Ice Shear (34 page)

“Sierra 4 to Alpha,” I said as I ran down the lightless stairs two at a time. The radio was loud in my ear, Hale alerting everyone to keep an eye out for Jason Byrne, and relaying the text to Craig from a California number that read, “U have something that belongs to us.” I was at the first floor before he answered.

“We have a civilian . . . a citizen . . . in danger,” I said. I moved more cautiously now that I was on the ground floor. “The Merrimen are throwing hot coals on Barbara Merry Christmas.” While the second floor and the roof were empty, the first floor was littered with things too out of date to be sold, too big to be moved, or too small to be of notice. I clipped my hip on the big iron loom that sat in the middle of the floor, tearing a gash in my black canvas pants and nicking my skin. The line was quiet, and I realized that Hale was waiting for me to speak.

“Sierra 4 to Alpha, permission to assist?” I asked.

I worried that Hale would say no. And then what? I wasn't an agent anymore, and while the FBI might be pissed, what were they going to do, fire me?

“Alpha to Sierra 4,” Hale said, finally. “Do not give away the scope of the operation. And make it fast. We're going to need you.”

My beam of light flitted across a pair of old wooden double doors that led out to the loading dock, a more direct route to the Jelicksons'. I dropped my fancy earpiece into my pocket.

I felt my way along the wall to the door, the brickwork crumbling under my touch, and slid it open as quietly as I could. I jumped the few feet from the loading dock onto the ground, skidding on the uneven pavement. A few stumbling steps and I was out into the hesitant glow of the streetlights, able to see everything. I tried to project
Officer Friendly out for an evening stroll.
Full-out running, I wasn't doing a very good job of it. The freezing rain kept people indoors, and the streets were empty except for the FBI. I saw a flash of night-vision goggles watching me pass.

I turned the corner, ready for anything. I was happy to see Barbara brushing the last of the coals off the fur trim on her jacket, still singing, her hand out, expecting a “gift” from the men who were trying to set her on fire. God looks out for children and fools; junkies are included in that second category. I wasn't, however, going to count on Barbara staying safe without a little earthbound intervention, and sped up, not lifting my feet from the ground but
shushing
along, half skating and half walking. I barely felt the cold at all.

Tiny beckoned Barbara, one hand coaxing her over, the other holding a bottle of whiskey. Barbara stumbled forward, singing and brushing ash. He was a foot taller than she was and had four times her bulk. He grabbed at her. Without losing her smile, Barbara leaned over and bit him on the wrist.

“You stupid bitch!” he said, holding his wrist close.

He took the bottle and swung at Barbara, missing. The gold liquid arced wide, hissing when it hit the fire. He was about to crack the bottle down on Barbara's head when I barreled into him, sending him sprawling ass-first onto the street, where he skidded along the ice before stopping.

“Stay down.” I made my voice big and aimed my Glock at Tiny, then the group, and then Tiny again. I had surprise on my side, but that was changing fast. The men clumped together in what would be a nice social gathering if I didn't think they were massing for attack. The light from the fires seemed to hide as well as illuminate, with four guys on my right periphery slipping in and out of shadow, and one disappearing into the house. I couldn't stop him. I didn't even know if I had backup.

“C'mon, Barbara, let's go. You can sing for some friends of mine and get a nice prize.” I pulled at her sleeve, the fabric on the lamb's wool coat coming apart under my fingers. I gripped Barbara's bony wrist and pulled harder, and finally Barbara moved. Unfortunately, so did the bikers.

“Stay! Down!” I yelled at Tiny, who pushed himself up on his elbows. Too late—two of the other bikers jumped the fence. I pushed Barbara behind me and she drifted away from the threat, not in motion, just no longer at rest.

“Okay, you two. You are going to join Tiny on the ground there.” They kept advancing and I moved my finger to the trigger. That stopped them, but two others swung wide into the dark. Five men were now out of my line of sight. I backed up, I hoped not into one of them.

“Gentlemen.” The growl came from the porch. I hadn't seen Zeke come out, and he was invisible now behind the sheet of rain except for the glow of his cigarette as he sucked in a breath.

“Zeke, call off your dogs.” I kept my attention on a ten-foot perimeter. “Call them off or I haul all of you in for assaulting a police officer.”

