He knew exactly how they felt.
Which was why he was chasing this boy now. From his observations of the scene with the woman buried behind the Met, he had already developed a profile in his mind. This boy had kept her, not killed her, which meant either he had other plans for her, or had felt a stab of something—love? compassion?—that prevented him from acting on his natural impulses, which had otherwise been given free rein.
The shooter was not a Muslim, of that he was certain. Muslim fighters may kill women, but it is an unmanly thing to do. There was no glory in killing women, even infidel women, and however poor their combat skills were otherwise—and aside from the occasional rush of crazy bravery, they were very poor indeed—their reverent contempt for women in general had no place for their murder, unless on moral grounds. So most likely he was an American, one of these poor lost skells who had not yet found the way to his place below and beneath the earth. But now, if Devlin had guessed right, he was about to embrace his destiny.
The Angel had left most of his tools behind him. He knew enough never to underestimate any adversary, but this job did not require the LMT, or the Glocks. Instead, he brought the Judge and a KA-BAR knife. That would be enough.
When Byrne got the message, he acted on it immediately. Luckily, there were no department channels to screw around with; in his world, he was the absolute boss, and what he said, went. If necessary, he could call Matt White directly and that would be that, but he needed to have a long conversation with the Chief later, when this thing was settled, and until then he had to play out the hand and win at all costs. His invisible ally, whoever he was, was on his side, and when he said he needed the best police chopper in the fleet on standby, on the roof of the old Pan Am building, fully loaded with a Barrett, Byrne didn’t hesitate.
There was just one detail that puzzled him: there was no need to bother about a pilot, because one was on his way…
Danny Impellatieri stood on the roof of the MetLife Building and looked around. He’d been to New York plenty of times, of course, but he’d never seen it like this, in several senses of the word. Not from the roof of this centrally located building, right around Grand Central Terminal, for one. And certainly not with a blown-out hollow just a few long blocks to the west, the old Times Square. The fires had been quenched, but the rubble was still smoldering; it was awe-inspiring to think of the damage a few determined gunners and a powerful plastic explosive could do. God forbid that these maniacs ever get their hands on something more lethal…
But all that had had to wait until he made the phone call. He got her on the first ring.
“Danny? Danny? Is that you?” Hope had said, even before he spoke, and he could tell by the tone of her voice that those were not simply questions, but profound expressions.
He tried to stay calm. “It’s me, Hope. All you all right? Are the kids all right?”
“Oh, Danny, it was—it was horrible. We were up on the roof and then you found the way down and then…”
“And we found that cop,” he could hear Rory saying in the background.
“And then we got down just before the whole building collapsed and there was this wounded cop, just about as dazed and fucked up—pardon my French—as we were and he helped us and they got us over to the hospital to make sure everything was okay and it was, and we’re all fine and when can you get—”
“Hope,” said Danny, “wherever you are right now, I want you to stay there. If it’s safe, don’t move. I’ll come for you.”
He could feel the disappointment over the line. “But why can’t you—”
“There’s something I have to do first. Something really important.”
She got it. Good Girl. She got it. “Is it dangerous?”
He decided to laugh. “If it wasn’t dangerous, why would they ask me to do it? Any schmuck could do it.”
“Schmuck,” she repeated. “Is this a word I’m going to have to know and use?”
“Three times in a sentence, and then it’s yours,” he replied. He liked a woman with a sense of humor. No, check that, he needed a woman with a sense of humor. After that, everything else was negotiable. And from what he could tell of Hope Gardner, there wasn’t going to be much else to negotiate. Just the date of the wedding. Which he’d do right after he got back from this job.
“See ya in a few. Kiss the kids for me.”
Flying a helicopter over the East River was not as easy as it looked, but that was the gig. Unknown whether there would be incoming. Unknown at what altitude. There would be buildings to thread and bridges to dodge, no matter what.
