Hardbingers rj-10 Read online

  Here was a woman who was used to giving bad news.

  "I've learned not to make predictions, but it's a dire situation."

  "Come on, doc. You've been around the block a few times—a lot of times. You must have an instinct for these things. What do your instincts say about their chances of coming back?"

  She locked her gaze on him and said, "Fifty-fifty."

  Fifty-fifty? That was no help. Even odds they'd live or die.

  Or die…

  Slowly, forcing his locked knees to turn him back toward the bed, he looked at the loves of his life and wanted to scream. But he couldn't give in to that. If he caused too much of a ruckus they might not allow him back.

  What he really wanted to do—wished he could do—was rip out their tubes and grab their shoulders and shake them and shout that the game was over and they could stop fooling around now. They'd won, he gave in, they'd scared the hell out of him and ha-ha what a sick, sick joke, but now let's all stop fooling around and go out and laugh about it over a pizza.

  Instead he stood there and felt his heart break. He'd always assumed it a figure of speech, a hoary cliche in hackneyed prose and Brill Building tunes, but here it was. Something in his chest turned to glass and shattered.

  He bent and kissed Vicky's hand, then bent over Gia and kissed her swollen lips.

  As he slowly straightened he noticed that the sheet over her abdomen was flatter than it should be.

  He spun to face Dr. Stokely.

  "The baby! What about—?"

  She shook her head. "I'm sorry. She lost the baby."

  27

  Davis left Diana in her bedroom in the private quarters. He knew he should be thinking of her as the Oculus now, but he'd known her since she was seven. Hard to think of her by any name other than Diana.

  Hard to imagine that this girl, barely into her teens, was going to be their new conduit from the Ally.

  He put all that aside as he called the off-duty yenigeri to give them the awful news and tell them to pack and report to Home: They were moving.

  While he was on the phone, Miller, Jolliff, and Hursey began the grisly task of prying the former O's body from the wall and hiding the pieces under a bedspread.

  After finishing the last call, Cal leaned his elbows on the monitoring console and rubbed his temples as he tried to get a grip on the situation, on himself.

  What's wrong with me?

  He should have felt grief, terror, rage, something. Instead he felt empty, damn near dead inside.

  He thought he knew what it was: The cold-blooded killings recently ordered by the Ally had put him on the down slope, and now this. It wasn't so much that the 0 was dead, or the appalling manner of his death, it was the ease with which it had been done. It seemed as if the Adversary had simply strolled in, slaughtered everyone, and then strolled out.

  He heard a noise to his left and looked up to see Miller dropping into a nearby chair. He was drying his hands on a paper towel. He looked as empty as Cal felt.

  "Where are we in the cleanup?"

  Miller jerked his head toward the stairs. "Last one coming down now."

  Cal looked and saw Jolliff and Hursey maneuvering a sheet-covered body down the steps. Blood had seeped through in a couple of spots.

  "Who?"

  "Kenlo."

  "Shit."

  He'd liked Kenlo. Cal remembered his easy laugh—the guy had never heard a punch line he didn't like. He'd been their computer geek. Probably the brightest guy in the whole crew.

  "What are we going to do with the hearts?"

  Cal thought about that. "Stick them back in their chests."

  "But we don't know which belongs where."

  "I know, but we'll do it anyway. Better than leaving them in a baggie somewhere, and sure as hell better than leaving them arranged in a circle up there on that desk. Each of our guys deserves to be buried with a heart, even if it's not his own."

  Miller nodded. "Yeah. I suppose you're right."

  The door chime sounded. He checked the monitor and saw Lewis, luggage bags flanking his feet, giving the all-clear sign at the front door. Cal buzzed him in.

  He heard Miller sigh and glanced at him. "You okay?"

  "Not even close." Miller shook his head. "I mean, is it worth it to move her to the safe house? Will it make any difference? I mean, this guy seems to pick us off as he pleases."

  His words mirrored Cal's thoughts.

  "The safe house is a little different. You've been there. It's on an island, it's got water on two sides, and only one access road. Nobody's going to be sneaking up on that place."

