“So—what now?”
Cross took a deep drag from his smoke, and snapped it out the side window of McNamara’s white Crown Vic.
“It’s done,” he said.
“That right?”
“That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?”
“It’ll do,” McNamara said, starting up his car as a signal to Cross that their conversation was over.
CROSS WAS alone with Tiger in the back office of the Double-X. “Something’s going on,” he said.
“What?”
“You remember that job I got shanghaied into? The one where you visited me in the MCC?”
“I’m not likely to forget that.”
“That … brand they put on me. The little one right—”
“Here?” Tiger said, touching the spot with a blood-red fingernail.
“Yeah. I don’t know what I’m even saying with ‘they.’ It’s not like I ever actually saw anything.”
“You told me—”
“That wasn’t a thing, Tiger. It was a … presence of some kind. We tried to put a name to it, but there isn’t any.”
“Well, it’s gone now.”
“No, it’s not. That little blue thing, you can see it when it shows up. I can’t, not even in the mirror. But I can feel it. And I felt it when I was talking with Mike Mac this morning. Twice.”
“You don’t think—?”
“It’s got to mean something. And that ‘Taylor’ girl, she was on somebody’s payroll, no question about that. Only we never got to ask her.”
“You should have put me on it.”
“On Arabella, you were the perfect choice. But that ‘Taylor’ girl was on a lot of payrolls, I’m thinking.”
“More than the feds?”
“I’m … not sure. They’d be the logical ones, sure. They don’t know what went wrong on that last operation, but they know I’m the only one left they could question about it.”
“What about me? Or Tracker?”
“You hired on, remember? Probably got told some fairy tale to get you to do it. And they would’ve made the money good enough, too. But you weren’t there. Not when it … happened. Blondie and Wanda, either they’ve been pumped and dumped—which is my best guess—or they’re still on a payroll, only further down the ladder. Percy, that guy’s barely human, but he’d be loyal to death—he’d tell them everything he knew. Which would tally with anything anyone could tell them, right up to the moment they sent me in.”
“So they’ll need a handle this time? To get you to talk to them, I mean.”
“No,” Cross said, lighting a smoke. “Those guys color outside the lines all the time, but what could they use? Prison? I’ve been there. They couldn’t keep me when I was a kid, and I got a lot more resources now.”
“But if you make it out, what then? You couldn’t take your people with you.”
“I wouldn’t let them. I could disappear, but where would I hide Rhino and Princess? Buddha and Ace, they’re tied to Chicago. They could get money to me, and I wouldn’t need any more than that to stay invisible.”
“They could lock you down so deep that—”
“Sure. And that gets them … what?” Cross said, hitting his cigarette lightly again. “They already know any story I felt like telling them, it’d slide right past their polygraphs. And there’s no such thing as escape-proof. If one guy can build it, another guy can break it.”
“Maybe …”
Cross took a last, quick drag, rubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the desk. “There’s one thing they can never stop me from doing, Tiger. One thing I can always do, no matter what.”
“Tell me,” the Amazon said, her eyes telegraphing that she really wanted to know.
“I can die trying.”
“YOU THINK those … you think they want payback, boss?”
“I told you what happened down in that prison basement, brother. If … whatever it is wanted to just take me off the count, they could do it anytime they felt like it.”
“But when that little thing on your face turns blue, you can feel it burn, right?”
“Yeah.”
“A message, maybe?”
“I think it’s more like a GPS, only a million times better. No matter where I go, they can find me. Fingerprints, mug shots, they’re way past stuff like that.”
“Maybe that’s the message.”
“Maybe.…”
“What, boss?”
“If that’s the message, I got it. I hope you’re right, Buddha. But it just doesn’t … feel like that’s it. I can’t tell you any more than that—I don’t know any more than what I said.”
“Many died inside that prison,” Tracker said, speaking slowly, as if working out a problem as he went along. “Whatever was doing the killing, it might have been random at first. But as it worked its way to where you and the others were waiting to try and capture it, there was no more random. A choice was made.”
“You’re saying, it made a decision to let me live?”
“It seems so.”
“Why the hell would it—?”
Tracker shrugged at Buddha’s question, indicating he’d already said all he had to say. All he knew.
The three men were silent for a long minute. Then Princess burst into the back room of Red 71.
“Buddha! You said we were going to go racing again. As soon as that other thing was over. You promised!”
Buddha took a deep breath to emphasize his patience.
“Sweetie wants to go, too!”
“Naturally.”
“Can’t we go—?”
“Princess,” Cross said, gently, “you know there’s no daytime racing.”
“Well … Sure. But it’s been—”
“Saturday night’s the money night,” Buddha explained for at least the tenth time. “That’s when the cops are busiest, handling heavier business. And the racing, it’s flash-mob style now, too. The location doesn’t go out until an hour or two before.”
“This is Thursday,” Princess said.
Buddha again took a deep breath.
“So maybe this Saturday, huh, Buddha?”
“Fine,” Buddha snapped. “This Saturday, okay? But not until at least after midnight.”
“That would be Sunday, then.”
“Will you—?”
