Codename

by F. Paul Wilson

  He figured wrong.

  As the security guard barked some warning that he probably practiced in front of a mirror, I leapt at him, clipping him with the heel of my hand in the bundle of nerves between his upper lip and nose. He staggered back a step, and I advanced, cupping my hands and slapping his ears, then grabbing the cartilage and using him as a pull-up bar while introducing my knee to the bottom of his chin.

  Any of the three blows would have disabled him enough for me to get past, but I was irritated and needed to vent. Irritated from traveling, and from my locker being empty, but most of all because this gym monkey didn't bother calling for back-up or pulling his weapon.

  Big mistake. Never underestimate your opponent. It was one of the first lessons I'd learned in training, and one I'd just passed on to the guard.

  He dropped to his knees, hands pressed to his face; another rookie mistake. It's impossible to defend yourself when you're covering your eyes. Rather than keep hurting him, I took his ASP, stuck it into my jacket pocket, and then exited onto Amsterdam.

  My heartrate was slightly elevated, but it didn't take me more than ten steps to get my breathing under control. I settled into a relaxed walk, peering in the windows of closed shops as I strolled. The bright white reflection of a squad car passed on the street behind me, mixed among the yellow cabs and black limousines.

  Just out to get some dinner. Nothing to see here.

  I took a circuitous route, first heading north, then east, then south-east again down Broadway. I cut east when I hit 67th, lights on either side of the street ending in the shadows of trees a long block ahead. It reassured me to have the ASP in my pocket, but I still needed a gun.

  And if I played things right, I had a pretty good idea of where I could find one.

  Jack

  Jack checked himself in the front window of a restaurant on Central Park West. He squared his Intrepid trucker cap, turned sideways to make sure his I ♥ NY sweatshirt hid the Glock in his nylon small-of-the-back holster, and tucked the cuffs of his jeans inside his cowboy boots. A big gold eighteen-wheeler belt buckle completed the picture.

  Could he look more touristy?

  Not likely.

  He had a name for this getup: Super Tourist Man.

  The purpose? Bait.

  Jack crossed CPW and strolled into Central Park. April had arrived and that meant kicking off the Repairman Jack Annual Park-A-Thon. He'd started it a couple of years ago. Simple really: dress like an easy mark, wait for a mugger to take advantage, relieve said mugger of all his valuables, turn them into cash, donate all proceeds to the local Little League.

  Help the kids while blowing off steam.

  People called that a win-win.

  Jack surveyed his surroundings as he ambled across the Sheep Meadow. In April, Central Park played host to the more adventuresome – some might say desperate – thugs. With the leaves still weeks from full size and thickness, cover was sparse. Dragging a victim into thick underbrush wouldn't be feasible for another week or two.

  He passed couples and small groups dotting the wide expanse of grass, hunkered on blankets, sipping wine as they watched the stars. They weren't threats and most likely wouldn't be threatened. He kept moving, aiming for the deep shadows on the eastern flank of the Sheep Meadow. The glow from the Tavern on the Green and the apartment buildings on Central Park West didn't reach that far, and the bordering trees blotted out the faint starshine.

  He'd been taking his time, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. As he neared the trees he noticed someone moving among the trunks, heading downtown toward even deeper shadows. Nothing furtive about the slight figure. A kid? No, a woman in a black pants suit. Short brunette hair, strolling along through the dark like she hadn't a care in the world. Was she nuts? Even the most clueless tourist should know she was asking for trouble.

  And sure enough… another dark shape, this one crouched and furtive as all hell, slipping up behind her.

  Damn. Citizens always complicated matters. The demimondaines rolled with it. You got mugged while out mugging, yeah, you were embarrassed but you put it down to the cost of doing that sort of business. You took your lumps, got even if you could, but you kept your mouth shut.

  Citizens, on the other hand… citizens filled out reports, gave statements, provided descriptions to sketch artists. Citizens were a royal pain in the ass.

