Hardbingers rj-10 Page 2

  Jack hopped out of the cab at Hudson and Worth and looked around. He hadn't taken time to change. Kept the jeans and beat-up bomber jacket he'd worn to the doctor's. He noticed a bearded guy on the corner. A ragged-cut square of cardboard with a crudely printed message dangled from his neck.

  The guy could have been anywhere from forty to seventy. A flap-eared cap covered much of his head. A dirty, gray, Leland Sklar—class beard hid pretty much everything else. He wore what looked like a dozen layers of sweaters and coats, none of which had seen the inside of a washing machine since the Koch administration. He jiggled the change in the blue-and-white coffee container clutched in his gloved hand.

  Louie had said look for a beard hanging around Worth and Hudson. This could be him.

  "Cool sign," Jack said. "How's it working for you?"

  "A gold mine," he said without inflection. He kept his eyes straight ahead. "Get 'em to smile and they part with some change."

  "Mickey's got an V in it."

  Still no look. "So I been told."

  "You Rico?"

  Now he looked. "Yeah. You Jack?"

  "Hear you saw something."

  "Maybe. Heard there was a reward for finding a red-haired kid, so I been keeping my eyes open."

  "And?"

  "Follow me."

  He led Jack around a couple of corners, then stopped across the street from an ancient five-story, brick-fronted building.

  "I seen three guys carrying a red-haired girl through the cellar door over there."

  The building looked deserted. The scaffolding and boarded-up windows said remodeling in progress.

  Rico said, "Lucky thing I was looking that way because it happened so fast Fd'a missed it."

  This didn't sound good, even if she wasn't Timmy's niece.

  "What was she wearing?"

  "Couldn't tell. Had her wrapped up in a sheet but I saw her head. Had Little Orphan Annie hair."

  Jack pulled out Cailin's photo.

  "This her?"

  "Never saw her face, but the hair's pretty much the same."

  "When did all this go down?"

  "Soon as it started gettin' dark."

  "I mean what time?"

  "Ain't got no watch, mister."

  Jack did. He checked it: 5:30. Full dark now. Sunset came between four-thirty and five these days, but the streets started to murk up before that. She could have been in there for an hour or more.

  "Struggling?"

  "Nope. Looked asleep. Or dead maybe."

  Cailin or not, he'd have to go take a look. As he stepped toward the curb Rico grabbed his arm.

  "Don't I get my money?"

  "If it's the right girl, yeah."

  "How's about a little advance? I'm a tad short."

  Jack nodded toward the sign. "I thought that was a gold mine."

  "Traffic's been light. C'mon, man."

  Jack fished out a ten and gave it to him. Rico checked it, then grinned, showing both his mustard-colored teeth.

  "Bless you, sir! I'm gonna use this to buy me a nice bowl of hot chili!"

  Jack had to smile as he crossed the street.

  Right.

  He approached the rusty, wrought-iron railing that guarded the stone steps to the cellar. He leaned over for a look. Light filtered around the edges of the chipped and warped door at the bottom. But no window.

  He stepped back and looked around. To his right he saw an alley just wide enough for a garbage can. In fact, two brimming cans stood back to back at the building line. Behind them, faint yellow light oozed from a small, street-level window. The alley dead-ended at a high brick wall.

  Jack placed a hand against each of the sidewalls and levered himself over the garbage cans, then knelt by the window. He wiped off the layer of grime and peered through. Took him a few seconds to orient himself, to make sense out of what he was seeing.

  "Shit."

  A naked red-haired, teenage girl was strapped to a long table. Jack didn't need to pull out the photo again. He recognized her. Cailin wasn't moving. Her eyes were closed. Could have been dead, but the duct tape over her mouth said otherwise. Didn't need to gag a corpse. She looked unharmed.

  Three lean, shaggy-haired men dressed in jeans and sweatshirts hovered around her. Two stood watching as the third drew on her skin. Looked like he was using a black Sharpie to trace weird free-form outlines all over her body. The pattern reminded Jack of Maori tattoos, but much more extensive.

  On the wall behind them someone had painted an inverted pentacle in a circle.

