Repairman Jack [10]-Harbingers (22 page)

His throat tightened as he stared at those smiling faces.

I'm the only one left.

He went to the closet and found the ugly Hawaiian shirts still present. Leaning in the rear corner was the MIC sniper rifle he and Dad had bought last trip to lake care of a little business. But he was more interested in the old gray metal box on the shelf above. It had been locked the first time he'd found it. Not now.

He flipped it open, sorted through the photos of Dad's old army buddies from Korea until he reached the small jewelry box. He popped the lid to reveal the Purple Heart and Silver Star. Jack stared at them a moment, then snapped the lid shut. The photos and the medals would mean nothing to Ron, and even less to Tom's Skanks from Hell. They'd probably put them up on eBay first chance they had.

But they meant something to Jack—meant a
lot
. They were all he had left of his father, reminders of the part of his life Dad had hidden from his family, the war he'd tried to put behind him.

Jack closed the case and carried it to the kitchen as he went for another beer. But as he opened the door he spotted a green bottle sitting atop the fridge. He pulled it down. The label read THE SCOTCH MALT WHISKEY SOCIETY, CASK 12.6. A gift to Dad from Uncle Stu. Jack remembered Dad's toast when they'd shared a glass.

To the best day of my life in the last fifteen years.

Jack recalled the burn in his throat, but now the burn was in his eyes.

He poured himself a shot and sipped. Just as good as he remembered. No, good didn't quite do it. Exquisite was more like it.

He placed the bottle atop the metal box. No way the Skanks from Hell were going to get their hands on this either.

He felt too melancholy to watch TV. He'd sit and drink a little, then hit the sack early. He had to get back to Fort Lauderdale and find that boat slip by six a.m.

TUESDAY

1

Jack awoke with a start and looked at the red LED on his father's clock radio: 3:15. Had he been dreaming? Or had something else pulled him out of a sound sleep?

And then he heard it: a faint scratching from the living room. He slipped out of bed and padded to the bedroom door. The sound came from his right—from the front door.

The top half of the door was glass, divided into nine panes. He saw the silhouette of a man crouched on the far side. The scratching sound continued.

Some son of a bitch was trying to pick the lock.

A slew of thoughts raced through Jack's brain. First off, what was he after? He was making no attempt at discretion, so obviously he expected the place to be empty. A little homework and he'd know that Gateways was a gated community with regular security patrols, and so only the most paranoid residents had alarm systems. But if he knew Dad's place was empty, why was he picking the lock? Much easier to cut a hole in one of the panes, reach through, and unlock the door. Jack kept a glass cutter and a suction cup in his bag of tricks for just that purpose.

The only benefit to picking the lock was to hide the fact that the place had been broken into.

And why would he want to do that?

Jack turned and started toward the night table for a pistol—then realized he wasn't home. No weapon.

No, wait. The MIC.

He stepped to the closet and pulled out the sniper rifle. He didn't know if it was loaded and didn't much care. The WWII-vintage piece had a walnut stock and a steel butt plate. Why wake up the neighborhood with a shot when you have a ten-pound club?

He padded back to the living room, positioned himself so he'd be behind the door when it opened, and raised the rifle.

He waited.

Took a while—the guy wasn't adept—but he finally turned the cylinder and pushed open the door. When he stepped inside, Jack rammed the rifle's butt plate against the back of his head. Not too hard—didn't want to crack his skull or put him into a coma—but hard enough to subtract a hand-to-hand confrontation from the equation. Wasn't in the mood for any rough and tumble.

The guy gave a soft "
Uhn
!" as his legs gave out. He dropped his little gym bag—very much like Jack's—and went to his knees. He knelt, swaying, looking like a churchgoer with vertigo. Jack was pondering whether or not to administer another tap when the guy fell forward and landed face first on the carpet.

Okay. Next step?

Duct tape. Dad always had been a firm believer in the wonders of the stuff and Jack was sure he'd seen a roll of it somewhere during his last trip. The porch—that was where he kept his tools.

Jack slammed his hip against the kitchen counter on his way to the rear of the house. Wouldn't have happened if he'd had the lights on, but he didn't want the security patrol to wonder why a supposedly empty house was lit up at three in the morning.

The light in the parking area behind the house pushed enough illumination through the porch jalousies for him to locate his father's toolbox. In the bottom compartment he found a roll and hurried back to the living room.

2

Jack sat on the toilet-seat cover and watched the guy in the bathtub stir and blink his eyes. He was young—maybe late twenties—and dressed in khaki shorts, a burgundy golf shirt, and Topsiders. He'd gelled his dark brown hair into little spikes—a style Jack had always found baffling—and had grown his somethings in South Florida. He lay on his back, his wrists duct-taped in front of him, with more tape around his ankles and knees. Not a foolproof taping job by a long shot, but Jack wasn't worried about that.

He was holding the guy's pistol.

After finishing the taping, Jack had hung a towel over the bathroom window and turned on the light. Then he'd dragged the guy in and rolled him into the tub. That done, he'd opened the gym bag—a High Sierra model with an empty water-bottle sleeve—and the first thing he'd found was a Luger.

Okay, a guy sneaking into his father's supposedly empty house was a deal, though not a terribly big one. But finding a pistol, even if he wasn't wearing it at the time, changed the picture and upped the threat level a few notches—maybe to orange. But then Jack noticed that the front sight had been filed off and the end of the barrel threaded. And when he discovered a dark blue MX Minireflex moderator in the bag, the situation went deep into the red, sending one thought clanging through his head like a gong.

