A Bomb Built in Hell (12 page)

“Changed your mind?” the black man asked.

“A girl can, can't she?”

The black man followed her back toward the room. Wesley was just walking out of the same doorway. As they moved past him, Wesley wheeled and whipped the Beretta's butt viciously into the black man's kidney. The black man pitched forward into the tiny room, the girl just ahead of him. They went down in a sprawl of bodies. Neither made any effort to get up. The girl knew enough to stay quiet, and the black man was transfixed by the extended barrel of Wesley's pistol.

“No noise,” Wesley told him.

“What is this?”

“It's a quiz show. You give me the right answers and you win a big prize.”

“Don't be stupid, man. You know who I am?”

“Yeah. I do. But you're not the one I want—he is.”

Wesley pulled the handcuffs from the webbing belt
and walked toward the black man, who extended his wrists as though he'd been through the routine a thousand times. Wesley slammed one cuff over the black man's right wrist, and snapped the other over the girl's left before she could react.

“Hey!”
she yelped.

“Shut up. It won't be for long. I don't want either of you to move. Now, we've got about ten minutes for you to tell me what I need to know,” he said to the black man.

“And what's that?” the black man said, still calm and in control.

“You're going to meet The Prince when you leave here. Where?”

“Man, you're not serious!”

Wesley leveled the piece at the girl's forehead and squeezed the trigger. There was a soft, ugly
splat!
and her body slumped, almost pulling the black man with her. The black man frantically shifted his weight to keep away from the blood. He couldn't see any, but he knew it would start flowing any second.

“I'm
very
serious,” Wesley said softly. “The next one's yours.”

“Man, don't do anything like that, listen.…”

Wesley deliberately cocked the pistol, held it in both hands, and pointed at the black man's upturned face. He tightened his facial muscles as he carefully took aim.

“Under the Times clock! On Forty-third. Between Seventh and Eighth!
Don't!
”

“What time?”

“Eleven-thirty.”

“Who gets there first?”

“He does, man. He always—”

The bullet interrupted the black man. His death was as soundless as the shot. Wesley shifted the piece to his left hand and squatted by the bodies. He carefully slit each throat and wiped the blade on the velour jumpsuit. He shook talcum powder onto his hands and pulled on a pair of the surgeon's gloves. Then, still holding the gun, he wiped every surface in the room he had touched with the black handkerchief, and gathered up the spent cartridge cases—it took only about forty-five seconds. He knelt by the door to listen; there was still no sound from the front room.

Wesley slipped down the corridor. As he entered the front room, he saw that the clock over the desk read 11:20—his own watch said that was a couple of minutes fast. The fat man at the desk looked up as Wesley approached.

“Just about to
call
you, buddy.”

Wesley fired. The first slug caught the fat man in the chest; his head dropped to the desk. The second bullet entered the top of his head. Wesley was about to walk out the door when he remembered the Marine and put another bullet into the fat man's left ear socket.

Even in the thin-walled parlor, the shots were virtually soundless. Wesley exchanged clips, then carefully pocketed the spent casings.

W
esley turned right on 43rd. He noticed the clock in the package store said 11:23—his own watch tallied,
and he slowed his stride slightly. The still-assembled piece was now tucked into his belt, over his stomach. By sharply drawing a breath, he could pull it free without trouble.

He lay back in the shadows until he saw 11:29 on his watch, then mentally counted to fifteen and started to walk up the right-hand side of the block toward the Times Building. The big digital clock read 11:31, and he saw The Prince standing underneath, legs spread and arms extended. His left hand gripped his right wrist—Wesley could see the diamond-flash.

One hundred feet. The Prince was focused on him now, but the Wesley he had seen before was a tourist geek in a Hawaiian shirt. Wesley padded softly forward on the dark street: the silenced pistol wasn't accurate past twenty feet.

Fifty feet. Suddenly, The Prince spun and took off up the street. Wesley sprinted after him. The silenced pistol cut into his groin, but he didn't slow—if The Prince got to contact one of his freaks, the whole thing would be over.