  Jack nudged the window and felt it move. Slowly, carefully, he eased it inward but it wouldn't pass the inch mark.

  "Come on, Bob," said one of the watchers. "What's taking so long?"

  "Yeah," said the other. "Get it fucking done."

  "Get off my back!" Bob said. "This has got to be done rightl I do a half-assed job, it's all for nothing."

  "Nothing?" The first one nudged the second and grinned as he stared at Cailin's naked body. "Oh, 1 wouldn't say that."

  The second guy thought that was real funny.

  Someone needed to bring this party to a screeching halt. The window was too small to fit through, but he could pull his Glock and break the glass. Or he could go around front and kick in the door.

  He'd promised Gia to stay arm's length and do the 911 thing, but he couldn't count on the cops getting here in time. Had to go in.

  He'd reached the garbage cans and was just about to hop over them when a big black Chevy Suburban chirped to a halt at the curb before the building. Jack ducked as three men dressed in black fedoras, black suits, black ties, and white shirts stepped out. Despite the darkness, all wore sunglasses. They were either trying to look like the Blues Brothers or the mythical Men in Black from UFO lore.

  Or like the two similar-looking characters Jack had dealt with last spring.

  The three made a disparate group. One was huge, one short and skinny, one somewhere between.

  They looked like they knew where they were going as they crossed the sidewalk and hurried down the cellar stairs. When Jack heard them kick in the door, he scrambled back to the window.

  The trio with the girl had heard the sound of the door—how could they not?—and drawn long knives.

  The three men in black burst in with drawn pistols.

  "Who the fuck're you?" said the artist.

  The big guy pointed a suppressed H-K Tactical at him and fired. The bullet hit him in the nose and flung him back against the table. He hung there against Cailin's body, then slithered to the floor, very dead. The other two immediately dropped their knives and raised their hands. But the big guy wasn't impressed. With no hesitation and no sign of emotion he shot each once in the head.

  Phut!

  Phut!

  "Damn you, Miller!" the middle-size guy shouted. "What'd you do that for? What's the matter with you?"

  Miller bolstered his pistol. "Just improving the gene pool."

  "What about the plan? Tag them and track them, see where they hang out. See if there's any more like them. Remember that? Ever occur to you that they inürht have been useful alive?"

  "Buncha fucktards. Nothing useful ever coming from them." The corners of his mouth curled up in a barely noticeable smile. "Least not now anyways."

  The medium guy shook his head. "All right, let's wrap her up and get her out of here."

  "Let Zeklos do it. He's gotta be good for something.""

  The third, a buck-toothed weasel guy, shot him a venomous look, then approached Cailin.

  What the hell?

  Jack could still call the police, but the group would be long gone before they got here. Besides, he wanted to know what was going on. Who were these guys? And what did they plan to do with Cailin?

  He pulled a knit cap from his jacket pocket. Had an idea of how to find out.

  4

  Cal Davis averted his eyes from the girl as Zeklos began unstrapping her from the table. He wanted to stare at her, the red pubic
fuzz, the small pink-tipped breasts. He didn't like the feelings bubbling up from his core.

  "She breathing?"

  "Yes," Zeklos said. "I should leave the tape?"

  "Definitely."

  He didn't want her making a racket if she came to.

  He looked at Miller staring at the girl. Didn't even bother with a corner-of-the-eye sneak. Just flat out stared.

  Goddamn loose cannon.

  "This really pisses me off," Cal told him. "You could have waited till I pumped them a little."

  Miller shrugged, still staring at the girl. "The 0 told us we had to get here and stop them." His smile blinked like a faulty neon sign. Bzzt: on. Bzzt: off. "We're here, and they're stopped. End of story."

  Typical Miller.

  "Okay," Zeklos said. "She is ready."

  Cal looked and saw that he'd wrapped her in a sheet from the top of her head to her soles. She could have been a carpet except for the twin bulges of her breasts. He turned back to Miller.

  "All right. I'll go up and check topside. Zeklos gets the car door. When I give the signal, hustle her up and put her in the front passenger seat. I'll take the wheel."

  Miller frowned. "Why do I have to carry her?"

