F Wilson - Fatal Error

"Get behind the wheel," he shouted when Abe looked up.

Abe nodded and bustled away toward the front of the truck. Jack gave him thirty seconds, then pushed the door open. An alarm bell began clanging, just as the sign on the door had promised.

Jack dumped the guy into the back of the truck, hopped in, and closed the door behind him.

"Go!"

Abe hit the gas and they lurched into motion, out of the alley, onto the street, and into the traffic-a nondescript panel truck in a stampeding herd of other nondescript panel trucks.

"Where to now?"

Jack was slipping into a pair of work gloves Abe had had lying about. "Let's just drive around while this fellow and I get better acquainted."

Before sending Munir and his family off in the cab, Jack had pulled him aside and told him to hold off as long as possible giving the address where his wife and boy had been held. None of this was making sense and he wanted a little time with the mystery man.

But back upstairs he spotted a familiar scar through the tear in the guy's shirt and realized the situation had suddenly become complicated. He called Abe and asked him to bring his truck downtown.

He peeled back the sheet to free the guy's bloodied, blindfolded face, then yanked the tape off his mouth.

"Help!" he screamed as he started slamming his feet against the truck floor. "Help!"

"No tumel!" Abe shouted from up front.

Jack gave him a backhand slap across the face.

"Don't waste your breath. You're in a truck with no rear windows in the middle of downtown traffic."

"Just turn me in."

Jack shook his head. "Not gonna happen. Who are you?"

"Richard Hollander."

"Nah. You went to a lot of trouble to make people think that, did everything to make this look personal-fooled me on that one-but Munir has met Hollander and he says you're not him."

His face twisted. "You believe a lying sand nigger over-"

Jack backhanded him again.

"None of that," he said as he wiped the blood off his glove onto the man's shirt.

"You're pretty brave with me tied up."

Feeling the darkness struggle to get loose within him, Jack leaned closer and spoke through his teeth.

"Do you have any idea what I want to do to you? You mutilated a little boy! And you made his mother watch! People like you-"

"Worthless mongrel," he muttered.

Jack hit him again.

The guy clenched his teeth. "Be a man. Untie me and we'll see-"

"What? See you running away like you did when I came through the window-even though you had a meat cleaver? If I hadn't grabbed the back of your shirt, you'd've been gone. But I'm glad it happened that way, otherwise I'd never have seen the brand."

"What are you talking about?"

"How long have you been a member of the Septimus Order?"

"I'm not-"

Jack poked the guy's chest and he flinched.

"Uh-uh. I know the brand."

"So, you know the brand. Big deal."

"Is the Order behind this?"

"Of course not."

"What's the Order got against Munir?"

"Absolutely nothing. This is personal."

"Where's the real Richard Hollander?"

"You're looking at him."

Jack shook his head again. "You left all the evidence where it could be easily found, so that when this was over, everything would point to Hollander. Where is he?"

And then, in a strobing epiphany, it all became clear. Jack sat back, stunned.

"Hollander is dead."

"Ridiculous." But his voice carried no conviction, no sense that he'd be believed.

"I just realized… you weren't wearing a mask when I broke in. Barbara and the boy knew your face. But you didn't care if they could recognize you, because you were planning all along to kill them. Hollander would get the blame, but Hollander wouldn't be able to defend himself because you killed him first and probably disposed of his body. The cops will be looking for someone they'll never find while you roam about free as can be."

"You're obviously on drugs."

Jack stared at him. "Why?"

The man's face twisted into a snarl. "Because he's a no-good Arab piece of shit!"

No act there. The naked rage in his eyes said he was speaking what he felt.

"But why this particular Arab?"

The face went slack. Not going there. Hiding something.

"An Arab's an Arab," he said.

Jack couldn't buy that. Something else going on here. Very good possibility the Order was involved. And if that was the case, then Jack needed to be involved.

As he slapped the tape back over the guy's mouth, he began twisting and kicking and making frantic noises.

"What's that? Take off the tape?"

The guy nodded.

"Why? You're not telling me anything. I think we'll let you marinate awhile. Maybe you'll be feeling more loquacious in a few hours."

As the guy made all sorts of protesting sounds, Jack slipped the sheet back over his face.

Needed to find a way to make him open up.

He'd come up with something.

"Christ, it's cold," Russ said, hugging his arms around him as the wind off the water cut through his coat.

He was surprised he could feel cold at all after all he'd had to drink.

This Belgiovene guy was all right. This morning he'd explained all the intricacies of getting his parole modified to allow him back online. Cruel and unusual punishment, banning him from the Internet for ten years after his release. Russ didn't tell him he was already online under various identities. He'd be FUBAR without the Net, but the risk of discovery hung over him like the sword of Damocles. If word got back to his parole officer, some hard-ass judge could lock him up again. Yeah, it might be federal soft time, but time was time. Outsiders called them country clubs. Screw them. The two years he'd spent inside had sucked. Royally. He'd come this close to offing himself.

Belgiovene had dropped him off home and then picked him up later for dinner. They wound up at Peter Luger's in Williamsburg for the best porterhouse he'd ever had-and more wine than he usually drank in a month.

Then they'd come here, to the Chelsea Piers.

They weren't really piers anymore. Everything but. Huge warehouselike structures housed shops, restaurants, dining halls, tennis courts, nightclubs-anything that might entertain or distract anyone at any time.

Belgiovene said, "As I told you, we're to meet the U.S. attorney outside here, and then we'll go up to the space we've rented for the next project."

Russ stood at the water's edge and stared at the lights of New Jersey across the Hudson. What was he looking at? Hoboken? Jersey City? He knew they were over there somewhere, but they were just names. Who cared which was where? They were in Jersey.

"Do we have to meet him right on the waterfront? There's gotta be a place that's out of the wind. I mean, like, is all this secrecy necessary?"

"It was his request. It's a touchy thing, messing with a federal judge's ruling. We should accommodate him, don't you think?"

"I suppose."

Belgiovene pointed down at the rippling surface of the river. "Look. Lights underwater."

Russ didn't see anything, so he leaned forward. He felt a hand press against his back and then he was falling. He hit the water and went under.

Cold-colder than any cold he could ever imagine. Colder than interstellar space.

He fought to the surface and saw Belgiovene standing above him, watching.

"Help! Help me!"

The guy did nothing. Just stared.

Panic lanced through him. What was going on here? Was he crazy?

Well, Russ would show him. He could swim. He'd been a pretty damn good swimmer in his day.

But his clothes were dragging him down. And the cold was paralyzing his muscles. He sank and clawed back to the surface. After gulping air, he tried to shed his coat but went down again as he struggled with it. This time, despite his best effort, despite the panic adrenaline coursing through his arteries, he couldn't make it back to the surface. His arms felt like lead. Legs too. Wouldn't respond.