John Shirley - Watch Dogs - Dark Clouds

Now that was worth hearing. They were playing cards in another room from Grampus. And Stan Grampus, sending a secret message, was naturally alone.

Pearce opened up ctOS records for the address’s building plans, and superimposed the cell phones and wifi signals.

The signals were clearly marked: Most of them were on the second floor, with Grampus using that PC in a front bedroom, and the other three guys in the adjacent den. The one talking on the phone to somebody about his wife’s sexual predilections was on the first floor. Some downstairs guard in the living room out front.

The front bedroom. Mistake, Grampus.

Pearce froze, hearing a sound from the front of the building. A door opening and closing. He heard footsteps on the front walk, more crossing the street.

Tranter, heading for his car.

Catch up with you later, Tranter.

The wind had let up. The sleet was no longer falling.

Wolfe was sitting in the SUV listening to the news on the radio. He hadn’t gone anywhere—he was still thinking that Pearce might need his help in that brownstone.

“The strange events across from Golden Fish and Chicken on the Southside have authorities puzzled,” said the announcer on the radio . “Several men died in the conflagration—but one of them seems to have died from gunshot wounds. The ctOS cameras show nothing clearly… Police believe they may have been interfered with…”

Wolfe thought, Maybe I should ignore Pearce’s orders and back him up anyway…

But that’s when he saw Tranter driving by in the Crown Victoria.

Here was another opportunity…

Wolfe watched Tranter drive past, ducking down to keep the detective from spotting him. After a few moments he raised up, used the PearcePhone to start the SUV. He waited till Tranter was a good distance down the street and then started the SUV and drove after him.

A quarter mile on, he realized that Tranter was looking into his rearview. He suspected he was being followed.

And a moment later Wolfe saw Tranter speaking into a hand-mic. Calling it in, on some pretense. They’d use ctOS to check the license on this vehicle—they might well find that it was a stolen vehicle. Probably it had been reported by now. There must be a way to scramble ctOS’s view of that license plate. Too late now. There ought to be a way to send a signal to stop those cops from coming… but he was deeply fatigued… he couldn’t remember if there was a way to do that or not…

Crap . A shitload of cops were about to descend on him.

Two tight spots in one night, Wolfe. Brilliant job.

Wolfe heard sirens approaching. He sighed and hit the brakes, spun the car around, and cut down the nearest side street.

He was going to have to make a run for it.

Pearce went to the backdoor—and found nothing electronic to hack. He’d have to do this the old fashioned way. He took a thin tool from an inner coat pocket, used it to jimmy the lock. He drew his pistol, opened the door, slipped into the back kitchen. It was an old fashioned place, with mid 20th century stove and cabinets, but would be pretty expensive in this part of Chicago. Probably some place Tranter owned.

On the wall was a series of sharp kitchen knives lined up on a magnet. Pearce took a particularly wicked looking butcher knife down, and slipped it into his belt.

He went to the doorway into the front part of the house, looked up the narrow hallway. On his left was a wooden stairs; straight ahead was a hall with hardwood floors. He heard the guard downstairs talking. “…so I said to her, you don’t want me to fool around, then you don’t be boinkin’ that Spinning instructor, yeah I know about that bitch… so she says…”

Pearce was pretty sure the three up in the den would have the door open so they could keep an idea on the upstairs hall. And these old wooden steps would creak. He needed a decoy.

He moved down the hallway, taking three steps in ten seconds, aware of the creaking, and then opened the closet under the stairway, and slipped into it. He closed it, finding himself in musty darkness. He drew out his phone, and checked out the house’s electrical system.

There—the fire alarm in the kitchen…

He flicked on the cursor, sent a pulse that would activate the alarm.

Immediately a high pitched warbling shrieked from the kitchen.

“What the hell!” yelled the guard in the front. Pearce heard him thumping past. Then he heard a stampede of footsteps overhead as the upstairs guards rushed along the upper hall, and down the stairs.

Pearce waited a few more moments, then put his phone away and stepped out of the closet, went to the stairs—the men in the kitchen were crowded around the fire alarm, their backs to him.

“What the fuck! There’s no damn fire in here!”

“Probably just a crossed wire. These old buildings…”

“Well maybe somebody screwed widdit!”

Pearce was moving up the stairs, his footsteps hidden under the wailing alarm. The alarm soon shut off, but Pearce was already partway down the hall.

He glanced through the open door of the den. He could see the poker cards laid out on the desk. He hurried to the door at the end of the hall, opened it, slipped through, one hand pointing the gun at Grampus, who was just turning away from the PC. Pearce closed the door behind him.

“What’s all that noise from…” Grampus stared, seeing it was Pearce—-and seeing the gun in Pearce’s hand.

Pearce put a finger over his lips. “Remember me, Grampus?” he whispered. You tried to kill me not long ago. Now, stand up, slowly and quietly, Grampus, and I won’t shoot you. Give you my word.”

Grampus licked his lips, then slowly stood up. He glanced at the desk—there was a Mack 10 lying on the desk.

Pearce grinned at him and shook his head. He took a step closer. “Move away from the gun…”

Grampus took a reluctant step, a small one, away from the gun.

The guards were returning up the stairs, arguing. “You don’t know if it was just an accident…”

Grampus opened his mouth to yell—and stopped short when Pearce jerked the knife from his belt and plunged it up, into the soft skin under Grampus’s jawline, up through his lower palate, through his tongue.

Grampus choked, and flailed at Pearce’s arm.

Pearce twisted the knife to make sure Grampus couldn’t say anything. Blood choked the hitman’s throat so he couldn’t even scream.

Pulling the knife free, Pearce winked and whispered. “Promised I wouldn’t shoot you and I didn’t.” Then he stabbed Grampus under the ribs, driving it to the hilt, up into his heart.

Stan Grampus crumpled.

Pearce wiped the blood off the knife onto Grampus, and put the knife in his belt.

“I say we check on Grampus…” someone said from the hall.

Pearce pulled out turned and locked the door. That wouldn’t hold them long. He’d like to have taken the PC or get the hard drive out of it… but there wasn’t time for that. Not even time to hack it with the phone. And in fact someone was already trying the door. “Hey, is this door supposed to be locked, Burfy?”

Pearce got out his phone, quickly went into the ctOS power interface—and turned off the power for the whole block.

The room went dark—the whole house did too, Pearce assumed. The men in the hall shouted.

Pearce went to the tall front windows, opened them, kicked out a screen, slid through, and dropped onto the front porch. He glanced around, saw no one on the street. It was pitch dark except for a little light from the next street down. There was shouting from upstairs.

“Who’s gotta flashlight? One of you assholes find a flashlight!”