Dark City

by F. Paul Wilson

  A sweet deal, and the only thing that can mess it up is some clown coming along and busting up a ton of windows. Then you gotta deliver on your repair contract. But you ain’t got no crew because you shitcanned them all so you wouldn’t have to pay them for doing nothing. Now you gotta find workers and you gotta buy replacement windows and all of a sudden money’s flying out the door instead of in. So you close up shop and disappear.

  Yeah, you take the money and run, leaving the customers holding the bag—tough shit—but the downside for you is your sweet deal is dead, and an easy, low-maintenance income stream has dried up.

  The Cannon’s plan was obvious—the Genoveses were hurting his business, so he was gonna hurt theirs.

  “All right, lissen up,” he said. “Aldo grabbed us two cars. They’re out back.” He handed Tommy a sheet of paper. “You and Vinny take one and hit the places listed here. Aldo and I will go for the others.”

  “How thorough you want us to be?” Vinny said.

  Tony hefted his Dirty Harry gun. “If you can see it from the street, I want it dead. Don’t go tryin’ to impress me by getting out and walking ’round the side or any shit like that. I won’t be impressed at all if you get collared. In fact, I’ll be royally pissed. So keep it simple, stupids: Drive up, stop, blast away, move on. Capisce?”

  They nodded and let Tony lead the way out the back door. As promised, a couple of late-eighties sedans idled in the rear alley.

  “Dibs on the moonroof,” Tommy said, grinning like an idiot. “You drive.”

  He was jacked now. Shooting up storefronts was his idea of a good time. Better than plinking at the cars in the salvage lot, Vinny guessed.

  Vinny didn’t mind driving, though it was a tight fit behind the wheel of the Olds, even with the seat all the way back. He checked the addresses. The farthest were in Astoria—three on Steinway and two on Ditmars. Astoria was kind of a dead end, what with three sides taken up by water and LaGuardia. Probably best to start there and work their way back toward the store. That way, if anyone started chasing them, he’d have more options for escape routes.

  The Van Wyck got them there in no time. Vinny ran Ditmars first, calling out the street numbers to Tommy who stood on the front seat and poked the upper half of his body through the moonroof to do his shooting: a Greek restaurant, a bagel shop, a kabob place, then two more restaurants on Steinway. Tommy laughed like a maniac the whole time.

  Next was a used car dealer on Broadway in Long Island City. Tommy shattered the big showroom windows, then shot up a few cars on the way out.

  “They weren’t on the list,” Vinny said.

  “Call it my contribution to his detail guys.”

  And in that instant, Vinny figured a way to get Tommy out of his hair—or at least out of his salvage yard.

  2

  After the Salaat-ul-Jumma, Kadir hurried away from the Al-Farooq Mosque with Sheikh Omar’s stinging words echoing in his ears. He’d known the blind cleric couldn’t see him, but Kadir could not escape the uncanny feeling that Sheikh Omar had been staring at him through those dark lenses as he’d preached about atoning for one’s transgressions.

  It sounded uncomfortably similar to what he had said to Hadya a few days ago as he’d shaved her bald. When he’d returned Monday night, she was gone, along with all her things. Good riddance.

  But had he transgressed? He’d made a mistake, that was beyond doubt. He shouldn’t have left the truck unattended. He had told no one, yet Sheikh Omar seemed to know. Could he hear the guilt in Kadir’s voice? Of course he could. The flash of the exploding truck, the impact of the shock wave, the sight of the tattered bodies in the morgue haunted Kadir’s sleep during the meager moments he found any. He was so filled with guilt, Sheikh Omar could probably smell it on him.

  Yes, he had made a mistake, but when a mistake caused the deaths of twelve soldiers of God, it became a sin of unimaginable magnitude.

  He hurried along Atlantic Avenue toward the East River. A sin of such enormity demanded atonement of equal magnitude. As he strode under the BQE overpass, with the afternoon traffic rumbling overhead, his goal came into view. Lower Manhattan rose across the river, and the two spires of evil soared above all the others, so close he felt he could reach out and knock them over with a blow from his fist.

