Paul Wilson - Cold City (Repairman Jack - Early Years Trilogy)

Nasser glanced around as he returned to the suite’s sitting room. Another of Trejador’s quirks: no permanent address. He lived in an endless series of hotels, staying in a given suite for a month or two, then moving to another. The only constants in his life were the Order and his mobile phone. He might not be living in the last place you saw him, but that phone kept Roman Trejador available at a moment’s notice.

He seated himself opposite Trejador and watched him across the low, glass-topped table between them.

“You said you had good news.”

Trejador smiled. “Much to my surprise, the High Council approved the funding we requested.”

Nasser barked a laugh of relief. “That’s wonderful! But why are you surprised? Didn’t you present it to them with your recommendation?”

“Of course. But still, I’m only an actuator, and three million dollars is a huge amount. I thought they’d balk.”

“But we’re only making a loan, not a grant.”

“I think that was what swayed them.”

“More than a loan. We’ll be returning a profit as well.”

Trejador shook his head. “I didn’t bring that up. Profit isn’t the goal. You know that.”

Nasser did know that. Chaos was the goal. “But profit must appear to be my goal if we are to sell this.”

“I understand that. And you will make a profit.” He raised his glass and stared at Nasser over the rim. “A fact that might prove burdensome to the High Council.”

Nasser stiffened. Was he hinting that they keep the profit? An interesting concept. The High Council was expecting only the return of its loan. Nasser had no need of extra money, but Trejador’s lifestyle… he imagined it could be costly.

The success of this venture would elevate Nasser’s rank in the Order, but its success at this crucial stage depended in large part upon Trejador’s contacts and tactical support. Best be cautious here.

“True,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “The High Council has much on its plate since the return of the One.”

“Indeed it does. The major concern they voiced to me was the possibility that one of the Arab players would abscond with the funds.”

Nasser shrugged. “I cannot guarantee that it’s beyond the realm of possibility, but these are zealots. I have dealt with their kind before. Their cause is everything. I don’t think cash will sway them from their holy course.”

“My thoughts exactly, but never ignore the possibility of that amount transforming a zealot into a rogue. Con el dinero baila el perro .”

Nasser nodded. “I come from a land that knows the seductive power of wealth.”

“Then you’ll understand the need for some sort of safeguard.”

“I’ll watch them like the proverbial hawk.”

“See that you do. I’ve logged too many hours setting up these contacts and working both ends of this arrangement to have an attack of greed ruin it.”

“No one wants this to succeed more than I.” Nasser lifted his glass. “To chaos.”

Roman Trejador raised his martini. “To chaos.”

FRIDAY

1

It took a moment for Jack to recognize the buzzing noise: his intercom. The only visitor he’d had since moving in was the landlord on rent day, and he knocked – hammered was more like it – on Jack’s door. Someone downstairs looking for him was a new experience. He found the plate on the wall and pressed the SPEAK button. He hoped that was the thing to do.

“Hello?”

Silence.

He tried again, with the same result.

He lifted the window over the entrance and shouted down. “Hey! Someone looking for two-A?”

A heavy guy wearing a camouflage boonie cap backed out of the doorway and looked up. He hefted the large box in his hands.

“Yeah. Delivery for two-A.”

Figuring it would be a waste of time to try to buzz him in, he hurried down the two flights to the front entrance.

“You Jack Moore?” the guy said as Jack opened the front door. He looked flushed and sweaty despite the cool breeze and overcast sky.

“The one and only.”

Jack saw his name scrawled on the top of the box but no address. A clipboard lay next to his name.

“Got ID?”

Uh-oh. What now?

“It’s upstairs.”

“Wanna go get it?”

He put a hand over his chest. “Got a heart condition.”

The guy put down the box and lifted the clipboard, glancing up at Jack after he’d read something there.

“Okay. You look like him.” He produced a pen. “Sign here.”

Jack complied and the guy turned to go.

“No return address?”

The guy glanced over his shoulder. “Real comedian.”

That’s me, he thought. A laugh a minute.

He guessed he was expected to know who sent it. He watched the guy get into a battered, grime-covered white station wagon. Its rear compartment held a number of similar boxes.

As it roared off, Jack turned his attention to the box. Only one thing it could be. Pretty quick service. He’d handed the money to Abe last night and here was the delivery. Not even noon yet. But why such a big box?

He grabbed it – much lighter than he expected, judging from the size – and carried it upstairs. He locked his door, unfolded his jackknife, and cut it open. Among the foam peanuts he found a pink plush Care Bear.

“What the–?”

He pulled it out and fished among the peanuts but found nothing. Dumped them out, still nothing.

Okay, what about the bear? He hefted it. Heavy for a plush toy. Which could only mean…

He checked the stitching. Definitely a poor job along one of the back seams. He slit the thread, shook the bear, and a pistol dropped out, sealed in a Ziploc bag. A box of ammo, likewise bagged, followed. Abe had come through, and whoever he’d contacted had wasted no time filling the order. Well, black markets were usually free markets. Price and performance still counted.

He pulled the pistol from the bag. Ruger GP100® was engraved along the blued steel of the barrel. And beneath that: .357 MAGNIM.

Jack turned it over in his hands. So heavy… so solid… so totally cool . He realized he was grinning, most likely like an idiot.

I think I’m in love.

He noticed a slip of paper on the Ziploc. He pulled it out and unfolded it to reveal a note scrawled in a crabbed hand: Call for instruction – NOW! A number followed.

Okay, okay. Will do.

He grabbed some change and headed for the phone in the hallway. Now was fine with him. He wanted to fire this thing.

2

He said his name was Dane Bertel. Jack doubted that was true but didn’t much care. He might have been the guy who’d sold him the gun. Jack hadn’t given his real name either. The only for-sure real thing between them was the hundred-dollar bill Jack had handed him.

He’d obviously taught pistol safety before. Maybe he did it for the NRA for folks with legal, registered weapons, and then freelanced on the side for people like Jack.

Jack had driven his Harley to the Calverton shooting range at damn near the end of the Long Island Expressway, almost to Riverhead at the fork. Along the way he followed the speed limits like a Sunday-only driver. If he got stopped he’d be an unlicensed driver on an unregistered vehicle transporting an illegal handgun. Talk about a bad day.

Dane Bertel met him in the parking area. He looked about sixty, with a shock of short gray hair that stood out in all directions. He wasn’t dressed in fatigues or the like, but he had soldier written all over him. Make that ex -soldier.

After escorting Jack to the office where they paid their fees, he led him to what was basically a huge sand pit. They set up at the short, ten-yard pistol range. He grinned and shook his head when he saw the Ruger.