  Cal didn't mention that the location's biggest asset—its isolation—had its downside. At this time of year it offered no distractions for the men during their down time. Cabin fever—or island fever—would set in pretty quickly.

  Well, no one had said the job would be easy.

  "I wonder," Miller said. "Don't you get the feeling this guy's playing with us? Like he could take us all out any time he pleases but he'd rather play cat and mouse?"

  "You mean like leaving Diana alive."

  "Exactly. And if he can take us out when he wants, then everything we're doing is useless. We're not even delaying the inevitable because he's got us plugged into his calendar, and when the time comes"—he drew a finger across his throat—"we're cooked."

  "Maybe that's why he didn't kill her. To get us thinking it's all an exercise in futility but keep us on the string. He feeds on hopelessness. Maybe we're snack food. But maybe not. Maybe—"

  The chime again. This time it was Geraci. Cal buzzed him in, then turned back to Miller.

  "You ready to give up?"

  Miller gave him a hard stare. "Me? You should damn fuck know better than that."

  "1 do. Just checking."

  Another chime. Cal looked and saw Zeklos. He'd called the little guy back in because they were so shorthanded. He'd meant to tell Miller in advance so he'd be prepared, but hadn't had the time.

  He buzzed him in and then tapped the heel of his fist on Miller's knee.

  "I called Zek in."

  Miller stiffened in his chair. "You what?"

  "We need every warm body we can get, so just put aside your—"

  He shot to his feet. "No fucking way!"

  Zeklos came through the door then, rolling a wheeled suitcase behind him.

  "This is terrible, terrible!" he said. "How did such a thing—?"

  "You!" Miller shouted, pointing at him. For a crazy instant he reminded Cal of Ralph Kramden. "Out!"

  Zeklos stopped and stared, shock in his eyes and his expression.

  "But Davis—"

  "I don't give a shit what Davis said, I'm not working with you ever again!"

  "Easy, Miller," Cal said. "We need him."

  "Fuck we do! He's a Jonah! He loses his Oculus, then shows up here and we lose ours."

  Zeklos stood his ground.

  "The other day you say to me, 'the fact remains that your Oculus is dead and you are not.'" He held up his index finger. " 'Strike one.' Remember? Well now / say to you that your Oculus is dead and you are not." Now the index finger pointed at Miller. "Strike one on you."

  Cal couldn't believe his ears. Neither could Miller, apparently, because he stood staring at Zeklos with a slack, drop-jawed expression.

  Cal recovered first. Knowing what would happen next, he grabbed Miller's upper arm with both hands and held on as Miller started toward Zek.

  "Why you little piece of—!"

  "Cool it!" Cal shouted. "We just lost seven brothers and our Oculus! This is not the time to start fighting among ourselves! This is exactly what the Adversary wants. You're playing right into his game."

  Miller dragged him a few steps, then stopped, red-faced, panting.

  "He's not coming along!"

  "We need—"

  He whirled on Cal. "If he comes, I stay. And I'm pretty sure I won't be the only one."

  "You'd sabotage our whole operation over s
ome personal vendetta?"

  "It's not personal. He's a menace. And I mean what I say. Him or me and others. Choose."

  Miller knew damn well he'd left Cal with only one choice.

  The door chimed again. Cal glanced at the monitor, saw Portman, and hit the button.

  "Well, what's it gonna be, Davis?" Miller said.

  Cal was looking for a way out when Portman walked up and dropped a newspaper on the monitoring console. The headline of the Post's late edition leaped out at him.

  HIT & RUN HORROR!

  The subheading read: MOTHER AND DAUGHTER MOWED DOWN BY RED-LIGHT RUNNER.

  Cal's stomach clenched as he looked up at Portman. "Yeah, we know. We were there, remember?"

  Portman had a funny expression. "Check out page three."

  Cal did just that. He recoiled at the grainy black-and-white photo of EMTs loading a small figure on a stretcher into an ambulance.

  "So?"