  He and Mahmoud had stood here before and dreamed of bringing down those towers and everyone in them. Now he held his palms toward Heaven and swore to Allah that he would not rest until he saw both towers lying in heaps of rubble.

  3

  The tracking transmitter and remote trigger were taped to the doughy, off-white brick of C4. The detonator cap was inserted into the plastique. As a last step, Dane Bertel aligned the two wires of the cap and wrapped them in black electrician’s tape. He always left them as the last step in arming a bomb; the tape prevented a random static charge or anything else from causing accidental detonation.

  Yes, he knew the possibility was remote—perhaps beyond remote—but he firmly believed in Murphy’s law and expended a good deal of thought and effort toward subverting it.

  With the bomb ready for arming, he shoved it into the duffel he kept behind the front seat of his pickup. He would have replaced the one he’d used sooner but it had taken him longer than usual to obtain the C4.

  In retrospect he regretted detonating the bomb last week for a number of reasons. Not for the loss of life—the world was better off without those dozen or so murderous, child-slaving Mohammedan crazies—but because he had not ended the life he’d intended to end. No one named Reggie—in fact, no American—had been listed among the dead.

  The second reason was that the explosion tipped his hand a little more than he liked.

  The Mohammedans wouldn’t know. They thought of him as just another criminal in a degenerate country that didn’t worship Allah. And for all intents and purposes, they were right. He broke laws left and right, and had committed mass murder last week. At least that was what the law would call it. He saw it as vermin extermination. But before the eyes of the law, he was indeed a criminal.

  The country he was trying to save would put him on trial and seek a death sentence—or at the very least try to lock him away for the rest of his life.

  Never happen. He’d die first.

  No, the Mohammedans wouldn’t suspect, but Jack would know. And that worried him some. Jack was no dummy. But then again, Jack was a criminal too. And he had as much regard for baby rapers as Dane. But just like everybody else, Jack had no appreciation of the threat posed by these wild-eyed Mohammedans, these so-called jihadists.

  They preached worldwide Mohammedanism and the downfall of America. And it wasn’t just rhetoric. That blind asshole, Sheikh Omar Abdel-Rahman, recorded his hate-America rants and had his trusty, sandal-licking minions sell the tapes. Dane had bought a few—he understood Arabic—and knew this guy wasn’t just blowing smoke. He meant every word.

  Nope, Jack was smart but he didn’t see the big picture. Hell, hardly anybody saw the big picture. Most people saw a bunch of ragheaded zealots following a religion that kept them in the sixth century. And true, they produced no technology, but they didn’t have to. They could afford to buy the latest and greatest, and they could adapt it to shove it up the asses of the folks who did make it, and keep shoving it until the shovee said Allāhu Akbar.

  So Dane would have to put a little distance between Jack and himself. Too bad, because he liked the kid. But more than that, Jack showed real potential. He had a quick mind and an outlook that mixed outlaw mentality with a moral code. That kind came around only once in a blue moon. Too often the outlaws had no code, and just as often the moral types were too blindered by their code to make a distinction between the right thing and the legal thing.

  Yeah, Jack had potential, but Dane had to keep his eye on the prize: Find indisputable proof that these were the most dangerous people on Earth, and then use that as a wake-up call—shove it in the face of all the assholes who thought he was crazy and make
them do something about it before it was too late.

  Crazy … He looked around the front room of his apartment with all the newspaper clippings and magazine pages and photos tacked to the wall. He’d seen his share of psycho apartments and this sure as hell looked like one. But displaying the bits and pieces at all times served an important function: He kept seeing something new and making fresh associations.

  And those associations were leading him beyond jihad to something else. Something bigger, something more sinister, something so pervasive and so secret that he saw only wisps of its shadow.

  He’d hinted at this to Jack, but just barely. He was already considered a paranoid nutcase in some quarters. To start talking about an ancient, ongoing überconspiracy was a one-way, nonstop ticket to a straitjacket.