He knew what it was before he heard it. Not one of the old Bells, the kind they used to use, or even one of the new 412 EPs, but an Augusta A-119 Koala—not just any old off-the-shelf model, either, but a souped-up jalopy that could fly at night with no lights.
He smiled. Okay, maybe this was going to be fun after all.
Devlin passed around, over and through things he didn’t want to think about. He couldn’t wait to take a bath after all this was over. He needed to take out his man and then get aboveground as quickly as possible, for after he dispatched this boy, Mr. Kohanloo was next. And then make contact with Maryam. That he hadn’t heard from her for a while was not worrying in itself, because op-sec was everything, but…He had to admit it: for the first time in his life, he cared.
There, up ahead: the connecting tunnel. Plenty of visitors, runners mostly, used the bathrooms provided above, and that effluent had to be flushed somewhere. If he’d read the plans correctly, he could go up via that passageway, break through to a utility closet, and be right where he needed to be.
If he couldn’t kill his man, he could stink him to death.
There—he was out of the sewer and into the utility room, which was larger than he had expected. At some point it must have been expanded a bit, probably during one of the Park’s many renovations and upgrades. There was a wash-basin and a toilet even down here, and he permitted himself a small chuckle as the thought occurred to him that this wasn’t much different from his office back at The Building, its entry-way, anyway.
The chuckle was on his lips and the thought on his mind when suddenly he was struck from behind by a tremendous blow to the head.
Arash Kohanloo set the Red Cross boat into the waters, heading south. Occasionally, furtively, he scanned the skies above for the drone, half-convinced it would come back after him. That Malak al-Maut knew his every move. But the skies were clear.
The waterways, too. A few boats moved on them, but the lockdown had affected all aspects of traffic in and around Manhattan. There would be cops about, of course, but to his relief he saw that there were other emergency craft churning the waters. He would glide in among them and use them for cover. His papers were all in good order. The thought had crossed his mind that perhaps they should have disguised the boat with Red Crescent markings instead—the politically correct authorities would be overjoyed to see America’s Muslim brothers helping out, and should anyone raise a fuss, the New York Times would be there to take their side—but it was too late for that now. Besides, many Middle Easterners were Christians, not just in Lebanon, but across ancient Assyria and into Iran itself, so he could certainly fake it and hope the cops had other and better things to do.
For the first time since the appearance of the Angel of Death, he began to breathe a little easier…
Danny climbed into the chopper and took a look around. A-OK. The baby was fully loaded, and there was a nasty-looking Barrett sniper rifle all greased up and ready to go.
Two men approached him as he revved ’er up: both cops. They made a beeline for him and hopped right in.
“I’m Capt. Byrne, this is detective Aslan Saleh,” said Byrne, pronouncing the name pretty well for a white guy, and reaching for the rifle. Saleh was obviously an Arab, and Danny let the question cross his mind that maybe NYPD had been infected by the PC-virus, then caught himself. Far more likely that NYPD had done what the useless CIA sho
uld have done in the days after 9/11, if not long before: start recruiting from the streets of South Side Chicago and the tougher parts of Brooklyn, instead of among the poet-asters of Kenyon College and the University of California at Berkeley. Good Lord, when was the Langley Home for Lost Boys going to learn how to fight?
“Martin Ferguson,” he said. “Welcome aboard.”
The chopper rose…
Devlin wasn’t sure what had hit him; some kind of stanchion, probably, something the kid had found in the room. Whatever it was, it hurt like hell. He was good, but he wasn’t Superman. He was tough, but he still bled. And he was bleeding now.
The blow to the head was followed by a power punch to the nose, which sent sparks shooting into his head. Either of the blows, had he known what he was doing, could have been killers; nobody had taught this punk, but he had the instincts of a pro. And Devlin hadn’t even seen his face yet. There was no worry that his opponent should see his, because no one had ever escaped from an encounter with the Angel.
