Repairman Jack [10]-Harbingers (10 page)

"You live here, bud?"

Jack held up his own shopping bag and loosed his most charming smile.

"Staying with Zeklos. Y'know, Two-B?"

"You mean the ghost?"

They stepped into a tiny vestibule, and then Jack followed the guy up the stairs.

"Why you call him that? He's a good guy."

"Maybe so. But nobody hardly ever sees him. You hear him go in and out, but it's like he's invisible. Like a ghost, y'know?"

Jack knew. He'd been living that way for the past decade and a half: slipping in and out unseen. A ghost in the machine.

A ghost soon to be exorcised.

Jack laughed. "Well, trust me, he looked pretty solid last night."

He held his breath as they reached the second-floor landing. A three-story building… he prayed this guy lived on the third.

As Jack turned right into the hallway he waved and said, "See ya."

The guy said, "Yeah. And say hello to the ghost for me."

Then he started up the next flight.

Perfect.

Jack took his time ambling down to 2-B. When he reached it he glanced back to check that he had the hallway to himself. He did. He knocked.

"Mr. Zeklos… delivery." No answer, no sound from within. "Mr. Zeklos… Candygram." Still no response.

He'd been checking the door as he knocked. A tight jamb. That made a plastic shim approach a little tougher. The no-name knob lock would be a snap to pick; the Schlage deadbolt above it would be tougher, but no match for his pick gun.

Another check of the hallway and Jack went to work. The knob lock wasn't even set—Zeklos depended entirely on the heavier Schlage. Sensible choice. Three minutes of raking with the gun, a twist of the tension bar, and he retracted the bolt.

He put his hand on the knob and pulled his Glock. Three possibilities on the other side of that door: an armed and angry Zeklos, a dead Zeklos, or no Zeklos.

Jack wasn't looking for a fight. Plan A was to talk to Zeklos if he was home and unarmed, try to pump him a little. If he was home and alive and locked and loaded, that would trigger Plan B, which was to get out of here with as little fuss as possible. If not home, shift to Plan C.

He moved to the side, crouched, took a breath, and pushed open the door.

"Zeklos? You there?"

From what he could see from his angle, the place looked empty, sounded
empty, felt
empty.

5

Now what?

Jack sat in his car and stared out at the street. He'd started the engine but hadn't put it in gear. He'd budgeted a longer time frame for Zeklos. What to do with the excess?

Well, since he was in the neighborhood, why not drive by the yeniçeri warehouse and see if anything was shaking?

Jack ducked inside and did a quick check of the bedroom and bathroom—no one.

He pulled Zeklos's H-K from the shopping bag and wiped it down. Would have been nice to have access to a crime lab—check out Zeklos's prints, see if he had a record, or a gun license, or if Zeklos was even his real name. But he didn't, so low tech would have to do.

Part of the low-tech approach involved head games. That was where Plan C came into play.

He wiped down the pistol and placed it on the kitchen table. Then, keeping his gloves on, he pulled out a pen and notepad and wrote:

He slipped that under the pistol and made his exit.

He smiled as he bounced down the stairs. The last thing Zeklos would expect was the return of his weapon. Losing it had to be a crushing blow to the ego of someone who considered himself a yeniçeri. Now that he had it back he might be a little less defensive and a little more forthcoming about his buddies in black.

And then again he might not.

Head games… such fun.

He took a roundabout route, scanning the sidewalks for familiar faces—always better to see first than be seen.

A couple of turns and he had the warehouse in sight. The bricks of the walls looked battered, weathered, and faded, but the ones filling the window frames looked new.

Nobody out front.

A quiet day in crummy Red Hook.

As he approached the three-story building he felt the same itching, burning sensation across his chest as last night, intensifying as he passed the front, fading as he left it behind.

What the hell?

6

"Don't you think you were perhaps a little harsh with the man?"

The Oculus sat behind the desk in his study and faced the two yeniçeri, Miller and Davis. They stood before him, feet apart, hands behind their backs. Both wore casual clothes—the yeniçeri imposed no dress code at Home—with Davis in jeans and a sweater and Miller in a gray warm-up.

The Oculus had been downstairs a few moments ago and noticed a dejected-looking Zeklos packing the contents of his locker into a battered suitcase. After learning the situation, he'd called the two principals here to discuss the matter.

"He's a menace," Miller said. "He should be kicked out pure and simple without fooling around with half measures."

The Oculus didn't particularly like Miller as a person—and he sensed he wasn't alone in that—but no one could doubt his devotion to the MV and to his job as one of the Oculus's protectors. And after what had befallen his brother and sister Oculi around the world, he needed all the protection he could get.

"I agree that Zeklos is a liability at this point," Davis said, "but I don't think he's broken beyond repair. I think he's simply lost his edge." He glanced at Miller. "He needs a tune-up, not a bullet."

"He's not fixable and should be dealt with according to the Code."

Davis turned to Miller. "You want to pull the trigger on him? Would you like that? Would that make your day?"