“That’s right, Princess,” Cross cut Buddha off, possibly averting a disaster. “But people who go out Saturday night still think it’s Saturday even when they stay out real late, see?”
“Oh. Then we’ll be here at midnight on Saturday, right, Buddha?”
“Swell.”
“WHAT THE hell am I supposed to do with—?”
“Just take him along. What’s the big deal?”
“No big deal at all. Unless somebody ‘starts something.’ Then I’d need a few rounds from a ten-gauge tranq-out gun to slow down that maniac. And that dog … damn!”
“They don’t have to get out of the car.”
“But they could. And don’t even think about me bringing Rhino, too. He might calm down the psycho, but I’m adding—what?—another half-ton of weight. Which nobody’s gonna credit me for.”
“You don’t have to win the damn race, Buddha.”
“They don’t play for fun out there, boss.”
“It’s just money. We’ve got plenty. Tell you what: you put up a G—that’s plenty, right? I’ll pay it myself. You win, keep the cash, and just pay me back what I put up. You don’t, forget about it, okay? No way you can lose a dime.”
“Boss, it’s gonna cost a lot more than a grand just to run. I got to rewrap the car—somebody might recognize it.”
“How much?”
“There isn’t enough,” Tracker said.
Cross turned his head slightly in Tracker’s direction.
“Amen,” Buddha said.
Cross didn’t change position.
“It is not in Buddha to lose,” Tracker said, quietly. “Cheating to win would
work for him. But cheating to lose, that would not be in Buddha’s spirit.”
“Just say a number,” Cross sighed.
“That’s okay, boss. Tracker just gave me a great idea.”
THE SHARK CAR rolled into the gathering on the outskirts of the Badlands, now wrapped in a coat of pearlescent orange, with tiny fish scales embedded to catch any ambient light.
“When do we—?”
“Will you please remember what I told you? I got to make a race before we get a race. You know I got to talk to people to do that. And you know what you’re supposed to do. Okay?”
“Okay,” Princess said, just short of sulking. “But we are gonna—”
Buddha was out of the car and moving toward the gathering before Princess could finish whatever he was going to say.
“WHO YOU think you’re talking to, some fool who wants to race on TV?” Buddha said to a tall man who was standing at the front of a refrigerator-white Mustang, arms crossed to emphasize his heavy-investment biceps. “I’m supposed to believe this is your daily driver, right? Why? Because it’s got plates on it? Sure. Those headlights pop right out, don’t they? How else are you gonna feed those turbos you got under there?”
“I don’t run a lot of boost, so I can drive to work and all.”
“You got your laptop boys handy—you can dial up any boost you want. And those fittings out back, say you’re not gonna snap in a set of wheelie bars before you go? And that means leaving on that boost; otherwise, you wouldn’t need them.”
“I’m not trying to get over on anyone,” the man said. “My car is known, pal. Where’s yours?”
“Right over there.”
“That? The orange one?”
“Yeah.”
“And you want to go for …?”
“Whatever you show.”
“I can show five G’s, if that’s what you want.”
“If that’s all you got, sure.”
Buddha walked back to the Shark Car, with the Mustang man and at least a dozen others in his wake.
“How much does that thing weigh?”
“Over seven.”
“Get the hell out of—”
“Well, that’s with me in it. And my passenger.”
“That must be some passenger.”
“Tap on the window,” Buddha invited. “See for yourself.”
The Mustang’s owner took up the challenge, tapping the window with the knuckles of his right fist.
The glass zipped down.
“Hi!” Princess said, extending his hand.
The Mustang’s owner stepped back, not interested in letting whatever in hell that was grab his hand. Then a warning growl came from a black-faced beast that popped its head out the same window. The entire crowd moved back.
“Want to see more?” Buddha asked.
“How about the engine?” the Mustang man said, as he hastily walked around to the front of the Shark Car.
“How about not” was Buddha’s reply.
“I should just take your word for—”
“My headlights work,” Buddha said, neglecting to mention that the DOT Xenon beams draped in an “eyebrow” pattern surrounded hubcap-sized paint peelers concealed behind blacked-out mesh. “There’s no wheelie bars out back. So just assume the worst. I’ll tell you this much—there’s no turbo under the hood.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No replacement for displacement.”
“And you got no bottle, either, right?”
“Got three of them,” Buddha said, calmly. “A one-fifty, a two hundred, and a three.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” one man said. Quietly. And with genuine reverence.
“You wanna do this or not?” Buddha said.
“You leave on all that nitrous, you’re gonna fry those tires,” one of the other men said.
“Appreciate the advice,” Buddha said. “But I didn’t come here for advice—save that for your video games.”
“For five grand, I get how many lengths?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Buddha told the Mustang man. “Just because I didn’t see the trailer that hauled your ride, you really think I’m blind enough to miss that you’re running a total lightweight? Yours is back-halfed for sure, maybe even a tube-chassis car. Think I didn’t glom the Plexiglas? Or the missing wipers? Plastic fenders, right? So you’ve got turbos hauling maybe a ton. I got a street car, three-plus times as much weight as yours. All real, all steel, and all wheel—drive, that is. Like the man over there said, I can’t leave on all those shots I’m packing, and I’m supposed to give you lengths?”