  "Because you are beast of burden," Zeklos said, his accent thicker than usual.

  Miller cocked a fist and stepped toward him. The little man flinched and backed up a step, almost tripping over one of the corpses. Miller smiled—bzzt—and lowered his fist.

  Cal gritted his teeth. "Need I remind you two lover boys that we have an unconscious teenage girl and three corpses on our hands at the moment. I'd prefer not to have to explain them."

  Zeklos sulked. "He keeps pulling the rope of anger."

  Miller shrugged and gathered up the girl. Cal followed Zeklos up the steps. As the little man crossed to the car and opened the door, someone started yelling.

  "Where's my money, damn it? I want my goddamn money!"

  He saw a bearded demento with a sign around his neck standing by the rear bumper, pounding on the tailgate.

  "My money, goddamn it!"

  Cal looked up and down the sidewalk. Cold night. Not many pedestrians, and none of them close. Just the hobo.

  Perfect.

  Always good to be seen by at least one person, and the loonier the better.

  He signaled Miller in the stairwell.

  "Let's go!"

  As Miller hit street level with his bundle, Zeklos left the door open and hustled around the front of the car to the street side. Cal followed.

  And still the bum rattled on about his goddamn money.

  As Cal slipped behind the wheel, Miller folded the girl onto the floor in front of the passenger seat. Cal started the car and had it moving as soon as Miller hit the rear seat beside Zeklos.

  The hobo got in one more thump against the tailgate and then he was a dwindling, fist-waving figure in the rearview mirror.

  "All right," said Zeklos, rolling the "r" harder than usual. "Now that we have girl, what we do with her?"

  "Right good question," said a voice from the rear that belonged to neither Miller nor Zeklos—unless one of them had developed a Southern drawl.

  Cal instinctively hit the brakes and looked in the rearview. He saw Miller sitting stiff and wide-eyed, saw Zeklos turning his head.

  "Eyes straight ahead," the voice snapped. "And you—driver man—keep on a-movin'."

  Cal complied. All he could make out in the rearview was part of a third silhouette behind Miller.

  The guy drawled on. "Ah've got the muzzle of m'Glock pressed against the base of Miller's skull here. Kinda wish Ah could add a sound effect, like cocking the hammer, but as you boys pro'ly know, Clocks ain't got no external hammer. But Ah've got the trigger safety depressed and Ah'll put one through Miller as quickly as he did those three creeps a few minutes ago. Quicker, maybe. So, 'less you want to be puttin' in a call to Mister Wolfe, Ah suggest y'all stay calm and do what yer told."

  Cal felt sweat begin to collect in his armpits. This guy knew their names. And he knew what Miller did in the cellar. How? Unless he'd been there, or had a video camera hidden, or was one of the Satanists—

  But he'd called them creeps.

  Cal slowed his dervishing thoughts. Never mind who or why or how. Deal with the now. That was how he'd been trained.

  What could he tell about this guy? Only his voice to go on. Caucasian male for sure. Between thirty and forty, he guessed. But that growly accent didn't ring true. Sounded like a bad imitation of Andy Griffith. Which meant he was probably a northeasterner hiding his roots.'

  Didn't matter if it sounded phony, though. It did the trick: If someday any of them ever heard his real voice, they'd never recognize it.

  With a stab of chagrin Cal realized that the bum banging on the tailgate hadn't been crazy. He'd been shouting at their visitor.

  Okay. Be cool. Lighten things up a bit.

  "What'd you do? Rip off that old wino's change cup?"

  The guy ignored him.

  "First thing we do is collect all the bang-bangs. Driver man, you hand yer purty H-K over yer shoulder butt first. And be real easy 'bout it. Nuthin' cute."

  Hell, he even knew what they were packing.

  "Then skinny here will hand it back to me the same way."

  Cal did as he was told, followed by Zeklos and Miller surrendering theirs.

  "Ah do appreciate it," said the guy. "Hey-hey. Forty-fives. Big 'uns. But Ah guess y'all'd want subsonic rounds if you're gonna use suppressors."

  This guy knew his stuff.

  "Now, Ah know y'all got backups, so send them back too."