The Prince wasn't used to running—by the corner of 43rd and Eighth, Wesley was only about ten yards behind. His target glanced west for a split second, then, seeming to understand that he was running out of cesspool in that direction, he turned north on Eighth and dashed across 44th toward the Playbill Bar. Wesley hit the bar just seconds behind The Prince, spotted him trying for the phone booth to the left of the door, and brought the gun up. The Prince caught the movement and dived for the Eighth Avenue door.

Wesley backed out the way he'd come in, and hit Eighth just in time to see The Prince flying up the west side of the wide avenue. It was clogged with people. The Prince slid smoothly through the human traffic, but he couldn't disappear. And he knew Wesley was too close for him to stop and get help.

The Prince dashed into the custard stand on 49th and Eighth and immediately exited out the side door. He tore up the side street toward the river. Wesley was close enough now but running too fast to get a clear shot. The Prince looked back quickly without breaking stride and jumped the fence that enclosed the parking lot between 49th and 50th. He was halfway across the lot, heading toward Polyclinic Hospital, when Wesley stopped, braced himself, and fired—but The Prince was bobbing and weaving, and the shot missed.

Wesley clawed his way over the fence and set himself for another shot, but The Prince picked up the shadow-change and veered sharply left just before the hospital entrance, steaming up 50th toward Ninth, with Wesley close behind.

The Prince turned right again at Ninth, just slightly ahead of Wesley, who could now run faster with his gun out. Between 50th and 51st was a construction site, partially excavated. The expensively painted sign read something about YOUR TAX DOLLARS.

The Prince was over the fence and into the site in a heartbeat. He looked back and couldn't see Wesley. For the first time since he'd been spooked, The Prince felt a quick jolt of fear penetrate the adrenaline.

Wesley had seen The Prince's move. He rushed up
50th instead of going up Ninth, so he was into the site before The Prince.

The streetlights didn't penetrate the excavation—the same kind of soft, dull darkness Wesley remembered from Korea. He lay prone in the weeds, motionless and listening. It was a simple equation: The Prince had to be close to kill, and Wesley didn't have the luxury of shooting from a distance.

Wesley could hear the street noises above him, but they were normal. He was alone. So was The Prince.

Wesley heard the sound grass makes when it's pushed against the way it normally grows. He forced himself
not
to relax. He could lie there for hours without moving, and The Prince couldn't come up on him without getting blown away. But he didn't
have
a long time.

If The Prince got out of the site, he'd have a hundred freaks surrounding the place in a few minutes. But if he stood up and ran for the fence, he was as good as dead. And he wasn't used to waiting.

Wesley focused, blocking out everything but the sounds of movement. As soon as he picked them up, he fired twice in that direction. The silenced bullets were only slightly amplified by the depression in the ground—Wesley heard them whine close to the earth. The movement had been about thirty yards away from him when he fired.

The next movement was closer—The Prince had made his choice. Wesley fired three times, as fast as he could pull the trigger. The site was a bowl of quiet inside the street noises. Wesley started to thrash around as if in a panic, making it clear where he was.

He heard another movement—about twenty feet away this time. The Prince, probably moving the grass with a stick. Wesley scanned for any diamond-flash, but all he picked up was the same darkness—he guessed the target had made the sacrifice.

Wesley pulled the trigger rapidly. The whine faded to a dry, audible
click!
as the firing pin hit air. “Fuck!” Wesley snarled, in a voice just past a whisper but bloated with panic. He viciously threw the gun at a spot about ten feet away and sprang to his feet, the now unarmed assassin lost without his weapon.

Wesley made all the sounds of a terrified man trying to remember to make as little noise as possible. He rolled onto his back and started pushing himself toward 51st Street with his legs, the two-inch Colt now in his right hand.