  So he had to keep quiet.

  And vigilant.

  Ever vigilant.

  4

  Hadya stared at herself in the mirror and ran a trembling hand over her shaven head. She still didn’t quite believe it. How could he? Her own brother.

  When she’d shown the other workers at the bakery, her friend Jala had offered to share her apartment. Hadya had jumped at the chance to be away from Kadir.

  What had happened to her brother? He had been such a gentle soul back home. What had changed him so? It could only be his beloved Sheikh Omar and the hate he spewed. Kadir had fallen for it, every word. He was now determined to bring jihad to America.

  Hadya could not allow that. She saw her future here and would not let madmen like her brother ruin it. She would keep a watchful eye on Kadir. And if she suspected that he was going to do something terrible, she would report him.

  Yes. Her own brother.

  But he was no longer her brother, was he? He had disowned her. And that left her free to stop him any way she could.

  5

  Jack stopped on the sidewalk and stared at the two new signs hanging outside The Spot—or what had formerly been called The Spot. The old sign above the windows was covered with a cloth that had been spray painted with Julio’s. Under that hung a banner proclaiming the place Under New Management.

  Jack had been wondering how the deal had gone this morning. No need to wonder any longer.

  He stepped through the door and looked around. The place looked exactly the same. Julio stood behind the bar, Lou and Barney were in their usual places. A few of the regulars hung out at the tables. A guy Jack didn’t recognize sat alone at a table against the rear wall.

  “How about some truth in advertising out there?” Jack said as he approached the bar.

  Julio looked up. “What you mean?”

  “It’s the same old management—nothing new about it in the least.”

  “Well, it’s a new owner.”

  “Everybody’s happy then?”

  Julio grinned and started pouring a Rolling Rock. “When Zalesky don’t show up—”

  “Really?” Jack said, widening his eyes. “I wonder why not? He really seemed to want the place. Think he’s okay?”

  “Ain’t got a clue. Maybe he had a, whatchacall, change of heart. Anyway, when I put that cash on the table, the deal was good as done.”

  “Congrats.”

  “Just some paperwork to go through, then a closing.”

  Julio slid the pint toward Jack, who took it and raised it high.

  “To the new owner of—I almost said ‘The Spot.’ It’s Julio’s now. To Julio’s. Julio’s forever.”

  Lou said, “I’ll drink to that,” and he and Barney clinked glasses with Jack.

  Jack took a hefty quaff and gestured toward the windows. “Now you can get rid of those damn ferns.”

  Julio stared at the hanging pots and their wilting inhabitants. “I think I keep them.”

  “Better water them, then,” Barney said. “They look pretty damn thirsty.”

  “They look pretty damn dead,” Lou said.

  Jack took another sip. “I thought you hated them.”

  “I do, meng. Nita thought keeping them all green and shiny would bring in the yuppies. I’m figuring leaving them hanging in the windows all dead and dusty will keep ’em away.”

  “Might work,” Jack said. “But I wouldn’t count on it. People are weird.”

  “And yuppies are the weirdest,” Lou said.

  “We’ll see,” Julio said. “Meanwhile, I got someone I want you to meet.”

  “Who?”

  “Friend of Rosa’s.”

  Jack raised his hands. “Oh, no. No blind dates. Don’t go trying that cupid thing. I’m doing just fine.”

  Julio made a face. “I look like Cupid? I’m talking ’bout a guy friend.”

  Lou slapped the bar. “Jack! I never would’ve guessed!”

  “Yeah,” Barney added. “Slipped right past my gaydar.”

  Julio ignored them and pointed toward the guy at the rear table. “He works with Rosa. She was telling me about this problem he’s got.”

  “What kind of problem?” Jack said, suddenly wary. “You didn’t tell her anything about…”

  “No-no. The less she know about that the better.”

  “About what?” Barney said.

  “Yeah,” Lou said. “What’re we missing?”

  Those nosy coots had ears like bats.