  A minute later all three backups were out of reach.

  "Good. We're off to a fine, fine start. I love these Suburbians, don't you? So roomy in the back. Why looky here—bags o' street clothes. This what you wear when you're out of uniform? I think I'll just nab one of these here shoppin' bags. Right accommodatin' of y'all to make it so handy."

  Definitely a put-on accent.

  From the rear came the sound of their weapons dropping into a bag.

  "Okay," Cal said. "You're holding all the cards now. What do you want? If it's the girl, forget it. We gave you our guns, but you don't get the girl without killing us. All of us."

  "Is that so? Mighty brave. But Ah'm right curious about yer plans for that sweet young thang there."

  "Fuck off," Miller said, obviously forcing the words through clenched teeth.

  Cal's first instinct had been to say the same, but he'd feared it might set something off. He bunched his shoulders, tensing for the gunshot.

  But none came.

  "Now that's right dispolite, Mister Miller," the guy said. "One more remark like that and Ah'll have to put a permanent stop to yer mouth. And then I'll move on to yer little friend here and see how anxious he is to have his teeth bucked out more than they already is. Damn, boy, that's some set of chompers you got there. Ah bet you could eat corn on the cob through a picket fence."

  Cal had to smile despite the situation. He'd never heard it put that way, but the guy was dead on the mark.

  "So Ah'm asking y'all one more time: What was yer plans for the girl?"

  Hell, might as well tell him.

  "Get her back to her family."

  "Really now. Well, that's right white o' you. And how was you plannin' to do this fine thing?"

  "Leave her on a park bench, call nine-one-one, and keep watch till the cops showed."

  "Fine idea! Let's do 'er!"

  The response caught Cal off guard. If this guy wanted the same thing they wanted, why was he doing this?

  Obviously he hadn't known their plan. Cal found that faintly reassuring: At least he didn't know everything.

  But he seemed cool with the plan. Which meant he was looking out for the girl. And that put them on the same side.

  So weird. His training had prepared him for dealing with an enemy who had the drop on him. But a non-enemy…?

  "Where we a-goin'?" t
he guy said.

  "We ride around and check the parks until we find a bench where we can do a discreet drop off."

  "All right then, y'all stay straight ahead here on Worth. We'll check out Columbus Park when we come to 'er."

  This guy—definitely a New Yorker.

  They cruised Worth, passing the Javits Federal Building on the right, and came to a park on the left. Looked deserted. A wrought-iron fence ringed the perimeter. Benches had been placed outside the fence in alcoves along the sidewalk.

  "Turn onto Mulberry," the guy said. "And go slow."

  Cal complied.

  As they approached one of the bench alcoves the guy said, "Okay, stop. Them benches look like good 'uns. We'll put 'er there. Driver man, you'll do the honors."

  Cal pulled into the curb and hurried to the passenger side. One quick look around to make sure no one was nearby, then he bundled the girl in his arms and hurried her over to the bench. He stretched her out and pulled the sheet down to expose her face. If she stayed out here like this too long she'd freeze to death. But if Emergency Services did their job, she'd be in the back of an ambulance long before.

  It occurred to Cal then that he could simply take off and leave the ersatz Southerner with Miller and Zeklos. Then what would he do?

  He shook off the idea. Yenigeri didn't run out on each other. No one, alive or dead, was ever left behind.

  He hopped back into the front seat and got the car moving.

  "Make the call," the guy said. "Then let's find us a place where we can sit and watch."

  Cal found a spot near the corner of White and Baxter that gave them a clear view of the bench. A minute after they'd settled in he saw a figure strolling by. The man stopped at the bench, bent for a closer look. Cal watched him fumble his cell out of a pocket and start hitting buttons. That done, he took off his overcoat and draped it over the girl.

  This city had a bad rap for being rude and uncaring. Yeah, it had its share of creeps, but it also housed millions of good Samaritans.

  5

  An ambulance finally arrived and they all watched until it loaded the girl and roared away.

  Now what? Cal thought.

  The guy must have read his mind.

  "Okay. We got 'er done. Now let's move this party up to Canal Street."

  "What for?"