"You do what has to be done."

It pained him to see such dissension. More, it frightened him. An effective MV needed solidarity to perform its duties of protection and eradication. If not for his daughter, the Oculus would have had the MV focus on its eradication responsibilities. But with Diana here, he wanted them in top form as protectors as well.

He could only suggest. Although his opinions carried weight, the yeniçeri were an autonomous organization with their own rules and set of procedures—which seemed to be breaking down since the loss of the Twins. They would listen, but in the end they would make their own decision.

The Oculus raised his hands. "Gentlemen, may I make a suggestion?"

"Of course," Davis said.

"I favor the middle course." He saw Miller's features harden so he focused his attention on him. "I say that purely as a matter of practicality. After the recent depredations, the MV is not exactly flush with yeniçeri. You need every man you have. To throw one away at this juncture—"

"Is losing nothing," Miller said. "We can't count on him."

The Oculus shook his head. "Yes, but—"

He froze. That feeling—the same as last night—had returned, as strong as before.

Davis stared at him with a concerned expression. "Something wrong?"

"No… something right, I think. I hope. I pray."

He told him about last night's unique sensation, how it had burst upon him, and how it had faded away.

"And now it has returned."

He closed his eyes as the feeling grew stronger.

"What's it mean?" Davis said.

The Oculus looked at him. "That someone special, someone we've been looking for, is near."

Miller's eyes widened. "The Sentinel?"

"I… I'm not sure, but this feeling is so… so beckoning that it might very well be the Sentinel. Or an emissary."

"Where?"

The feeling was strong now.

"Outside! He's right out front this very moment!"

He wished now that they hadn't bricked up the windows.

"The roof!" Davis said.

But as he followed Miller and Davis up the stairs, the Oculus felt the sensation begin to fade.

No! Not again!

He reached the roof and stared down at the traffic three floors below. Half a dozen cars in sight. The source was moving away… it had to be in one of them, but he could not tell which. He wanted to scream
Stop
! But to whom?

Anger tinged his desperation. Why was he being taunted like this? To what end?

He waited for the inevitable moment when the feeling would evaporate as if it had never been.

There it went… fading… fading…

And then the fading stopped. The feeling remained faint, but steady.

"Is he gone?" Davis said.

The Oculus shook his head but said nothing. He concentrated on the sensation, centered on it. It remained faint… faint… and then…

A little stronger… and then stronger still…

"He's coming back! We can't let him get away!"

"Which way's he coming?" Miller said.

"I don't know. I can't tell. But I'll know when he's close. And then you must follow him. Find him and bring him to me."

7

The itching and burning had faded to next to nothing by the time Jack turned a corner two blocks from the warehouse. He pulled over and unbuttoned his shirt. No rash, but the usually pink scars on his chest, a matched troika of ten-inch ridges running diagonally from up near his left shoulder down and across his right pectoral, looked red and swollen now.

He ran his fingers over them. Hot.

His chest muscles tightened. Considering the nature of the creature that had left these souvenirs, this was not good.

Had to be related to that warehouse. The scars seemed to react whenever he got near it.

He leaned back and thought about how he'd landed here. Anyone else would see it as a string of coincidences.

Timmy's niece is kidnapped. Timmy—just like Jack—happens to be a regular at Julio's. Jack just happens to be present when the dudes in black appear. A little cat-and-mouse action leads him here, to a place that causes an angry reaction in his scars.

Coincidences? Not likely. Especially since he had it on good authority that there would be no more coincidences in his life.

Which meant he'd been led here.

But by whom? And for good or ill? Check that:
Whose
good or ill?

Part of Jack—the more primitive brain centers devoted to self-preservation—urged him to slam the car into gear and get the hell out of here.

Good idea. Smart idea.

But let's think about that.

No one knew he was here. No one was aware he even knew about the place. Driving by too many times might raise a flag if they had security cameras aimed at the street.

But he could walk by.

Once. Just once.

He'd worn a midweight Jets hoodie under his bomber. Pull a knit cap down to his eyebrows, wrap a scarf around his neck and lower face, pull up the hood, add a pair of sunglasses, and he'd be unrecognizable. Wouldn't work in warmer weather, but here in January he was just another guy shielding himself from the cold.

So that was what he did. When he finished the wrap-up he checked himself in the rearview mirror.

Call me Griffin.

He adjusted the Glock in the nylon holster in the small of his back, then stepped out and walked to the corner. After a quick survey, he put his head down and into the breeze, then started toward the warehouse. Figured he might as well go for broke and walk right past the front door.

With each step the discomfort in the scars increased but he kept moving, determined to see how bad it would get. By the time he came even with the door he felt as if his chest were on fire.

And then the door flew open and half a dozen men jumped out, swarming around him with drawn pistols—all suppressor-equipped H-Ks. Miller's massive presence was unmistakable among them.

Shock slowed him. How had they known? How could they possibly have known it was him?