“You and what army?”

“Hear that?” I said. I knew Hale and the rest of the agents were out in the darkness but didn't know if they would come to my aid. Ambulances and police were racing Craig to the hospital, and that was enough for me to bluff. “
Sirens,
Zeke. They're on their way. Unless you clear off the street, you and your boys are going to jail, and no Wall Street lawyer is going to get you off.”

“Gentlemen, let the good officer go. We don't need you all pulled in on petty mayhem charges. We need you to help avenge our son and our daughter. Me and my wife. And our son, who these dogs are persecuting, needs you. They can't give justice, but we can.”

Zeke Jelickson had, perhaps unwittingly, given the same speech that Marty had at the funeral. Was father like son or was son like father?

“You need to step behind the gate,” I said. “Get back behind property lines.”

The bikers didn't move.

“Linda made some of her world-famous chili.” Zeke was a hulking blackness, blocking out the light that spilled from the apartment. He was going in, but called over his shoulder. “Come in for a bowl. It's a little tight, but we can break down some walls and make some room if we have to. And we can talk about our plans for the future. It is
glorious
.”

Zeke Jelickson's voice dripped of acid, and the men responded to his hate. He didn't stay to see if they'd follow. I waited until they were all in the house before walking backward toward Barbara, who hadn't yet made it down to the end of the block, drifting on an invisible current.

I pulled my radio from my pocket and slid it into my ear. “Sierra 4 to Alpha. All clear.”

“Saw the whole thing,” Hale said.

“From your car?” I asked.

“We have a camera in the nativity scene.” The people in the corner house were diligent about putting up their nativity scene—glowing nutcrackers guarding the perimeter of baby Jesus' birth—but less diligent about taking it down. It had been up until July, last year. “Ray Jelickson's phone sent another text while Zeke was making his speech. Any visual confirmation on Linda Jelickson?”

“Negative. I'm going to secure Barbara in my car and retake my position.”

I listened for mentions of Dave in the radio chatter: he was breathing, he was oxygenated, and he'd been swabbed for toxins. I choked off a laugh. Dave had to live because I needed to be able to tease him about getting swabbed for toxins. I focused my mind on business, listening closely to the radio: Craig was breathing with the help of the ventilator, and our dealer hadn't approached. I grabbed Barbara's arm to hustle her along a little bit. The rain was coming down hard now, and my clothes were soaked through, the hole in my pants letting in a steady stream of wet. The little fur that remained on Barbara's coat fuzzed. She veered away at my touch, walking parallel with me at arm's length along the path that ran against the mill. I steered her through inference; she didn't want me close but didn't want me far, either. Barbara was singing a girl group song, low and sweet.

I gave you my crimson scarf to wear.

I kissed you with a sigh.

You took your mark, your engine roared.

It was our last good-bye.

It was the first new song Barbara had sung in thirty years.

“You okay, Barbara?” I said softly, not touching her even as she tipped sideways, scraping the bricks of the building. I worried that she was sinking deeper into her dark places until she piped up with a very shaky version of her Christmas chestnut. A little steadier on her feet now, she was able to move fairly quickly along the two hundred feet next to the mill.

“This way,” I said as we reached the lot at the far side. All the FBI agents had driven beater cars, dented and scratched models chosen specifically to fit in perfectly with the other abandoned junkers scattered around the lot. In our Dodge, Dave and I arrived pre-beatered. I guided Barbara, gradually adjusting my own course to push rather than pull her into the car.

“Sit here,” I said, easing her inside. My soaked clothes chafed as I stretched wide to buckle her in. This close, I got the full effect of Barbara's scent: wet fur, hair spray, and the sweetish smell of heroin. Not wanting to disconcert her with eye contact, I kept my eyes on her lap. Barbara jumped every time drips of cold rain rolled off me and hit her. She stopped singing, but touched her fingers to her thumb in some internal rhythm—one-two-three-four, four-three-two-one—until they stilled. When I took a step back, I discovered that she'd nodded off in the half minute it took to buckle her in.

“Sierra 4 to Alpha, returning to position,” I said into the radio. The chatter had quieted considerably.

“Sierra 3 to Sierra 4,” Ernie said. “You have missed nothing other than me losing my nose from the cold.”

