William Weber - Zero Day

“You think this guy will be able to help us?” Nate asked, still not entirely sure why Sanchez thought this little pit stop was such a good idea.

“If anyone’s got the pulse of this city it’s Five-to-Ten.” The door knocker was a rather delicate part of the male anatomy, two parts actually. Sanchez grabbed hold and slammed the door with it three times.

“Your old informant’s got some interesting taste,” Nate said. “But why’s he call himself Five-to-Ten?”

“That’s simple. It’s the sentence range for drug possession with intent to distribute. But these days he goes by Five.”

The door swung open to a burly black man wearing wide-rimmed sunglasses and a tanned suit. Nate watched as his gaze flit between the two men before passing behind them to Wayne. “What can we do for you gentlemen?”

“Big D, we’re here to see Five,” Sanchez said. “Official business.”

“Tie your horse up outside,” the bodyguard instructed him. “And wipe your shoes before entering.”

Nate hesitated.

Seeming to read his mind, Big D flashed a set of impossibly white teeth. “Don’t worry, friend. Ain’t no one gonna steal that horse of yours. Not here.”

Sanchez nodded and Nate did as he said, tying the horse to one of the white pillars. Not far away, Shadow stood in a depression of snow, staring back. “I’ll try to bring you something,” Nate told the wolf. In response, Shadow tilted his head and whined.

Once inside, a grand entrance was illuminated by dozens of candles. Dotting the foyer were pieces of antique furniture. Beyond that, a black and white marble floor led to a wide, circular staircase.

Big D led them up to the master bedroom. He opened both doors at once, like a page announcing a visitor for some European monarch.

Inside were more candles and lots of red velvet, more proof that getting rich selling dope didn’t do a thing for one’s sense of interior design.

A small, skinny guy sprang to his feet. He had long, stringy blond hair and a thick Brooklyn accent. He was also decked out in a double-knit sweater and baggy jeans. His heavy gold jewelry clanged whenever he moved. He waved for the bodyguard to close the doors and leave them.

“Sanchez, to what do I owe this pleasure?” the diminutive man said, a wry grin splitting his narrow features. The two shook hands. Turning to Nate, their host aimed a finger at him. “The hell’s this? Guy looks like a Fed.”

“He’s not FBI or DEA,” Sanchez assured him. “You aren’t, are you?”

“Not the last time I checked,” Nate admitted, still trying to get his bearings in this strange new world they had just entered.

Five scanned him up and down. “If you’re vouching for him, Sanchez, that’s good enough for me.” Five stood there, nodding, then said. “Hey, where are my manners? Either of you guys want something to drink?” Five snapped his fingers and a scantily clad woman appeared out of nowhere. She crossed over to a nearby closet door and opened it to reveal a fully stocked bar.

“That’s handy,” Nate said.

Sanchez took a moment to pick his jaw up off the ground. “Your bartender’s not half bad either.”

Five snickered, his slight frame gyrating. “What’ll it be then?”

“Oh, nothing for m―” Nate started to say before he felt a nudge from Sanchez. “Nothing light for me, is what I meant. Got any whiskey? Ten years or older would do nicely right about now.”

Five nodded, impressed. He turned to Sanchez. “And you? Hot cocoa?”

Sanchez grimaced. “I’m off cocoa. How about a vodka tonic?”

“A mixed drink,” Five said, arching one eyebrow. “How PC of you.”

The half-naked woman brought them their drinks and then disappeared into the other room. They cheersed one another before settling into a plush semi-circular couch. “So, gentlemen, how can I help you today?”

Sanchez leaned over, scanning each of the doors to be sure the girl and Big D were gone. When he was certain he said: “Okay, let’s cut the crap, shall we?”

Five straightened. “What are you―”

“Five’s no drug lord,” Sanchez interrupted, his voice low and filled with disdain. “He isn’t really an informant either. He’s more like―”

“A mole,” Five said, completing the thought.

“A cop, if you want to be technical about it,” Sanchez added. “But not as far as the bodyguard and the girl are concerned.”

Nate shook his head and slapped the meat of his thigh, feeling like a man emerging from a wild dream. “You’re undercover?”

Five sipped at his whiskey. “Deep. Make that real deep. Have been for years. When the lights went out, I could very well have called the whole thing off and headed home. And I might have if I had anyone there waiting for me.”

The personal life of an undercover cop could often be summed up in two words. Divorced and alone.

Five went on, his thick Brooklyn accent already fading. “I suppose power of any kind is hard to walk away from, even when it isn’t real.”

Nate nodded, recalling the half-naked woman who had served them drinks. As foreign as Five’s argument was, he could still see the allure of holding on through all of the present uncertainty.

“Besides,” Five said, “over the last few days, Rockford’s police force has pretty much vanished.”

“Most of the young guys just went home, man,” Sanchez explained, the distaste in his voice thick and unforgiving. “Said they were going to protect their families. But all they really did was leave the old-timers to bear the brunt. By day three, the nuke plants nearby were in full meltdown and the refugees from Byron and the surrounding towns started showing up in droves. Well, you can imagine how that went around here. Cops couldn’t really use their cars to patrol on account of the snow. Sure, the SWAT team’s got a single APC, but that beauty guzzles more booze than my mother-in-law.”

“So why isn’t there more chaos?” Nate asked, although part of him suspected he already knew the answer.

Five took this one. “If you think it’s mainly because of this crazy weather, you’re wrong.”

“Those two brutes acting like doormen at the hospital,” Sanchez said. “They weren’t cops or even hired security. They’re Jakes’ guys.”

“Jakes?” Nate said, recalling Dakota using the name, although he hadn’t made the full connection. “You mean the former hitman?”

Sanchez and Five both nodded in unison.

Oh, crap, was all Nate had time to think. The guy was a verifiable psycho.

Jakes had worked for a big Chicago mobster and developed a reputation for cruelty and ruthlessness. Two years ago he’d been sent west to take back Rockford from the Russians and the Chinese. Systematically, he’d dismantled the rival gangs, not only through murder—of which there was plenty—but by infiltrating the local government. It was a trick Jakes had picked up from the Mexican cartels. Why bother fighting the government when you can become the government? Stuffing corrupt officials into City Hall and the police department, Jakes had all but assured his rivals would be picked off and sent to jail one by one.

How did Nate know all this? It was impossible to work the seedier parts of Rockford as a PI without coming face to face with Jakes’ handiwork. If organized crime was Al-Qaeda, then Jakes was ISIS.

“Jakes ain’t a hitman no more,” Five told him, his eyes alight with fear or excitement, or maybe a bit of both. “He’s moved up in the world. Graduated from low-level lieutenant to puppetmaster and now to local warlord. Since the lights have gone out, nothing happens in this city without his knowledge or approval.”

Nate leaned back in his chair, the stark reality of their predicament slowly sinking in. A terrible tragedy for the country had become an opportunity for a man like Jakes. He was carving out his own minor fiefdom, deciding who lived and who died. A petty tyrant was the last thing Rockford or any city needed right now and yet, clearly, the rot had been going on for a while here, eating away at the foundations of the local government for so long that when the end finally came, it required no more pressure than a gentle push.