Hardbingers rj-10 Read online

  "Which one is he?"

  Miller looked around. "Fuck! I don't—"

  Cal froze at the unmistakable sound of a hammer being cocked—no, many hammers cocking.

  Pistols had appeared all over the room—semiautomatics and revolvers of all shapes and sizes and finishes.

  Cal's saliva turned to dust.

  Now he knew what had bothered him: The arrangement of chairs and tables allowed for perfect field of fire on the doorway.

  "I missed that," someone said. "Who won't get hurt?"

  "Say hello to my little fren'," said a voice to his left.

  Cal glanced over and found himself looking down the barrels of a sawed-off ten-gauge coach gun. This close they looked like the entrance to the Mid-town Tunnel.

  "Okay, easy now," he told the little guy with highly developed muscles and a very low temperature in his eyes. "Eeeeeeasy."

  "Be happy my little fren' don't say hello first. She speak double-ought."

  Cal didn't know if the guy was putting him on with the accent, but did know a sweat had just broken out all over his body. What kind of place was this? Like an armed camp. It gave him a surreal feeling, like he'd stepped into a saloon in the old West.

  He lowered his pistol and raised his empty left hand.

  "Our mistake. Sorry." He took a step back. "We'll be going now."

  Miller didn't budge, still had his muzzle pointed toward the room. Cal grabbed his arm and squeezed.

  "I said we'll be going now."

  Miller seemed to come out of a trance. He lowered his pistol and together they backed out the door. Derisive laughter followed them into the night.

  "What the fuck?" Miller said through clenched teeth.

  Cal's sentiments exactly. "Great plan."

  "Hey, how was I to know? You ever been in a place like that? You ever even heard of a place like that?"

  "Maybe in Deadwood."

  "Fucking humiliating."

  Yeah, it was. Cal wondered if his face looked as red as it felt.

  "At least we got out with our skins."

  "Since when was that ever enough?" Miller raised his pistol. "I've a mind to go back in and—"

  "Don't be an idiot. If the bartender's ten-gauge doesn't cut you in half, the rest of them will Swiss you."

  "We don't even know those were real guns."

  "Oh, they were real all right. But where was our guy? Hiding or ducking out the back? He wouldn't know we left someone stationed outside."

  The Miller smile buzzed on and off. "Hey, right. Let's—"

  Miller froze as he glanced over Cal's shoulder. Cal turned and realized why: Zeklos lay crumpled across the mouth of the alley.

  10

  Jack sat in the back of an idling cab upstream from Julio's. He'd flagged it after using Julio's stun baton on the buck-toothed guy.

  Good plan to watch the alley. Not good if the guy you were watching for had already slipped out of said alley.

  Jack simply could have walked away then, but figured they'd keep looking for him. He wanted to send them packing, so he'd zapped Zeklos. It had been almost too easy. The guy had been so focused on the alley that he hadn't heard Jack come up behind him.

  Now he watched as they helped their staggering third member to the Suburban.

  Time to go home, guys.

  As the Suburban lurched away from the curb, Jack tapped on the plastic screen between him and the cabby.

  "Go."

  He sat back and wondered again about these guys. They'd worked like a well-oiled team downtown, but up here they looked more like the Three Stooges.

  The cabby's license said his name was Ibrahim Something-or-other, and he was good at tailing. He kept two or three cars behind, changed lanes back and forth, letting other cabs slip behind the Suburban. Anyone watching for a tail wouldn't have a chance of making them. Jack wondered if in his pre-immigration life Ibrahim might have been an operative of some sort in Kabul or the like.

  The Suburban reached the West Side Highway and took it all the way down to the tip of Manhattan, then entered the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel.

  Jack couldn't remember the last time he'd taken the Battery, but he had memories of it being shabbier. Looked like they'd spruced it up—the tiled walls seemed pretty clean and the ceiling looked new. A long tunnel, curving this way and that under lower New York Harbor.

  The toll was on the Brooklyn side. The Suburban didn't have E-ZPass but the cab did, which meant Jack was through the toll first.