“We go on the flash,” the Mustang man said grimly.
“Sure. Only we go on, say … his flash,” Buddha said, offhandedly pointing at a young man standing in the gathering crowd. A man in a neon-blue jacket that matched his Mohawk.
“WHAT’S THAT for, Buddha?”
“I’m dialing in the splitter.”
“Huh?”
“You remember when we stopped before? When I went out back, behind the car?”
“Sure!”
“I got a quick-change rear. Anything between 4.56 and 2.04. But that won’t help if the blastoff hits all four wheels equal, okay? So—what I’m doing is dialing it so eighty-five percent goes to the rear wheels.”
“Like … balance, right?”
“Yeah. Just like that.”
“Buddha, do you think any of them recognized Condor?”
“Because of that Mohawk? Nah. They’ll think I just picked someone who looked like they couldn’t possibly be one of his boys. You know, because I didn’t want the starter to be on his side.”
“But Condor, he’ll be on our—”
“Really?” Buddha cut off the man-child, even as he realized sarcasm would just bounce off Princess. When am I gonna learn? he admonished himself. For at least the hundredth time.
CONDOR STOOD between the two lined-up cars, a large-lensed HID flashlight in his fist. He flashed it once to the right, watched as the Mustang’s driver held up a fist, indicating he was ready to go. As the Mustang’s turbos whined to an ear-damaging peak, Condor flashed the light again, took Buddha’s acknowledgment, and stepped back a few paces.
The Shark Car opened its muffler bypass. The ground-shaking rumble of its 14.5-liter Hemi flowed out, bouncing off the bodies of the spectators.
“Da-amn!” one young black man exclaimed, as if shocked. Had those standing near him known he had already placed a bet on the disguised Shark Car, they might have been suspicious. But since they’d been stunned into silence themselves, the possibility never occurred to them.
“What’s that button for? The one on top of the—”
“Trans-brake,” Buddha said, his eyes focused on a point at the very top of the dashboard.
Before Princess could ask another question, a tiny orange dot flared. Buddha released the trans-brake a microsecond before Condor’s flash blazed.
While the Mustang still had its front wheels in the air, Buddha was a good three lengths ahead, and pulling.
The outcome wasn’t close. The young Chinese man holding the videocam at the finish line wasn’t asked for a replay—even the most fervent supporters of the Mustang didn’t waste their breath.
A lot of money changed hands.
“YOU JUMPED!” the Mustang man yelled.
“No, you jumped,” Buddha said, without raising his voice. “Only you didn’t know it was off a cliff.”
The murmuring of the crowd made it clear that any claim that Buddha had left early wouldn’t get any support.
“My five grand—”
“You mean my five grand.”
“Man, I know you cheated. I’ve got a—”
“Nine-point-five car, right? Maybe a shade under? And you just had to grab some big air, too. You brought a butter knife to a mortar fight, pal. Get over it.”
Princess suddenly jumped out of the Shark Car, holding the snarling Akita on a chain that would have anchored a cabin cruiser.
&nbs
p; “What’s wrong, Buddha?”
“Seems like this guy thinks we cheated.”
“We did not!”
“I know, Princess. Just calm down, okay? He knows better now.” Turning to the Mustang man’s backers, the always underestimated man said, “Right?”
One of the Mustang’s crowd pulled away his denim jacket, making certain Buddha could see the butt of his semi-auto. But before he could launch into a speech, Buddha’s pistol was out, its laser sight flaring red between the man’s eyes.
“Seriously?” the pudgy man said, his black-agate eyes scanning the crowd for any takers.
A man a few years older than most of the crowd tossed an envelope of bills at Buddha. The Shark Car’s driver snatched it out of the air without taking his eyes off the crowd. Or his laser sight off the gun-showing fool’s white T-shirt.
He backed toward the car, telling Princess to come along with his dog. The car exited in a sound blast, leaving a crowd of dazed men, many of whom would later remember side bets with some teenagers—teenagers who had disappeared as quickly as the randomly chosen boy with the blue Mohawk.
“You shorted him, right?” the Mustang driver said to his backer.
“Yeah. That would have been a smart move. If I’d known you were gonna go against the Shark Car, I would’ve stayed home.”
“The what?”
“Ah,” the older man sighed, “never mind. I wouldn’t have known myself, unless I was a lot closer. That paint job …”
“What are you talking about?” the Mustang’s driver said. “No way that guy could have fixed the race.”
“Didn’t have to,” the old man said. “That car … I don’t know what they have in there, but those guys, they always play for keeps.”
“Who? What guys?”
“Look,” the old man said, “I’m only gonna say this once. That driver, that’s Buddha. And that monster with him, that’s Princess. The dog, that’s a new one on me. But here’s the bottom line: do not mess with any of them, ever.”
“Who the hell are—?”
“The Cross crew. Ask around, you’ll get the joke.” The man waited a couple of seconds. Then he shrugged his shoulders and walked away.
A few seconds later, the sound of police sirens ripped the night.
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