Hit man. Or assassin. Whatever he called himself, he was geared for a close-range, silent kill.

Jack's first thought was that somebody wanted him dead and had hired this clown to make it happen. Then he realized that that couldn't be. No one had known he was headed here. Jack hadn't known himself. Hadn't made the decision until he'd landed.

So who was he after? And why had he come here?

The guy groaned. He'd been doing that and opening and closing his eyes for about ten minutes. This time they stayed open and focused on Jack for a few seconds, then up and around at his surroundings.

"What the fuck?"

He tried to sit up but then grimaced and slumped back to his original position.

"Headache?"

Jack had been through the post-concussion thing a few times. Early on, every movement sent a bolt of pain through your head.

The guy fixed on Jack again.

"The fuck am I?"

"Who, what, or where?"

"Where."

"A nice little house in Gateways. The one you broke into just a short while ago.

"And who the f—?"

Jack raised the pistol. "That's my question. One of many I'm going to be asking you." jack saw fear race through his eyes at sight of the Luger, but only for an instant. Then the hard-guy look returned.

"I checked your clothes and your bag," Jack said. "No ID. So tell me: What's your name?"

The guy sneered. "John Smith."

"Very funny." Jack hadn't expected a straight answer but felt obligated to ask. "Okay, Smith, what's going on here? What are you up to?"

Another sneer. "The Motel Six was full up and I needed a place to stay."

Jack had an urge to wing a slug past Smith's nose but didn't want to mess up the tile. He hadn't looked but assumed the pistol had a round in the chamber. He worked the toggle anyway—for effect. The ratcheting sound echoed off the tiles as a cartridge spun through the air and bounced along the floor.

Jack gestured with the pistol. "Now we'll try again, Smith. What are you doing in my father's house?"

The tough-guy façade cracked a little. "Your father? Shit, I heard it would be empty."

"Heard from whom?"

"No one and nobody." He stared at Jack. "You mean you and your father live here?"

"Nope. My father's gone and I'm just visiting."

"But why are you a day early?"

That came from so far out in left field that it knocked Jack off balance.

"What?"

"You weren't supposed to be here until tomorrow."

"I wasn't supposed to be here at all. You sure you're talking about me? Did someone show you a picture of me?"

His tone turned uncertain. "No… never seen you before in my life."

Smith put his head back and closed his eyes. "Shit! I just can't believe he could screw up like this."

"He who?"

Smith's eyes snapped open as if he'd received a shock. He glanced at Jack with a worried look.

"No one. No one at all."

Jack studied his face. He thinks he said too much. And maybe he did. But about what?

Jack waggled the pistol at him.

"This is a hit man rig."

The sneer again. "How would you know?"

"Oh, I know. I know." Jack turned the pistol over in his hands. "An American Eagle Luger. Not the original—this is the Stoeger recreation—but a pretty piece, no less. Put a couple of hollow points through the back of the head, let them bounce around inside the skull to make Swiss cheese of the brain, and that's all she wrote, right?"

He saw a look of worry and wonder ripple over Smith's face. Seemed it was finally dawning on him that he'd broken into the wrong house at the wrong time and wound up at the mercy of the wrong guy.

"I'm not with the mob."

"Okay then, an assassin. Am I right?"

"You have no idea."

"Who were you supposed to hit?"

Jack hoped the "were" got through to him.

"Nobody." He raised his taped wrists and knuckled an eye. "That's just for self-defense."

"Yeah, right. Who sent you?"

"Nobody. Like I told you, just looking for a place to crash."

Jack had a feeling he'd learned all he was going to from this clown. Unless he applied a little pressure. He rummaged through the gym bag until he found the suppressor. He pulled it out and held it up.

"Nobody needs one of these for self-defense. So come on, Smith. Let's stop dancing around and put a few facts on the table."

"Told you all I know," he said as he rubbed his eyes again.

"We'll see about that. And keep your hands down."

With studied deliberation, Jack began threading the suppressor onto the end of the barrel, glancing at Smith with every turn.

"My, my… I do believe you're starting to sweat."

"Hot in here."

Yeah, it was kind of close in here, but not hot.

"Afraid of dying, Smith?"

"Not really. I'd regret it, but it doesn't scare me. Put one in my head and get it over with. You're boring the shit out of me."

"'Boring the shit out of me.'" Jack had to smile. "I'll have to add that to my list of favorite last lines."

He hoped the subtext wasn't lost.

"You kill me, you get double nothing."

Jack offered what he hoped was a sadistic smile. "Who said anything about killing you? As long as you've got knees and ankles and elbows—"

Jack didn't know what type of smile Smith was going for. Whatever it was, it looked pretty sick.

"Same difference. You shoot me anywhere, I stop talking."

Those words, combined with the look on his face, struck a sour note in Jack. He looked around for the bullet he'd ejected and found it. His stomach dropped when lie saw the tip: The hollow in the point had been filled with something and sealed over.

His thoughts flashed back a month—to a figure lying dead on the floor of the LaGuardia baggage claim area… dead of a flesh wound in the thigh that should have caused pain and some blood loss but no more.

Dead for one reason: He'd caught a cyanide-filled hollow point.

This looked like the same thing, except it was a 9mm Starfire instead of the 5.56 NATOs used at the airport.

Still… an assassin's bullet.

He held it up. "Cyanide tipped?"

Smith's mouth tightened into a thin line, but he said nothing.

"You connected to Wrath of Allah?"

Smith frowned. "Who the fu—oh, those Islamic assholes who did LaGuardia?" He looked insulted. "You gotta be kidding."