  By all rights he ought to let this gal get rolled. He hadn't come here to play Batman. A little roughing up now would be a learning experience that might save her life next time she had an urge to walk through the dark alone.

  The second shadow quickened its pace toward her.

  Shit.

  Jack broke into a run.

  Chandler

  I might have heard him earlier had the ground here in the shadows not been so spongy. No worry. The moss muffled his footsteps, but not completely. I didn't look around. No need. He wasn't running. At least not yet. More like quick walking. Maybe eight kilometers an hour. I'd be ready for him when he reached me.

  If he was practiced at this, he'd accelerate at the very end, barrel into me hard, ramming his shoulder into my mid-back to knock the wind out of me and keep me from yelling, then power me down and shove my face into the dirt. Slam my head against the ground a couple of times to stun me, check my pockets, grab my Coach, my phone, and take off.

  Assuming that was his game. If he was looking for love rather than money, he was going to end up with worse than the concussion I was planning to give him. I didn't like rapists. And the ASP I took could do permanent damage to a guy's reproductive future.

  Hopefully, this was just a scumbag robber, not a scumbag sexual predator. But either way, I was ready.

  His footfalls quickened, closing the gap between us. I maintained an unaware expression, keeping my eyes straight ahead, breathing steadily through my nose, taking in the scent of wet grass, the aroma of pricey cuisine wafting from Tavern on the Green. I measured my steps and kept my balance centered. Timing was everything here. I had to duck and drop to one knee at the last second, assuming he was moving fast enough to fly over me. If he came slow, a quick pop with the baton and a judo throw. His steps weren't heavy, his weight advantage marginal. If I was lucky, he'd be carrying. I didn't have hopes for any quality heat – some piece o' crap Saturday Night Special, no doubt – but a decent caliber, at least. Seeing as this was New York, any criminal-type would go big or stay home. Anything .32 or below I'd have to keep looking. I wasn't that desperate. I'd–

  Movement to my right. Incoming at three o' clock. Different guy. When I'd noticed this one earlier, sweatshirt garishly proclaiming his affection for the town, he'd been crossing the open field from the west. He hadn't seemed to be heading anywhere in particular, a picture of nonchalance. Now he was bee lining my way. Working with the mugger behind me? A tandem attack didn't seem likely. Still…

  I heard the first picking up speed behind me, making his move.

  Okay, change in tactics. I was going to have to–

  Wait. The second guy was veering to my left. What the–?

  I spun in time to see him take a flying leap at my tail, slamming his forearm across the side of the man's head. The tail didn't know what hit him. He crumpled toward the grass with the second one following him down, delivering two more forearm shots before they ate turf.

  The guy knew what he was about – didn't risk his fists, even though they were gloved.

  Cop?

  I guessed the answer to that would be a big fat no when I saw him rifle through my tail's pockets. He emptied the wallet of its cash and snapped a chain from around his neck. He was pocketing these as he turned to me and pointed to the lights on the far side of the clearing. I couldn't make out his face.

  "See that restaurant over there? Head for it. You didn't see anything happen. Just buy yourself a stiff drink, and stay the hell out of here at night."

  So who was this guy? Vigilante? Keeping the park safe at night for all the defenseless, helpless
little girls?

  I considered my options.

  My would-be mugger hadn't been carrying a gun. But what self-respecting vigilante would come out here without packing some heat?

  I fluttered my hands in front of me, as if I didn't know what to do with them, and jumped my voice an octave.

  "Ohmygod! Ohmygod!"

  Jack

  Oh, crap. She was sounding hysterical – or heading there at ninety miles an hour.

  "Easy, easy."

  "Y-you saved me!" she wailed, closing the distance with a panicked scamper, then throwing her arms around him.

  Just what he didn't need. Not that he'd have minded at all under different circumstances. He'd caught a fairly good look at her face and she was easy on the eyes. Kind of cute, actually. The short dark hair gave her an almost pixie look. But this was neither the place nor the time.

  "I didn't save you," he said, trying to disengage.

