Timothy Zahn - The Green And The Gray

"I don't know," Powell said, suddenly thoughtful himself. "It must have been at least close or I'm sure he would have said something."

"Call him back and ask," Fierenzo said. "In the meantime, let's hear it."

"Okay," Powell said. "It just says: 'P.S. Watch out for roaming Warriors like on Wed.' Then below that are a bunch of kisses."

Fierenzo frowned. "Kisses?"

"Yeah, you know—a row of X's at the bottom like high-school kids put on their notes. Two rows, in this case: five in the first, four in the second, with three periods after the fourth X in the bottom row."

"Three periods?" Fierenzo echoed, thoroughly confused now.

"Yeah," Powell said. "She must really miss him."

"I guess," Fierenzo muttered, adding the three dots to his second row of X's. "That it?"

"That's it," Powell confirmed. "You really know what all this means, huh?"

"Up until the last part I did," Fierenzo admitted. "This 'roaming Warriors' part worries me. I wonder if it means we'll have to deal with a main battle group plus some independents making trouble elsewhere."

"You mean like snipers or saboteurs?"

"Something like that," Fierenzo said hesitantly. "I don't think their main target is the city itself, but we could be talking a huge amount of collateral damage."

"Any idea how many fighters we're talking about?"

"My source tells me the Greens can field up to sixty people," Fierenzo said. "Not too hard to control if they stay together. But if they drop even a few roamers, it's going to stretch our resources pretty damn thin."

"Hell on wheels," Powell muttered.

"Very possibly," Fierenzo agreed. "Look, we need to see the note itself. When you call Smith to check on the handwriting, tell him to hustle himself back down here."

"I will," Powell said. "Do you think the Tuesday in the note is this Tuesday? As in, today?"

Fierenzo grimaced. "That's my guess. Looks like someone's moved up Cyril's initial timetable by twenty-four hours. You said you're meeting with Messerling at nine?"

"Yeah, and I'll make sure he knows the alert's been moved up," Powell promised. "What are your plans for the day?"

"Nothing I can discuss on a cell phone," Fierenzo said. "Let me know when Smith thinks he can be back."

"Right."

There was a click, and Fierenzo punched off his phone. "Trouble?" Jonah asked quietly.

"That was my partner," Fierenzo told him, levering himself stiffly out of the chair. "We've got another note from Caroline."

"So I gathered," Jonah said. "That's not what I asked."

Fierenzo shrugged as he headed toward the bathroom. "This particular note has a PS. that's either a secret message to Roger, a red herring Sylvia herself added on after Caroline hid it, or possibly an indication that Caroline's glue is starting to melt. We won't know until we can look at the original.

Maybe not even then."

He was at the sink, splashing cold water on his face, when Powell called back. "I just talked to Smith," he said, his voice tight. "He was sitting in the restaurant parking lot waiting for my call when he saw something interesting go by: five enclosed white Dodge cargo vans in convoy, all coming south on 42 and turning east on 28."

Fierenzo felt a tingle on the back of his neck. The direction Sylvia and her people would come from if they were leaving their stronghold, and the direction they'd be going if they were headed for Manhattan. "Did he get anything on the drivers?"

"Just that they were all young and dark-haired," Powell said. "He also got the tags; I've got DMV

running them."

"I don't suppose they were careless enough to put Caroline Whittier in plain sight in any of them, were they?"

"If she was there, Smith didn't spot her," Powell said. "But he was thinking that instead of hightailing it back to the city, maybe he should hang around a bit and see if there's any more traffic. Maybe follow some of it and try to figure out where they're all going."

Fierenzo rubbed the stubble on his cheek as he tried to kick-start his brain. Under normal circumstances, he would certainly want Smith to tail the convoy.

But if he did, he and Powell might not get Caroline's note for several more hours. If the Greens were on the move, they might not have those hours to spare.

"He also suggested faxing us a copy of the note," Powell said into his thoughts. "That won't tell us whether the pen is the same, but at least we could check the handwriting."

"Sounds good," Fierenzo agreed, a little annoyed that he hadn't thought of that himself. "Tell him to see if he can find a place that faxes through a computer instead of just a standard machine. Maybe they can enhance the size or contrast a little."

"He's already spotted a locksmith shop nearby that does shipping and faxes," Powell told him. "And he can even keep an eye on the traffic while he's in there."

"Perfect," Fierenzo said. "What time does it open?"

"Not until ten, but there's a number in the window to call for emergencies. I think this qualifies."

"Definitely," Fierenzo agreed. "Have him fax it to you at the station house, then call me when you've got it. I'll tell you where to meet me."

"Right. Talk to you later."

Clicking off the phone and setting it aside, Fierenzo finished washing his face. "So what's the plan?" a voice asked as he reached for a towel.

He looked over to find that Jonah had followed him to the bathroom doorway. "I'm heading back to the city," he said, rubbing the towel vigorously across his face. "We need to get this message figured out."

"Seems pretty clear to me," Jonah said. "The Greens are coming onto Manhattan tonight from the north and will be pushing their way south, with Damian behind the line to bring down the buildings from under any Grays who are too high for the Shriek to affect."

Fierenzo lowered the towel, looking at Jonah with raised eyebrows. "You left your notebook open," the other explained with a somewhat sheepish smile.

He had, too, now that he thought about it. Sloppy. "I was just amazed you were able to read my handwriting, that's all," he said, hanging the towel back on its rack. "It's mostly that P.S. we're worried about."

"You want me to get everyone up?"

"No, you all might as well get a little more sleep," Fierenzo said. "I've got a friend coming by at one o'clock with a big police van—cop named Al Chenzi; call him Creepers. He'll take you into the city to a hotel across from Police Headquarters. I've already got a room reserved in your name."

"Okay," Jonah said. "How are you getting in? Ferry?"

"No, Creepers' wife lent me her car," Fierenzo told him. "I'll be fine."

"You want me to come along?"

Fierenzo shook his head. "I'd rather all of you stay together and keep an eye on Melantha. Which reminds me."

He reached up and unfastened the hammergun still snugged against his left forearm. "Give this back to Jordan with my thanks," he said, handing it over. "Immensely handy little gadget. I wish I had one on a permanent basis."

"You're welcome," Jonah said. "Come talk to me when this is all over. Maybe we can work something out." His lip twitched. "Maybe even start a new Thor legend."

"Let's just concentrate on getting through the drama we're in the middle of right now," Fierenzo told him grimly, pulling his shirt back on. "Have everybody ready to go by twelve-thirty—the Greens, too. And make sure it's really Chenzi: fifty-five, pure white hair, tiny little mustache you can barely see, blue eyes, missing the last segment of the little finger on his right hand."

"Got it," Jonah said. "You be careful."

"I will," Fierenzo promised. "See you all later."

"Okay, it's sent," the locksmith said, handing Smith the gum wrapper and the receipt. "That'll be fiftyfour dollars."

Smith lifted his eyebrows. "Fifty-four dollars?"