Except, of course, Emanuel Skorzeny. And that mistake would someday soon be rectified.
Devlin rolled, confidently expecting to miss the next blow, but instead got a kick that just narrowly missed the point of his chin. Good God, who was this guy?
He lashed out, but again his man wasn’t where he expected him to be. The only thing he’d gotten right about this guy was his hidey-hole, and now he was beginning to think that that was on purpose.
Crash! A rusty old tool kit collided with the wall behind him, sending a shower of old, disused tools to the floor. At last, thought Devlin, he’s made a mistake. And then he realized that was exactly what the kid wanted to do. He knew Devlin would be armed; now he had an array of weapons to choose from, including screwdrivers, hammers, lug wrenches, and a couple of small saws with nasty, rusted-out teeth.
No more mistakes: the kid would be on him in a flash. And a kid he was, too, from the looks at him he could get. He had to end this and in a hurry.
“This is fun!” came the voice and a handful of nails hit him in the face, just missing his eyes.
A hammer hit him square on the back, missing the vertebrae.
Stop fighting like a pro, he thought to himself. Forget everything you know for about five seconds, just long enough to meet him in his own battlespace. Because right now you are getting the crap kicked out of you. Think; what did this punk want?
A sharp stab of pain as the point of a Phillips screwdriver slashed his pants and tore the flesh on his calf. Great, thought Devlin: I have enough toxic shit on me to poison the city, and now it’s heading for my bloodstream. Finish this. What did this punk want?
He had it: love and revenge. Just like everybody else.
“You’re good, Raymond” he said, dodging another thrust with the screwdriver. “Real good. I could train you.”
“Shit,” sneered Raymond. “From the looks of you, you old dog, you can’t even keep shit out of your ears.
Just a little pause in the assault. That was all he needed. A little more—
“I bet back home in Wahoo everybody thought you were a dork, didn’t they?” The kid threw a box cutter at him, with a wicked aim that creased the top of his hair. “Especially the girls. Am I right?”
Raymond’s eyes widened.
“And the girls probably made fun of you when you showed them that little dick, didn’t they? You need help, boy.”
“I don’t need no help to kick the shit out of you, buddy,” said Raymond, and he was on him again. This time, though, Devlin was ready. His head was still ringing, and there was blood somewhere and the clock was ticking and he had to finish his man and get the hell out of here, because Danny would be ready by now and—
“How could you help me? What could you teach me?”
That was all the opening he needed. Just that pause.
“How about this?”
Devlin lashed out with a perfect kick to the man’s throat, which sent him tottering backward, but didn’t knock him down. The kid was tough, he had to give him that. “Ow!” he exclaimed, and Devlin realized he was dealing with somebody who was maybe eighteen years old. Then he saw it, and any doubts he might have harbored about having the wrong man were gone. As Raymond tumbled, the woman’s hair fell from his belt, where it had been hanging. In a flash, Devlin scooped it up and held it aloft.
“She’s mine now, Raymond. I’m going to be the one who fucks her tonight, not you. So you’re going to have to listen to me and take my offer if you want to tap that ass.”
They were circling each other now, wary. Raymond was having a hard time breathing, and he was gulping like a fish on the bottom of a boat; the sort of blow he’d just received did that to you.
“Can you teach me?” Raymond croaked. “The Brothers taught me, but I bet you could teach me more. They didn’t let me near no pussy on account of the faith, but they knew I wanted some and they promised me I could get me some if I…” He coughed.
“If you became a martyr, is that right?”
Raymond nodded, lowering his head.
Because of its heavy handle, the KA-BAR wasn’t thought of as a great throwing knife. You could dig a trench with it, generally fuck somebody up pretty good with it at close range. But you could also conk them with it.
Devlin heard the skull crack as the handle of the Marine Corps knife came down on Raymond’s head; the blade cut his hand as he grasped it, but no matter. This would be over soon now. He just had to keep Raymond alive a little while longer. But first he had to teach him the lessons he so desperately wanted to learn.