  But she was crushing herself against him, running her hands over his back, down his hips. Was she a masseuse during the day?

  "Thank you so much! I don't know what I ever would have done if you hadn't jumped in like that!"

  Hey, wait – her hands had found his Glock.

  Jack half-turned, catching her wrist, almost missing it because she was pulling away so fast. The woman dropped to one knee, using leverage to break his grip, but Jack brought the other hand around and grabbed the Glock by the slide.

  And she hit him.

  Solar plexus, a solid jab. The air in Jack's lungs blew out in an umph, and he stepped away, pulling the gun out of her hand as he did. He didn't get surprised by much, but her reaction to his good deed caught him as off guard as a guy could possibly get.

  Sucking air, he held up his free palm, placating, while the other gripped the Glock.

  "Lady, I–"

  Then came a sound not unlike a shotgun racking, a snick-snick that Jack was sure he recognized. He got confirmation when he saw the black ASP baton snap out to full length in the woman's hand.

  He chanced a quick look into her eyes, to gauge intent.

  This wasn't a scared, confused victim.

  This was a predator.

  What had he stepped into?

  On one level, it fascinated him. His gut told him that she'd been cruising the park like he had, looking for trouble, her clueless female tourist act merely bait for the trap.

  Then his gut told him to jump back, and he did as the baton cut air in front of him, whooshing past his chest.

  She followed the attack with a spin kick, so fast he didn't have time to dodge. He bunched his shoulder, catching the blow with his triceps. Pain knifed through the muscle, then his arm went numb downstream from the impact.

  He considered the Glock. This woman was strong, fast, skilled, and apparently meant to do him harm. Maybe not to shoot her, but at least to warn her off. He raised the barrel, bringing it up, then continuing the arc to block the baton as it bore down again.

  The steel of his slide clanged against her baton, which missed Jack's knuckles by a few inches. Then she was jumping at him, a flying knee into his chest, and he blocked it but her momentum made him stagger back two steps. As she came down she had his gun hand under her armpit and was trying to leverage the 9mm away from him.

  Jack fell backward, taking the woman with him, flipping onto his side and sending her rolling across the grass. He hadn't let go of the Glock, but it felt strangely lighter. When he brought the gun up to aim, he saw he only had half a weapon.

  She'd removed the slide. No barrel, no striker, no way to shoot.

  Who the hell was this woman?

  "Glock Nineteen, right?" she said, already on her feet. "Give me the rest of it, and I won't hurt you,"

  She was fast. But Jack was back on his feet, too.

  "You can't do much with half a gun," Jack said.

  "Neither can you."

  She couldn't know about the Semmerling in his ankle holster. But drawing could be a bad move right now. She was too fast.

  "Did you ruin my striker? With your ASP?"

  "My what?"

  "ASP. I said ASP. You have a nice ASP, by the way."

  She didn't smile, not even a little. "Your slide is fine. But I need the rest of your piece."

  "I'm not your enemy, lady."

  "Chandler."

  "Chandler? Like the author? I have a first edition of The Big Sleep."

  "I've never read him."

  "Tell you what. You give me the rest of my Glock, I'll let you borrow the book. But you have to promise not to crinkle the dust jacket."

  Jack couldn't be sure, but this time he thought he caught the barest hint of a smirk on her lips.

  Maybe this girl wasn't so bad ass after all.

  Then she lunged.

  Chandler

  I was walking a tightrope between amused and annoyed.

  The good Samaritan who liked to rob robbers was cute. Not in any sort of GQ way. In fact, in a roomful of guys, I probably wouldn't have even noticed him. But he had a sense of humor, and he had some skills. I wasn't sure if it was martial arts training or street-taught – maybe a little of both – but this man was very good at defending himself and had reflexes that rivaled mine.

  Fast hands and a quick wit were two of three traits in men I found yummy. The third was a sharp dresser.

