F Wilson: Fatal Error

"And the next innocent victim? And the one after that, and the one after that? What if Russ is one? When do you say enough, no more, finis?"

Habib flinched. "I… I don't know."

Tough question. Jack wondered how he'd answer if Gia and Vicky were captives. How many innocent people would die before he stopped? What was the magic number? Jack hoped he never had to find out. The Son of Sam might end up looking like a piker.

"Let's hear what he sounds like."

Maybe listening to this creep would help him get a read on him.

Habib slid a combo phone/answering machine across his desk and hit a button. The voice on the recording was electronically distorted. Two possible reasons for that. One: obviously to prevent voiceprint analysis. But he also could be worried that Habib would recognize him. Jack listened to the snarling southern accent. He couldn't tell through the electronic buzz if it was authentic or not, but no question about the sincerity of the raw hate snaking through the phone line. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the voice.

Something there… something off-key about this guy… a picture was forming…

"What is that?" Kewan said.

Hank smiled to himself. He'd asked the same question yesterday when he'd first seen the thing.

"It's a ray gun. We're going to try it out tonight."

Kewan toyed with one of his dreadlocks as he stared at the three-foot oblong box with a parabolic reflector attached to one end and a wire coming from another. "Don't look like no ray gun I ever seen."

Pretty much overnight, Kewan Lyford had moved from nowhere in Kickerdom to one of Hank's most trusted men. Sort of the new Darryl. Except Kewan was black and in better health. Looked like he'd had a tough time with acne as a teen, but he had an infectious smile and an easy way with people. He got along with almost everyone. Hank needed someone like that to deal with the everyday Kickers.

He'd first come to Hank's attention after the mess last July. Darryl was gone and Hank had been tasered into Jell-O by some bearded guy. He and Drexler had put together a composite drawing of the guy and started passing it around. Kewan had recognized him immediately as "Johnny," an okay guy who'd been into Dormie bashing and always generous with his cigarettes. That had been a little embarrassing-a Kicker. Or maybe not. He'd reminded Hank of a guy who'd posed as "John Tyleski" and roughed him up and stolen a very special book from him last spring. The same? He couldn't be sure.

Kewan had proved useful in a lot of ways since then.

Hank pointed to the third man in the room-Nelson Ferron, a balding Dormentalist with a Santa Claus beard and belly. They had the cellar of the Lodge to themselves for this strategy meeting.

"It's a portable EMP generator."

Kewan grinned. "I don't need no help generating pee. I do fine all by myself."

Ferron didn't smile. "E… M… P. It stands for electromagnetic pulse. An EMP is poison for microcircuitry."

"What's it do to humans?"

"Nothing, unless you've got a pacemaker."

"So it's like a microwave?"

Ferron shook his head. "No. Microwaves only confuse a pacemaker. An EMP will toast it."

"Then I guess we should make sure nobody coming along tonight has a pacemaker. How's it work?"

"Just plug it in-"

"Plug it in?"

Ferron grinned. "You wouldn't like carrying the battery necessary to power this. That's the beauty part of what you're doing. You use the company's own electric power to do the job. Plug it in, aim it at the servers and routers, and they're toast."

Ferron seemed to relish that word.

Kewan turned to Hank. "This is gonna make people unhappy."

"We're not in the business of making people happy. We're here to make it easier for them to dissimilate."

Hank had spent the last six months locating and casing Internet exchange points and major data centers. He'd started arranging regular Kicker protests outside them. The protests had been peaceful up till now. Because they'd all been window dressing.

Tonight's would be different. But even this would be misdirection. Get them looking the wrong way.

The real targets would be hit at the end of the week. Hank and the Kickers had been ready to go for months. Now all that they needed was for Drexler to hold up his end.

Weezy took a break from her seemingly endless study of the Compendium of Srem to gaze out her eighth-floor window. She could see the triangle where Broadway angled across Amsterdam at 72nd Street, and found the perpetual snarl of trucks, buses, and cars fascinating. Only in the wee hours of the morning did traffic flow smoothly there.

She loved her apartment. To a decorator it might appear depressingly bare, but she had all she needed for comfort. Every material thing she'd owned had been reduced to ash last summer, and she couldn't see the point in accumulating more stuff. Jack loved clutter. She'd lived with too much of it for too long.

Her cell phone rang. She checked the caller ID and recognized the number.

Eddie? How had her brother-?

Then she remembered Jack had given her one of his TracFones and Eddie had the number.

She didn't want to speak to him. She'd broken all contact with him since learning he was a member of the Septimus Order. He'd finally stopped calling her-for good, she hoped. So why now, after all these months?

Maybe it was important. Maybe something was wrong.

She hit the talk button.

"What is it, Eddie?"

"Weezy? I'm so glad you answered. I wasn't sure-"

"Why are you calling?"

"We need to talk."

"I'm listening."

"I mean, face-to-face."

"Not going to happen."

She winced at how harsh that sounded. This was her younger brother. They'd never been terribly close, but still… he was her only living relative.

But he'd joined the Order, damn it. The group that last summer had hunted her down and tried to abduct her, razed her house, tried to kill her. And if not for Jack, they'd have succeeded. How could he be a part of that?

He sighed. "Okay. Well, the Order is looking for you."

She felt a chill in her blood.

"How… how do you know?"

"I got a fax with your face on it. If I see you or know your whereabouts, I'm to call it in."

"When did it come?"

"Minutes ago."

Her throat felt dry.

"Why are you telling me?"

"Because this isn't right. I've always thought you were paranoid about them, but why would they be looking for you?"

"They were looking for me last summer. I didn't know it was them at first, but I-"

"I'm beginning to wonder if you might be right about them."

Finally! Eddie finally sees the light. Maybe he's salvageable.

"I am. I know I am."

"I'm going to look into this."

Weezy almost dropped the phone.

"No! Say nothing! Do nothing!"

"Can't do that, Weez. They're looking for my sister and I damn well want to know why. I'll call you when I find out."

"Eddie, please! You can't-"

The phone went dead.

She called him back but he didn't pick up. The tables had turned. Now he wasn't taking her calls.

Was he crazy? What was he trying to prove? They'd eat him alive.

She left voice mail begging him to leave it alone. That she was safe and they'd never find her.

But was that true? And why the sudden renewed interest? She'd kept a low profile since the summer-no profile at all, in fact. How had she once again become a person of interest to the Order?

Munir found it difficult to focus on the recording. After all, he had listened to that hated voice over and over until he knew by heart every filthy word, every nuance of expression. So he studied this stranger across the table from him instead.