Repairman Jack [10]-Harbingers (5 page)

"Nobody does that to me and walks away scot-free."

"Yes," said Zeklos. "And I do not forget what he has said about my teeth."

Cal ground his own teeth.

"You guys got the best look at him. Remember anything else about him?"

Zeklos shrugged. "Average-looking man. In the middle of his thirties perhaps. Leather jacket and jeans."

"Wasn't very big, I can tell you that," Miller said.

"Short?"

"Nah. In between."

"Great. An average-looking, average-height guy in his mid-thirties dressed like a zillion others like him. What happened to all your observational training?"

"His knit hat—it was pulled low," Zeklos said. "That hides very much."

"We're going to have to be right on top of him before we know it's him."

Zeklos said, "I will know him when I see him. And then we see who has bad teeth."

Cal turned back to the screen and saw something he didn't like.

"Damn! He's moving again."

Miller bungeed up against the backrest. "Where?"

"Looks like downtown. Make your next right, Zek. Maybe we can head him off."

Crosstown was a slow go, but when they hit Central Park West the transponder was signaling from the right.

"He's downtown from here. Go!"

The trouble with these RF trackers was they didn't give you a good idea of distance to the object. Could be three cars ahead, could be a mile.

They followed the signal down Broadway and had just passed Times Square when it suddenly veered to the left and then behind.

"Stop!"

The truck was still moving as Cal jumped out with the tracking receiver in hand. He ran back and watched the blip veer right. He looked up and saw a guy in an overcoat getting out of a cab.

"There he is!"

The guy looked up, surprised, then terrified as Miller and Zeklos closed in on him.

"Wait," Zeklos said. "This is not him."

Miller was shaking his head. "Yeah. Too tall."

"Check the driver," Cal said.

Miller yanked open the door and hauled out a confused and frightened-looking black guy babbling in some foreign tongue.

Strike two.

But the tracker said the transponder was here.

Cal checked the rear of the cab, the fenders, the trunk lid, the license—

There. A black disk stuck to the license plate. Cal ripped it off.

The bastard.

"Let them go, guys." He held up the disk. "Looks like we've got a player on our hands." An idea struck. "You!" he said to the passenger, who still had a deer-in-the-headlights expression. "Where'd you catch this cab?"

"C-C-Columbus."

"
Where
on Columbus?"

"The eighties, I think."

"You
think
?"

"I wasn't watching. I kept walking as I looked for a cab."

Cal turned back toward the car. "All right. Columbus in the eighties. That's where we're going."

Zeklos moaned. "We will never find him."

"You're probably right. But who knows? We may get lucky."

8

The obvious move would have been to go home and keep his head down. But Jack wanted to know if the suits had been able to triangulate on him. If so, they'd either wait outside Julio's to grab him, or follow him home.

So after sticking the disk on that cab's license plate, he'd returned to the table and kept an eye on the door and front window.

Half an hour passed with nothing. Then an hour. Good. Looked like he'd been lucky. But just to be sure, he'd duck out through the back alley.

He was reaching for his jacket when he saw a familiar face pop into view outside the front window.

Jack ducked his head as alarm dieseled through his gut. What had they called the little guy? Zeklos? Whatever. No mistaking his Freddie Mercury overbite. They'd found him.

Or had they? They hadn't seen much of him, didn't even know his hair color. Maybe…

No, had to assume the worst.

So much for luck.

He rose and strolled to the bar where he motioned Julio over. The muscular little man leaned close. A cloying odor preceded him.

Jack winced. Where did he find these colognes?

Julio frowned. "You don' like my new scent, meng?"

"It exceeds your usual standards. You should buy another bottle and throw them both away." Jack leaned closer. "Might be a little trouble."

Julio glanced around and smoothed his pencil-thin mustache with a thumb and forefinger.

"Yeah? Who?"

Jack had been watching the window from the corner of his eye, and now he saw Miller's face pop up and down.

That nailed it. They'd found him.

"They're outside. Probably three of them. Might come in, might not. But it wouldn't hurt to get folks properly arranged."

"Okay. I spread the word. Where you gon' be?"

Jack looked around. Good question.

"Lend me your zapper."

9

Cal watched Miller dodge a cab as he hurried back from the bar across the street.

"Him all right."

"Did I not tell you?" Zeklos said.

Cal said, "Did he see you? Either of you?"

Miller shook his head. "He was too busy talking to the bartender."

Zeklos stared across the street at the bar. "It is a strange place, yes? All of the plants in the window, they are dead. Why hang plants if one is not going to care for them?"

"Worry about that later," Cal said. "Let's find our vantage points and wait for him to come out."

Miller was still shaking his head. "Uh-uh. We go in in uniform and drag him out."

"Listen to me," Cal said, fighting a burst of anger. "I'm team leader and I say—"

"You were team leader for getting the girl. That's over and done. Now there is no team. We're just three yeniçeri out to find out who's screwing with us."

He'd been seeing a steady decline in yeniçeri discipline in the last year. Here was further proof.

Cal turned to Zeklos. "What do you say?"

Zeklos shrugged and looked away. "I do not wish for hours to stand in this freezing cold."

Cal found himself speechless for a few heartbeats. Zeklos hated Miller. Cal couldn't believe he'd take his side on anything. But then again, it was pretty damn cold.

Miller clapped his hands. "I guess that's it then. Let's get into uniform."

"Why not just do it now—as we are?"

Miller shook his head. "No way. This is a public appearance and I want it known that this jerk was hauled away by men in black."

Cal sighed. "All right. But one of us should be stationed at that alley over there, just in case there's a back way out."

"Good idea," Miller said. "Zeklos—think you can handle that without screwing up?"

The little man glowered at him. "You are driving the car of obnoxiousness, Miller."

He turned and started across the street.

"You forgot your suit," Miller said.

Without turning, Zeklos raised his right hand and gave the single-digit salute.

"You've been coming down pretty heavy on him. Lighten up."

Miller snarled. "Everybody cuts him too much slack. He's a fuck-up. We trusted him with that simple hit-and-run last November and he blew it. He should be working in Home Depot or something."

They returned to the Suburban where they struggled back into their black suits, ties, hats, and sunglasses.

Back on the sidewalk Cal gave himself the up and down, then Miller. They both looked rumpled.

"Not exactly our usual clean, pressed look."

"It'll do." Miller pulled out his H-K and checked the breech. "What do you think: yes or no to the suppressors?"

"Yes. They're scary."

"Okay. Let's do it."

"Do what, exactly? What's the plan? We need to be synched up before we go in there."

"We'll keep it simple. We go in guns out. You keep everyone down—maybe crease one or two if they start to look restless—while I grab the asshole and haul him out. We jump in the car, blindfold him, then take him Home where we can work on him. Good enough?"

No. It was cowboy stuff. Cal preferred a more finessed approach.

"I'd rather let him come to us. Grab him out here."

Miller turned on him. "Look. I'm going in. Either you're with me or you ain't, but I'm going in."

Discipline… going, going…

Cal sighed. "Okay. Let's go."

He let Miller take the lead, and nodded to Zeklos standing at the mouth of the alley. Then they were through the door and standing just inside it with their pistols waving back and forth.

"This is gonna make you think you're in a bad movie," Miller shouted, "but if everyone sits quiet, no one gets hurt."

Cal scanned the room. To the right nothing but empty tables, a jukebox, and the dead plants. A couple of guys at the bar along the left wall. Another dozen-fifteen guys sat at tables arranged in a semicircle across the middle of the room. No one to either side… everyone in front of them. Something wrong with this picture but he couldn't say just what.

"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.