  Portman tapped a fingertip on one of the paragraphs.

  "Says here she's still alive. Looks like we missed again."

  Cal felt a burst of elation.

  He heard Miller mutter, "Shit."

  Behind Portman, he saw Zeklos raise two fingers.

  "Strike two, Miller."

  28

  Jack found himself at the corner of a park he hadn't known existed. Looked to be about two blocks long and one deep. He stared up at the street sign: 78th AND CHEROKEE PLACE.

  Where the hell was he?

  He vaguely remembered Dr. Stokely telling him that his visiting time in the trauma unit was up but he could come back later. Until then he could wait in the family lounge. But that meant more sitting, and Jack couldn't sit.

  The baby… on top of everything else, the baby… gone.

  Had to get out, had to move. He'd fled the hospital and walked into the night. Must have turned uptown, then turned east at some point because he could hear the roar of racing traffic ahead of him, and see twinkles of distant lights across the water. The traffic had to be the FDR, the water the East River, and the lights Queens, or maybe Roosevelt Island.

  The cars made the only sound. The park lay deserted to his right. No surprise in that. Nobody with any sense would be looking for a park bench on a night as cold as this. And even if they were, the eight-foot, spike-topped wrought-iron fence would keep them out.

  A nearby plaque read JOHN JAY PARK.

  He'd heard of the place but had never been here.

  He spotted a ramp ahead, leading to what looked like a pedestrian bridge over the FDR. He started moving again. Midspan he stopped and looked through the high, tight, chain-link fencing at the cars below.

  If the NJ Turnpike had had this sort of fence on a certain overpass fifteen years ago, he'd be leading a different life now. He never would have met Gia and Vicky, and he'd be so much poorer for that. But at least they wouldn't be fighting for their lives now.

  He didn't know exactly how, but he had no doubt this was all his fault.

  A crushing fatigue settled over him. Feeling as empty as the promenade on the far side of the overpass, he stumbled down the ramp, found a bench, and dropped onto it.

  He'd never been here before, but could imagine the concrete path packed with joggers, strollers, and bike riders during the warmer weather. A low wrought-iron fence on the far side of the promenade separated him from the water running a dozen feet below. He noticed huge dock cleats, painted black like the fencing and spaced every twenty feet or so along the edge. That told him boats used to dock here. Maybe they still did.

  Baker Street—style lampposts lined the walk, augmenting the wash of light from the FDR's overhead lamps.

  He sat and stared at Roosevelt Island, a long clump of land plopped in the center of the East River. The lights of the apartment buildings blazed, blocking his view of Astoria and Long Island City on the far side. He watched a jet glide into LaGuardia. To his right the lights of the graceful Queensborough Bridge twinkled in the night while the Roosevelt Island trams shuttled to and from Manhattan on their wires.

  On any other night he'd have thought it a beautiful sight, but beauty is better when shared. He'd have loved nothing more in the world than to be sitting between Gia and Vicky right now, an arm around each of them. He could almost hear Gia saying that she'd like to come back to this spot tomorrow night and paint the scene.

  And then he thought about the baby, his lost child. He remembered all the times in the past few months he'd imagined himself bouncing his little boy on his knee, tickling him to make him laugh, teaching him to throw and catch and—

  Christ, he didn't even know if the baby was a boy or a girl. His mind had been so numb he'd forgotten to ask.

  But even if it turned out to be a girl, no matter. She'd still need bouncing and tickling, and even throwing and catching lessons. And she'd have been beautiful, with blond hair and blue eyes like her mother's.

  This time last night he was starting a new future, one crammed with possibilities. Now he had nothing. Not even hope.

  That was the worst of it. Where there's life, there's hope. Yeah, right. Maybe. But not in this case. Gia and Vicky might go on living, but not as Gia and Vicky. No, don't call it living. Mere existence was not living. The two people he'd loved would be gone while the blobs of protoplasm they'd inhabited survived.

