goes. An evil devil witch car burning at the stake.
A weight in his hand. Carrot Top's gun—some sort of Tokarev clone. Barely remembers how he got it. Stares at the pistol. The slide is back, the empty chamber exposed. Spare clip's got to be in the car, which means this thing's no good to him anymore. Tosses it into the burning heap and looks around.
Where is he? Some sort of high-rise apartment building canyon. Oh, yeah. Mid-fifties—near Gia's. He spots a taxi stopped down the slope from the burning Beamer. Driver is twisted around. Seems to be trying to back up but the cars stacked behind him are preventing it.
Jack starts walking toward the cab. Driver turns and sees him. Eyes widen in his dark face and he tries to wave Jack off.
A cab, in my city, not wanting to give me a ride? What's happening around here? Has everyone gone crazy?
Keeps walking toward the cab. Driver has stopped waving. Doesn't appear to be the kind who believes in crosses, but from the look on his face if he had one he'd probably be holding it up to ward off this burnt-up and torn-up guy walking his way. Seems about to put the car in gear—Don't even think about it—then changes his mind. Jumps out and runs back toward First Avenue.
Jack stops and watches him go. Now doesn't that beat all. What's wrong with people today? First furious impulse is to run after the little bastard and teach him some manners, but the cab is before him, engine idling, driver door standing open almost like an invitation.
Looks like I'll have to drive myself.
But when he gets in he has second thoughts. Front section of the cab looks like a landfill—empty twenty-ounce Diet Pepsi and Mountain Dew bottles roll, Snickers and Dove Bar and peanut butter cracker wrappers flutter, and scattered all across the floor is a good half-inch layer of empty pistachio shells. Radio's playing some awful song in a foreign language—Farsi?—but at least the radio's still there. Can't say the same about the air bag; its compartment in the steering wheel is a gaping toothless mouth—either somebody stole it or it deployed sometime in the dim dark past and the driver never replaced it.
This is not, repeat, not suitable transportation for someone of Dr. Jack Moreau's stature but it's all he's got at the moment. Grabs the sticky gearshift, rams it into drive, and starts to move.
Wait. Move where?
Out of the city, zips through his brain. Out of the city—fast.
Doesn't remember why he should want to leave the city, but the idea is there, and it's insistent. But where out of the city?
Rage blooms anew as Jack passes the burning Beamer. He knows who owns it. Dragovic. That Serb bastard sent those two gooney boys to kidnap him and bring him—where? To his place in the Hamptons, of course, the place Jack trashed.
Now Jack knows where he's going.
All the Rage rj-4 Page 27
