Robin Cook - Vector

Jack backed up into his doorway, totally confused. The other two men were in black leather jackets, not firemen’s uniforms, and had shaved heads. Then Jack saw that the one bringing up the rear was carrying an assault rifle!

Curt stopped six feet away from Jack and knitted his brows. “You are Jack Stapleton, aren’t you?” he asked, looking Jack up and down.

“No, he lives on the next level up,” Jack stammered. He backed into his apartment and started to close the door.

Curt quickly stepped forward to get his foot inside. He pushed open the door and stepped in. Jack backed up. The two skinheads crowded in behind. The one with the rifle had a swastika tattooed on his forehead.

Curt’s eyes quickly swept the spartan room. He glared back at Jack and studied him. Curt was clearly confused. “I think you’re Jack Stapleton,” he said.

“No, I’m Billy Rubin,” Jack said, pulling the name out of nowhere. “Jack’s directly above me.” Jack lamely pointed at the ceiling.

“Captain, there’s a bike leaning against the wall,” Mike said.

“Yeah, I saw it,” Curt said without taking his eyes off Jack. “But this doesn’t look like a doctor’s apartment, and I can’t be a hundred percent sure with his guy’s get-up. Take a quick look around for an envelope or something with this joker’s name on it.”

“I’ll be happy to give Jack a message,” Jack said. He eyed the gun in Curt’s hand as well as the rifle in Carl’s.

“Thanks, wise guy,” Curt snapped. “Just stand there and be patient for a sec.”

Jack thought briefly about taking his chances by running into the bedroom and diving out the window, but he dismissed the idea as impractical, since he was on the fourth floor. He’d only get hung up on the fire escape.

“Why are you looking for him?” Jack asked.

“He has business with the People’s Aryan Army,” Curt said. “Serious business.”

“I’m sure Jack isn’t involved with any army,” Jack said. “He’s very much against war and violence.”

“Shut up!” Curt said.

“I found something,” Mike said near the bedroom door. He had picked up Jack’s trousers and was struggling to get Jack’s billfold out of the back pocket. He pulled it free and flipped it open. He whistled when he saw the medical examiner badge and held it up for Curt to see.

“Just check the name, for crissake,” Curt snapped.

“Maybe we should discuss this business you were referring to,” Jack said.

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Curt said.

“Ah, here’s a driver’s license,” Mike announced. “And the name is Jack Stapleton all right.”

“Jack frequently uses my apartment to change in,” Jack offered.

Suddenly there was more clatter of heavy boots on the stairs out in the hallway. Steve’s voice shouted up: “Hold up, Curt. There’s been a misunderstanding!”

Curt’s brow furrowed. He momentarily glanced in the direction of the open door but then immediately returned his gaze to Jack. Seconds later Steve, Kevin, and Clark stumbled into the room. Behind them were three other figures who leaped into the room, spread out, and shouted for everyone to freeze.

Curt spun around to find himself staring into the barrels of three Tec machine pistols.

“Don’t even think about it,” Warren warned as he zeroed in on Curt.

For a tense moment no one moved or breathe.

“Okay, Spit,” Warren said, breaking the silence. “Get the pistol and the rifle.”

Spit eased forward, holding his machine pistol in his right hand. He collected first the handgun, which he pocketed, and then the rifle. He stepped back.

“Now I want all you dudes to line up facing the wall,” Warren commanded. He motioned with his gun.

There was a delay as a sneer spread cross Curt’s face.

“Hey, man, you either do as I’m telling you or the story’s over,” Warren said. “You know what I’m saying?”

“Sorry, Captain,” Steve said. “They came out of nowhere.”

“Shut up,” Warren yelled. “This ain’t no rap session here.”

With defiant arrogance, Curt stepped over to the wall, leaving his hands on his hips.

“Spit, pat ’em down,” Warren commanded.

Spit put down the guns he was holding and went to each of the men facing the wall and searched for concealed weapons. He found nothing and stepped back.

“Okay, turn around,” Warren ordered.

The men did as they were told. Except for Steve, who was clearly terrified, all the others had assumed brazenly bored expressions.

“I don’t know where you white trash are from, and I don’t give a shit,” Warren said. “The point is, you don’t belong in this here neighborhood. Now I’m going to keep all this firepower you brought here, but that’s it. Nobody’s icing nobody.”

“Excuse me, Warren,” Jack said. “I think we should call the police.”

“Shut up!” Warren snapped with venom equal to that he’d directed a few moments earlier toward Steve.

Jack shrugged and took a step back. He knew Warren enough to know when he was pissed, and he was pissed now.

“Now I want you people to take your white asses down to your wheels and split,” Warren said. “And believe me, if any one of you show up in this neighborhood again, that’s the ball game. You’ll be gone, no questions asked. And we’ll be watching. You hear what I’m saying?”

“Warren,” Jack said. “I...”

Warren spun around. He jammed a finger toward Jack’s face. “I said for you to shut up,” he snarled.

Jack took another step back. He’d never seen Warren show such rage.

“Flash,” Warren said in a more normal voice. “You and Spit take these white honkies down and see that they leave the neighborhood. I’ve got to rap with the doc here for a few minutes.”

As the group silently fled out, Warren turned to Jack and glared at him. Jack squirmed. He didn’t know what Warren wanted him to say.

With the Tec pistol held in his left hand, Warren used his right to give Jack’s shoulder a series of repeated angry shoves. Jack was forced progressively backwards until a final shove made him collapse onto his couch. Warren hovered over him.

“What’s wrong with you, Doc?” Warren demanded. “You haven’t caused this kind of trouble around here for two years. I thought you’d reformed. But now tonight this happens. I’m telling you, you’re a drag on this neighborhood. You know what I’m saying?”

“I’m sorry,” Jack said.

“A lot of good that will do if some kid gets shot because of you,” Warren said. “What was this white trash after you for? I mean, these boys were serious bringing in Kalashnikov assault rifles. Shit! If they’d started spraying those around, a lot of people could have been hurt.”

“Those were Kalashnikovs?” Jack asked.

“What do you think, I’m making this up?”

“Where were the Kalashnikovs made?”

“What kind of question is that, man? What difference does it make?”

“It might make a difference if they’re Bulgarian,” Jack said.

Warren glared at Jack for a beat before walking over to where Spit had put the Kalashnikov he’d taken from Carl. Warren picked the weapon up and carried it back to Jack. “Well, you’re right,” he said grudgingly. “They are Bulgarian. What does that mean?”

“I can’t be positive,” Jack said. “But I think it might have something to do with Laurie’s new boyfriend.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Warren said. “Did you and Laurie split up?”

“Not exactly,” Jack said. “And I think the new boyfriend is on his way out, but let me explain.”

Jack told Warren about Paul Sutherland, and how Jack had probably humiliated the man that afternoon. He mentioned that Paul had threatened him indirectly. He also said that Laurie was concerned the man was dealing with the Bulgarian Kalashnikovs.