  "Go slow, Ib. Let them pass you."

  They did, and led them straight into Red Hook.

  Jack had never been to Red Hook; looking around he could see why. Lots of dock but little else. Poor, dirty, unkempt, but old too. So old and ill-maintained that a few streets still had their original cobblestones; Jack's head hit the taxi's ceiling a couple of times as they bounced and jounced along.

  Red Hook had a slapped-together look, without a hint of a plan or continuity. As if buildings from all over the city, from all eras of its history, had been teleported here and plopped down willy-nilly.

  But the worst part: almost no traffic.

  "Be careful here, Ib," he told the driver. "We're going to stick out. Put on your off-duty light and give them a couple-three blocks lead. Try paralleling them."

  That proved difficult. Most of the streets were one-way, but a lot T-boned into others, necessitating a quick right or left. But Ibrahim was good. Parallel-ing the Suburban placed Jack two blocks away, which was not a bad thing. He figured he could give them a longer leash here. Red Hook was small and bounded by water on three sides. On their present course they couldn't get too far too fast without landing in the East River.

  The Suburban stopped in front of a small, three-story brick warehouse across the street from Red Hook Park. WHOLESALE FURNITURE was printed in faded white letters across its front.

  Jack dropped to his knees on the floor.

  "Keep moving."

  Peeking out the lower edge of the window he saw the three of them—the little guy under his own power now—walking toward the warehouse door. Miller stopped and stared.

  Jack ducked lower as they passed. And as he did the skin on the front of his chest began to itch and burn. But the sensation faded almost as quickly as it had come.

  He had Ibrahim stop out of sight around the corner.

  Decision time: Cab home and check this place out tomorrow, or watch now?

  He decided to give it an hour.

  He handed Ibrahim a hundred-dollar bill and had him drive around until he found an unlit stretch on the edge of the park with a view of the building. Jack noticed that all the windows—at least all he could see—had been bricked over.

  Strange.

  "Okay, Ib. Get comfortable."

  The headlights went out, the engine and heater stayed on. The Ib-man snored. Jack watched.

  11

  The Oculus sat up in bed. What had awakened him? He heard faint echoes of the yeniceri arguing on the ground floor, but they argued a lot lately.

  Had Diana called to him?

  He rose from his bed and padded to her door. He eased it open and saw the thirteen-year-old sleeping peacefully in her bed.

  He started back to his own bed.

  What had—?

  And then he froze as an odd feeling crept over him.

  Fear?

  No… something else. Something wonderful.

  Someone special was nearby. His proximity—his very existence—was momentous.

  The Oculus had assumed his existence, but now, to have it confirmed…

  A lump formed in this throat. After the terrible events of the past few years, he'd fallen into despair, almost given up hope. But now he knew all was not lost. They still had a chance.

  He sat cross-legged on the bed, closed his eyes, and waited.

  12

  "I want you out!" Miller shouted.

  Cal stood with the six yeniceri who'd pulled guard duty tonight, listening to Miller rage at Ze
klos.

  They'd gathered on the first floor of the warehouse that made up the Northeast Home. It had once been the New York Home, but that was when there had been more Oculi. And more yeniceri.

  The concrete floor lay open around them. The windows had been bricked up. The far right corner was walled off into a lounging area, with lockers, easy chairs, TV, microwave, and fridge. The top floor—the third—was laid out the same.

  The Oculus and his daughter occupied the middle level.

  A good, solid, defensible structure. Cal would be sad to leave it, but staying in one place too long these days was inviting disaster.

  As soon as they'd returned from Manhattan, Miller had called the three guards down from the top floor. He'd said he wanted a brief confab, but it turned out to be a dump-on-Zeklos session.

  The guy in question stood apart, shoulders slumped, head down, staring at his shoes.

  Miller had a point, but Cal felt sorry for the little guy. Blackball him? Was Miller going to push it that far? The procedure was in place for banishing an incompetent or uncooperative yeniceri, but Cal had never seen it used. He knew Miller hadn't either.