The Prince flew out of the darkness in a twisting, spinning series of kick-thrusts, offering only a narrow target in case his would-be assassin still had a knife. He was about eight feet away when he saw the pistol; he threw himself flat on his back, already tucking his shoulder under to kick upward when the X-nosed slug caught him in the chest, pinning him to the ground.

The noise from the two-incher was deafening. And, magnified by the bowl, it was cannon-like. All the street noises seemed to stop in unison. Wesley walked slowly toward The Prince, and saw he was choking on his own blood—the slug must have caught a lung.

“A … million dollars,” The Prince gasped. “A million if you don't finish me, man. Just …”

The Prince launched himself off the ground, the
knife-edge of his hand extended. Wesley saw it all in slow motion—he had plenty of time to squeeze out another round, slamming The Prince back to earth. Wesley walked toward him calmly, emptying the pistol. Two shots to the face, the third into the throat.

The street noises were getting much louder. Wesley quickly reloaded, pocketing the empties. He scanned the field, looking for the silenced Beretta, but gave it up in a second—it wasn't carrying his prints, and the darkness that hid it from The Prince hid it just as effectively now.

Wesley pulled the pin on one of the grenades and held it tightly in his right hand. With his left, he pulled The Prince's hands up until they were on either side of what had been his face.

Wesley stuffed the grenade into where The Prince's mouth should have been and released the lever.

By the time the blast echoed throughout the city canyon, Wesley was at the perimeter of the site. As he slid under the fence, he saw a crowd of people outside Lynch's Bar on the corner … and heard a squad car's siren. He looked to his left, toward the river, and saw that way was still clear. Wesley threw himself prone and unsnapped his last grenade. He pulled the pin and held the lever closed in his right hand. With his left, he aimed the pistol carefully at the big cop trying to hold back the crowd.

The revolver boomed twice. Wesley was up and lobbing the grenade before the crowd started to panic and run. It arced through the night under the streetlights, then exploded. Wesley was already running toward
Tenth Avenue off the follow-through from his throwing motion. He knew that the closest car was at 40th and Twelfth. And that he only had a minute or two to disappear into the shadows. He kicked his legs high into his chest, trying desperately for a burst of speed that wouldn't come.

As he crossed Eleventh Avenue, a cab flashed its lights off and on twice. Wesley turned toward it, the little revolver up and ready. He ran toward the driver's window and was only half surprised to see Pet behind the wheel. He was into the cab and Pet was heading downtown before Wesley could catch his breath. The cab turned left on 23rd and headed crosstown.

“What were you doing there?” he finally asked Pet.

“I was cruising Twelfth all night. When the scanner said there was a report of shots fired in the construction site, I figured it was you. I knew Fortieth and Twelfth was the closest car, and you wouldn't be trying to go crosstown to Fifth with all that heat around.”

“What if I didn't come out?”

“I was going in.”

“After me?”

“After that Prince motherfucker.”

The cab hit the FDR Drive and grabbed the service road. They were back onto the Slip and into the garage by 12:15. The police-band was still screaming
“Code Three!”

T
he
Post
had a bylined story on the riot in Times Square the night before. Police theorized that it was a terrorist attack of some kind, probably aimed directly at the
“Guardians in Blue.” There was no mention of a man found in the construction site. Pet looked up from the paper at Wesley, who was staring with fixed concentration at a completely blank white wall.

“There's nothing in here about The Prince,” the old man said.

“Why should there be?” Wesley asked. “There couldn't be that much left of him.”

“They always got fingerprints … dental charts … 
something
.”

“With any kind of luck, they won't get either off him. But maybe some of his freaks took him away and buried him.”

“What do I tell them?”

“The People?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell them he's gone. They hear your voice, they'll already know you're not.”

“How did I do it?”

“None of their fucking business, right? You don't get paid to draw blueprints—that's not professional, anyway.”

“I'll go upstairs and call them—might as well get things rolling,” Pet said. “There's going to be a council behind this for sure. They won't admit what they tried to set up, but with The Prince dead, they'll know I know … something.”

“You know where the meet is going to be?”