Devlin sprang behind and caught him in a choke hold. He put the point of the knife under his chin, then releasing the hold, caught him with a hard left to the kidney. The boy whimpered but stiffened, and kicked backward. But now the fight was on Devlin’s terms. As Raymond turned, under the illusion he had escaped the deadly hold, Devlin thrust a thumb into his eye socket and popped the eyeball loose. It stayed in his head, dangling from its stalk.
“I thought you were going to teach me!” he shouted.
“I am teaching you,” Devlin replied calmly. “It’s just that you have to use what you’ve learned in the next life, because you sure as hell aren’t going to use it in this one.”
“That’s what you think, old man.”
He must have pulled the gun out of his ass or something because the next thing Devlin knew the room was being spray-painted with bullets and all he could do was react. He dove behind some old paint barrels and boxes, not thinking that they would block the shots, but that with only one eye Raymond’s aim would be off, that he’d be firing by instinct and that, once again, all he needed was a little time.
He must be slowing down. He’d never needed time like this, time like a dropped fighter needs when he’s taking a standing eight count. He should have listened to his own good sense last year, and gotten out when he could. He could still punch his ticket, take Maryam and go live somewhere far away from all this—Argentina, maybe, or New Zealand or Mongolia, for that matter. It didn’t matter. The whole world was the same damned fucking place to him, and he’d hated it since that day in Rome.
The firing stopped.
Devlin rose, the KA-BAR in his hand, grasping it by the handle this time. The Judge was still with him, but he wanted to impart one last lesson.
The heavy knife got Raymond right below the breast-bone. “Mama!” he cried.
A pro would know to lie down. A pro would know it was time to die, the way Milverton had done when he’d bested him. A pro would show some respect.
All these things young Raymond Crankheit still had to learn, and never would.
Devlin was hardly surprised when the kid, with four of the KA-BAR’s six inches stuck inside him, tried to pull it out. He was not surprised when the kid tried to bite him as he approached. Nothing this punk did would surprise him now.
“Last lesson, Raymond,” he said, pulling out the Judge. “When you shoot at somebody, make sure you don’t miss.”
Raymond’s face was a bloody, grotesque mask as he spotted Devlin, looking down at him. Whether he saw the gun was hard to say, but he surely knew what was coming. “Give it back to me,” he hissed.
“What?”
“The hair. My girlfriend’s hair. She’ll be mad at me if it gets lost.”
“I’ll make sure she gets it back, kid,” said Devlin. He thought a moment for an appropriate valedictory. “They say there but for the grace of God, and you know what—they’re right, if you don’t take the God part too seriously. But when I look at you, Raymond, I don’t see just another misspent youth, a life that went nowhere. I see something else. I see a kid that’s going to be saved, not cursed. You’ve got talent. You’ve got moves. You’ve got heart.”
“Thanks, pop,” Raymond said. “I wish you were my dad.”
“That’s why I’m not going to let you grow up, so that you can be like me. So they can make you into another version—maybe a better version—of me. Look at me, Raymond. Look at me.”
The boy turned what was left of his face to Devlin’s.
“Here, but for the grace of God, might have gone you.”
He fired two .45 rounds in Raymond’s heart. That got that part of the pain over with. He’d never feel another pang of love or lust or anger or hatred again.
Devlin looked down at the mess that had been Raymond Crankheit. Some woman bore this creature, some man had fathered him, whipped him, beaten him, turned him into the sniveling wreck he’d become, a pit bull that cringed in front of its master but attacked the neighbors. Somewhere there were the two people who were Raymond’s parents, and whether they still loved him or despised him, or whether they were even still alive, since Raymond might have killed them first, Devlin saw no point in having their son’s final, horrific misdeeds come back to haunt them. If he could not grant absolution to the son, then let him do it for the parents.
Michael Walsh Bundle Page 66