  This guy was not a sharp dresser. His outfit screamed rube. I mean, cowboy boots? In Central Park? Really? And what self-respecting cowboy tucked his jeans? The cherry on top was the hokey Intrepid trucker cap.

  Which is what I aimed for when I resumed the attack. Gripping the Glock's slide in my left hand, the baton in my right, I tucked, rolled, and came up in a snap kick, trying to knock the hat off his head, aiming a bit low because I was sure he'd duck.

  He did, faster than I expected. My foot caught the brim and it frisbeed into the park behind him.

  "You're much cuter without that," I said.

  "Gotta say, probably find you attractive as well if you stopped trying to beat the crap out of me."

  "I'm not trying. Yet."

  "There's enough violence in the world. Why don't we discuss this over coffee?"

  "Fine. First give me the gun."

  "Look, if we're both trolling for bad guys, we can work something out. Like split the park in half. Or work opposite nights. It's a big city. Plenty of room for both of us. What's your charity?"

  "What?"

  "My proceeds go to the Little League. You?"

  "I just need some reliable heat. And a Glock is as reliable as they come. I'll take the rest now, please."

  "You're funny. We don't even know each other."

  "I told you. I'm Chandler. And you are?"

  "Jack."

  "So now we know each other. Give me the Glock."

  The cocky bastard actually grinned, then stuck it in his pocket. "Come get it."

  I gave him points for that, and his cute factor went up a notch. But my annoyance factor notched up as well.

  "Hey!" said a mangled voice from my right. The mugger had struggled to a sitting position. "Hey, I saw her first."

  "Are you…?" Jack said, his voice harsh as he stepped toward him. "Are you actually calling dibs?"

  Jack stomped on his knee at the same instant I creased the guy's scalp with the ASP. As he returned to dreamland, I continued the motion, swinging the baton toward Jack. He reacted like he'd expected the move, raising a forearm block that caught my wrist, and then following with a fast, firm palm-thrust straight to my sternum that carried enough body behind it to knock me off balance.

  This guy was fast. But he hadn't hurt me like he could have.

  "You're holding back, aren't you?"

  That was irritating. What was up with New York guys? First the security guard, underestimating me. Now this guy, pulling his punches.

  It was enough to give a girl a complex.

  I tucked and did a quick somersault forward, going for an uppercut to the groin. He twisted and I struck his
hip, and then I rolled to the right when he tried to shove me. I used my momentum, coming up on one ankle in a turning back kick. I hit his ribs and I didn't pull it, and found his groan to be oddly satisfying.

  I anticipated his follow-up kick – I did not want him to connect with one of those big clunky cowboy boots – so I dropped into the splits as his leg sailed over my head (I could have just ducked, but why not show off a little?), and then swept out his other foot with my baton.

  Jack fell, and I immediately rolled on top of him, tossing the ASP aside so I could dig for the Glock in his jeans.

  "That's not the gun!" he yelled.

  "Oh. Sorry."

  Again, I almost smiled, and as I located the Glock handle in his pocket with one hand, he was prying the slide from my other. Then he shifted, rolling on top, pinning me down with my shoulders squared on the grass, his knee between my legs.

  For the moment, I allowed it, curious to see what would happen next.

  "Are we going to keep trading half my gun?" Jack asked.

  His breath smelled faintly of beer, and his weight on top of me was a reminder I hadn't gotten laid in a while. Force of habit, thinking of sex in violent situations. Though, truth told, Jack wasn't being particularly violent. He'd beaten the crap out of the robber but hadn't been all that aggressive with me.

  Big mistake.

  "I'll wrestle you for it," I said.

  I hitched up my pelvis and wrapped my legs around his waist, locking my ankles and squeezing. Jack's expression went from amused to red. Very red. I increased the pressure, squeezing his diaphragm, and he rolled to the side, tugging at my knees, trying to breathe.

  Not likely. I could crush melons like this and had, during training.

  Then his fingers dug into my sides and started wiggling. Looking for some nerve pinch? Going for my kidneys?

  No. He's trying to tickle me.