  Julio lowered his voice. “Something he can’t go to the law about. He’ll tell you about it.”

  “What’s it got to do with me?”

  “Sounds like something a sneaky guy like you might be able to fix. Who knows? You might have fun with it.”

  “Fun?”

  “Hey, meng, I saw your face last Saturday. You was having mucho fun. And this guy’s even willing to pay for your time.”

  “Fun and pay.” Jack couldn’t help smiling. “How can I say no?”

  “He’s back at your table. Come on—”

  “My table?”

  “Yeah. Your table. Nobody else sits there—unless they here to meet you. I don’t care how crowded we get, if you ain’t here, it stays empty.” He pointed again toward the table. “Come on. I introduce you.”

  My own table, Jack thought as he fell in behind Julio. I knew I liked this place.

  He finally had some sort of a life. He had friends. He had Cristin—well, as much as anyone could have Cristin. He had a cool apartment. With Rosa’s friend here, he might be looking at a way to bring in a few bucks fixing problems, adjusting situations.

  The last months had been totally crazy, but things seemed to be settling down now. He hoped they stay settled. He could do without surprises for a while.

  6

  Reggie shivered and turned his collar up against the wind as he limped through the Lower East Side along Allen Street. Not a great neighborhood, but Allen was a busy street and he was dressed like he belonged here, so no one paid him any mind. His knees were killing him. Some days they weren’t so bad, some days they sucked. Today was a major suckage day.

  But he’d had to get out of that little room. The walls were beginning to move in on him. Really, how long could you practice with your bow? And how long could you wait for some sign that the outside world knew you were still alive?

  Yeah, neither the cold wind nor the pain bothered him nearly as much as not hearing from Drexler in a week. He didn’t know what to make of that. His whole clinging-by-the-fingertips position with this Order was based on Drexler’s hard-on for the guys who busted up the kid deal and stole the money. After last week’s complicated setup to nab those guys turned out to be such a huge bust, had they given up? Were they simply gonna write off the three mil? Was that why he hadn’t heard from anybody?

  Or were they pissed at him? Did they think the fuckup was somehow his fault? That was all al-Thani had wanted to know as they were driving away from what was left of the truck and the Arabs it had been hauling. How’d the bomb get there? Who could’ve put it there?

  Yeah, well, Reggie wanted to know too. That took planning. It had to. Unless they were dealing with a guy who just happens to rid
e around with a brick of C4—that was what the bomb squad had told the papers—rigged with a remote detonator on the offhand chance he might need it. What kind of nut job does that?

  Had Drexler figured Reggie and Camel Boy had left the truck unguarded? Hell, it had only been for a coupla minutes at that rest stop. How the fuck could someone rig a bomb in the time it had taken them to call in?

  Whatever it was, the Order sure as hell had left him hanging. Like he was being shunned or something. At least they hadn’t kicked him out of the place they’d given him. Not yet, anyway. But he was running out of money. If this kept up he’d have to get a job.

  He shook his head. Me—working a fucking straight job.

  That was like an insult.

  He was coming up to Delancey Street, at a standstill as usual at this time, what with all the outbound traffic trying to get on the Williamsburg Bridge. Not that he cared. His plan was to reach Delancey, then turn around and walk back. He’d gotten some fresh air and exercise, got himself out of that tiny room for a while. That was all—

  He froze, staring at the taxi crawling along directly in front of him. Reggie could see the passenger only in profile—the guy’s attention was fixed straight ahead—but damn if he didn’t look familiar. Who—?

  A warning preceded recognition—Don’t let him see you.

  Reggie backed away and edged into a shadowed doorway. He peeked out for another look. Damn if that didn’t look like Tony.

  Impossible, of course. Tony was dead—killed in the Outer Banks house by Tim or one of his crew. Reggie still felt kinda bad about that. Tony had been a good guy but, hey, Reggie and Moose and Tim had been cooking up a gigundo omelet and Tony was one of the eggs that wound up broke. Too bad, but shit happened.