  "You're a complete fuck-up! We gave you a simple job to do—watch the alley. Just watch it and if you saw the guy, hold him until we got there. That was all. You got the job because I thought even you couldn't fuck up something that simple. But you did. Royally. I've had it!"

  "The very same would have happened to you, Miller," Zeklos said without looking up. His voice was low, barely audible.

  "I don't think so."

  "You would have made same mistake as I. I did what I was supposed to: I watch alley. But none of us—you included—guess that he was already out on street. He would have snucked up on you just like me."

  Miller sneered. "He might have tried to, but I'd've caught him. Fd've been watching three-sixty."

  Zeklos gingerly rubbed his neck where the stun gun had burned him.

  "He hurt me. He knock me out. I have soil my pants and had to change them. Is that not enough? I should not be eating the corn of humiliation too."

  Miller's laugh had a nasty edge to it. " 'Corn of humiliation'? Where do you come up with this shit? Is it some sort of Romanian thing?"

  Cal had heard enough. Miller needed to vent, and justly so, but Zeklos had suffered enough.

  "Okay, let's all take a breather and cool off. By tomor—"

  "Tomorrow, hell!" Miller said. "This guy's a menace, not just to anyone who gets stuck working with him, but to the MV itself. I want him out. As soon as we can get a quorum together, I want a vote so we can settle this once and for all."

  This wouldn't be happening if the Twins were still around. The matter would have been brought before them for a decision. But they'd disappeared almost a year ago and command structure had been slowly going to hell ever since.

  "That's pretty harsh," Cal said. "And I don't think you've got the support."

  "Oh no?" Miller turned to the other yeniceri. "You all remember last November, right? The first time we let Zeklos solo. A simple hit and run. Nothing to it, right? But what does he do? He screws up!"

  Zeklos, head still down, said, "The steering… it fail me."

  "No," Miller said, jabbing a finger at him. "You failed. The target is still walking around! You blew that window of opportunity and we haven't had another." He turned back to the other yenigeri. "Am I right or am I right?"

  "Damn right!" said one of the guards.

  "Yeah," said another.

  Cal noticed that it was Hursey and Jolliff doing the talking. Both were part of Miller's claque. When off duty they followed him around like dogs.

  The divisiveness was more fallout from the Twins' absence. Cal had tried to fill the void but he had no mandate.

  "And why is he here? Think about it: His Oculus was killed."

  "Not fair, Miller," Cal said. "Lots of Oculi have been killed in the past year, not just Zeklos's."

  "Yeah, but Zeklos is here, alive and well, while all of his Romanian yeniceri brothers are dead. How do we explain that?" He pointed at Zeklos. "Where were you—hiding under a rock?"

  Finally Zeklos lifted his head. His eyes blazed.

  "I was at home. I had illness, much illness!"

  "Yeah, sure. We'll have to take your word on that. But the fact remains that your Oculus is dead and you're not." He held up his index finger. "That's strike one. Then you screwed up the hit and run." A second digit popped up. "Strike two. And tonight you let that guy get away." A third finger joined the others. "Three strikes and you're out."

  Cal saw other heads nodding—all six now.

  Miller was making a good case. Things didn't look good for Zeklos. But then, this was hardly a quorum.

  And yeah, Zeklos wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but blackballed? What else did the guy have?

  About as much as I do, Cal thought. Nothing.

  He raised his hands. "Let's not be too hasty here. We don't have to resort to such extreme measures."

  He glanced at Zeklos and cringed inside at the light of hope in his eyes. How long would that last?

  "What's extreme?" Miller said. "You're either in or you're out, part of the team or not. No in between."

  "Just hear me out." He turned to Zeklos. "Zek, you've got to know you've been screwing up. Even you have to admit that."

  Zeklos's gaze returned to his shoes as he nodded.

  Miller said, "Well, then, I guess it's unanimous."

  Cal shot him a look. "What I'm proposing here is something like a tune-up. Go back to training camp for a refresher."

  Zeklos's head snapped up. "But I am yeniceri!"