“Can we knock off the chatter?” Potreo's voice said snidely. I would have told him to go fuck himself, but currently that wasn't essential information. Later, I planned to give him that information, in great detail.

I reached the door of the mill. The entrance was marked men, remarkable for a business where most of the employees had been unmarried young women. The mill's Victorian owners had strived, in their true muscular Christian way, to improve their lessers. They'd put in a chapel upstairs and kept away any men who might compromise the women's virtue or, worse, marry them and take them away from the mill.

I opened the door slowly, keeping the rusted hinges from making too much noise. All was quiet, and I gave my eyes a moment to adjust, taking a deep, calming breath. The dust in the room hit my throat, and I couldn't help but cough. I held my mouth against the crook of my elbow and constricted my throat muscles, muffling it, but was unsuccessful. The sound bounced around the room, echoing.

Except it wasn't an echo. I listened, opening my mouth to breathe more quietly. It tasted like one hundred years of oil and cotton dust. The sound of the rain was low but insistent, drumming a rhythm that my heart sped up to match. My sodden clothes left me heavy and graceless. I needed to go outside, get help, and guard the exits—it might have been a homeless person looking for a break from the weather, but it might be more.

I took a step and stopped. Heard the low beat of the rain plus something new and harsh, a rhythmic clank that seemed to be everywhere: from behind, from the front, from
above
. I swung my pistol wildly. It wasn't until it was right on top of me that I saw the plunging iron hook.

I darted left, but not fast enough: The hook smashed into my shoulder, its weight driving me against the far wall. The chain crashed above me, bouncing wide, hitting a post, and boomeranging back on me. I dodged it, barely, my head pounded against the bricks. The clang repeated endlessly. I tried to stand, but the sharp pain in my shoulder left me unable to keep my balance, and I sank to the floor, the cement scraping against my skin where my pants had torn before, a pipe digging into my tailbone when I landed. I reached out for my Glock with my left hand, brushing the cracked floor. My shoulder screamed. It was dislocated. I reached around with my right hand, the stretch pushing my far shoulder painfully tight against the wall. I touched my ear. The radio wasn't there, dislodged when I fell.

I pulled myself in tight, making myself small. I couldn't see my assailant, and maybe he or she couldn't see me, either. From the blackness I heard a click, the hammer being cocked, and the pulled trigger—even through my fear, my well-trained brain noted
revolver
—and after, nothing.

The gun failed to fire.

My hand rested on the pipe underneath me. I tugged at it, pain shooting through me, making me weak and afraid to move.

A second snap, the revolver jamming again. I jerked hard at the pipe and it gave way, the rust letting me break it from the wall. All I could hear was the harsh breathing of my assailant, probably a foot in front of me. I screwed myself right, my useless arm flopping to my side, lifted the pipe with my right arm, and with a last burst of energy swung out, screaming in pain as the swing forced my left shoulder roughly back into the socket.

My assailant's scream almost drowned out my own, the sound low and guttural, injured. A clatter followed, the gun dropping. Collapsed against the cold bricks, soaked in cold sweat and colder rain, I prepared to be kicked or punched, but nothing came. My assailant was moving away from me, and as the door swung open, I could make out the bare outline of my attacker in the doorway: five feet ten or eleven, wearing a knit cap, and kitted out with big boots and a thermal jacket. A huge backpack turtled out behind.

I felt shaky, and my muscles wouldn't support me. Still sitting, I skidded the pipe in my hand back and forth on the floor in wider and wider circles, skimming for my gun. It hit something solid and I crawled over. Not a gun, but night-vision goggles. I put them on, the possibility of collecting DNA secondary to finding my firearm. I gathered the energy to move onto my hands and knees and crawled over to my gun. With a last push, I got myself upright, barely, and lurched out the exit.

Sweat ran off my head and across my eyes, mixing with the freezing rain. I shivered. I pulled off the goggles, stuffing them into my pocket. From the far corner of the lot one of the “abandoned” cars started up, skidding briefly before righting itself and speeding toward the exit. I put my gun into firing position and then lowered it—no way could I make that shot from here. I concentrated on the black sedan, trying to ID it, using my eyes when I couldn't use my gun.