  He clung to the possibility that Dr. Stokely had understated the possibilities. She'd probably learned a few hard lessons about giving families hope and then not being able to deliver. False hope worked for a while, but in the end it was worse than no hope.

  No hope… that certainly fit the baby's case. No coming back for him. Or her. He'd imagined a little piece of himself and Gia continuing beyond their time, their place, aimed toward infinity.

  Now… never happen.

  But the very worst was knowing the reason why Gia and Vicky and the baby were where they were.

  Him. Jack.

  The Otherness was toying with him, trying to break him down. First Kate, then his father and brother, and now his child and the two people on Earth who meant the most to him.

  On the face of it, flat-out killing him and having done with it made more sense. Why target those around him?

  Last fall, in a Florida swamp, Rasalom himself had provided the answer.

  "Killing you now might be something of a favor. It would spare you so much pain in the months to come. And why should I do you a favor? Why should I spare you that pain? I don't want you to miss one iota of what is coming your way.

  "Physical pain is mere sustenance. But a strong man slowly battered into despair and hopelessness… that is a delicacy. In your case, it might even approach ecstasy. I don't want to deprive myself of that."

  Being on intimate terms with the Otherness. Rasalom had known exactly what was coming.

  Jack hadn't.

  He didn't know how to deal with this. Did anyone? He wanted the ground to crack open and swallow him.

  A sob tore loose from deep, deep inside. His head fell back as he let it loose and screamed into the night—all the pain, all the shattered dreams, all the frustration…

  He straightened and wiped his eyes. Had to get a grip. Had to—

  The lamp above him winked out. Then the one to his right, thirty feet away, did the same. Then the one to his left.

  What the hell?

  Then the overheads on the FDR began dying, up and down the road.

  Some sort of power failure.

  So what?

  As he continued to stare across the water he saw a round shadow slowly rise on the far side of the railing. At first he thought it was a balloon, but as it continued to rise it broadened into a pair of shoulders, then arms straight down its sides.

  A man… a floating man.

  The languorous way it rose, without moving its arms… had to be a balloon, an inflatable doll.

  But when its feet reached the level of the top rung, it moved, stepping forward to stand on the railing. Then it crouched with its arms about i
ts knees and perched there like some sort of gargoyle. Jack couldn't see the face, but he knew its eyes were fixed on him.

  "What the—?"

  "Hello, Heir," it said in a mocking tone. "How's life?"

  Jack knew that voice.

  Rasalom.

  With a howl he went to leap off the seat and wrap his fingers around the throat that housed it. And if the two of them tumbled to the river below, so be it. He'd go to his grave strangling this son of a bitch.

  But he never left the seat. He could move his arms, but not his feet or his legs. His body wouldn't budge. He clawed the air and howled again, sounding like a madman. At that moment he was.

  Rasalom put his head back and sniffed the air.

  "Mmm. The nectar of desolation, the liquor of devastation, the elixir of despair, the wine of disheartenment. This is a fine, fine vintage. If only I could bottle it."

  Jack felt his rage cooling. Not lessening, simply mutating from hot to cold.

  "Why?" he managed to say. "Am 1 that much of a threat to your all-powerful boss?"

  "Boss? Oh, you must mean what you people so quaintly call the Otherness. No, it's not my boss, so to speak, but we do have arrangements—promises that have been made—for when certain ongoing operations and processes run their courses."

  "So you sent a false Alarm through the Oculus, made the yeniceri think they were doing the Ally's work."

  "A false Alarm is very difficult. Only once have I been able to send one. I prefer more indirect stratagems. For instance, to make you cross paths with the yeniQeri, I encouraged a cretinous cult I'd started—just for this purpose, by the way—to kidnap the niece of someone who frequents one of your environs—

  "Cailin?"

  "Yes. Her. Well, they thought they were going to 'sacrifice her to the Otherness.' Of course, I'm far more interested in torture sacrifices than is the Otherness, but they didn't know that. The 'Otherness' part set off the Alarm—a genuine Alarm—and three yeniceri were sent."

  Jack was baffled. "Why would you want me in contact with the yeniceri?"