  "Of course you are, but sometimes our skills get rusty. It can happen to the best of us."

  "I cannot go back to b-b-be trainee!"

  "Consider it like baseball. Just think of it as getting sent down to the minor leagues for a while." Cal looked at Miller. "Will that satisfy you?"

  Miller shrugged. "As long as he's out of here."

  "I do not know this minor league," Zeklos said with a trace of defiance. "But I know I am full yeniceri, and I do not go back to play with children."

  Cal locked eyes with him. "If you don't, Miller's going to call a vote. And then you might not be any kind of yenigeri."

  Come on, Zeklos, he thought, trying for telepathy. I'm offering you a chance. Take it.

  Instead, Zeklos's eyes took on an Et-tu-Brute? look. Then he squared his shoulders and looked around.

  "I am going home."

  "Okay," Cal said. "I know it's a tough decision. Think on it, then come back in the morning."

  Zeklos didn't nod, didn't shake his head. He simply turned and walked out the door.

  13

  Jack straightened in the backseat when he saw someone step out of the warehouse. The skinny little buck-toothed guy they'd called Zeklos started walking away.

  He rapped on the plastic barrier and startled Ibrahim out of his doze.

  "Get ready to move."

  They watched him until he turned right a block and a half away.

  "Let's go."

  "Follow him? But there is no traffic. He will see us."

  "Just drive around. I'll stay down. Third time you pass him—if it comes to that—ask how to get to some street."

  Jack slouched low in the seat as the cab started to move. He scratched his chest as they passed the warehouse. The skin had started to itch and burn again but, as before, quickly passed. He wondered about that but let it go.

  "You are not a killer?" Ibrahim said.

  The question startled Jack.

  "Why do you ask?"

  "I see this movie—Collateral—where killer takes taxi to killings. It is directed by Michael Mann. I am liking this film, but I do not want to be driving a killer."

  Jack had to smile. "No, not a killer. Just need to talk to one of these guys alone. That's all. Just talk."

  They turned onto Columbia, a wider, busier two-way. Good.

  Jack peeked
through the rear corner of his window as they passed Zeklos. He walked with his head down, his hands in his pockets. The picture of dejection. Someone wasn't having a good day.

  "Is this an exciting thing you do?" Ibraham said.

  "Not very."

  "Oh. That is too bad."

  "Hey, exciting isn't always fun."

  After what Jack had been through lately, unexciting was a major plus.

  "I think maybe you could tell me what you do here and I can write screenplay that I sell to movies."

  "Screenplay?"

  Had he somehow made a wrong turn and wound up in L.A.?

  "Yes. I sell it to Hollywood. Maybe Michael Mann direct."

  "Maybe he will. If he does, you'll be set for life."

  As Ibrahim did a wide swing through the neighborhood, Jack switched his focus to the street signs they passed, trying to orient himself. Most had names; he'd have preferred numbers. As they returned, going the opposite direction, Jack snapped out of his slouch.

  Where'd he go?

  They'd reached the fringe of what might pass for a business district. All the stores were closed, but a triangular Red Hook Lager sign glowed in the window of a bar on the right.

  "Wait here. I'll look inside."

  When Jack reached the door—the place called itself the Elbow Room—he pulled it open only a couple of inches. And there at the bar, tossing back a shooter of something, sat his guy.

  Jack peeled off another C-note as he hurried back to the cab.

  "Here." He handed it through the window. "Find a place nearby to wait and I'll give you Ben's twin brother."

  "How long?"

  "Give it an hour."

  "I don't know…"

  "How many weeknights you make this much an hour?"

  Ibrahim agreed to wait. Jack took his cell number and headed back to the bar.

  14

  The Oculus's eyes snapped open.

  No!

  After growing momentarily stronger, the wonderful feeling, the sense of a special presence, had faded as quickly and mysteriously as it had come.

  Why? Why hadn't he come forward? He must know he'd be welcomed.

  Or had he been there at all? The Oculus didn't think he'd imagined it, but circumstances were so dark and dire right now… perhaps wishful thinking on his part.