F. Paul Wilson - Ground Zero

He gave a mental shrug: What the hell.

“Yes and yes.”

For a few seconds she seemed taken aback, then, “You shot those two men?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think you killed them?”

He’d hit them twice each square in the chest with both a hollowpoint and a hardball. The hollowpoint would do the most damage, expanding upon impact and shredding lungs, major vessels, and the heart.

“Yes.”

“Did they try to shoot you?”

“The blond guy was going for his gun but I already had mine out.”

“What about the other one?”

“I didn’t see a gun on him. But he might have had one.”

“ ‘Might’ have had a gun? You didn’t know?”

“No.”

“But you shot him anyway?”

“If he didn’t have one now, he’d probably have one the next time we met. And he’d probably want to get even for his friend.”

“But you didn’t know if you’d ever see him again.”

He glanced at her. “Whoever’s looking for you, I don’t think they’re going to quit. Do you?”

She looked out the window, then back at him. “No. I guess not.”

“Well, I’m going to do my damnedest to keep them from finding you.”

“You don’t need to be involved.”

“But I do. And anyway, the point is moot: I am involved. So therefore my chances of running into a guy who wants to kill me are kind of high. I try to avoid situations like that. Sometimes you have to be proactive.”

“So . . . you . . . just . . . killed him.”

Truth was, he hadn’t thought twice about it. Hadn’t thought even once, really. He’d seen them wheeling Weezy away and he’d clicked into expediency mode. The last thing he’d wanted was to shoot anyone—too messy, too noisy. He realized now that he’d instinctively positioned himself so that if a hardball round went through one of them, it wouldn’t hit Weezy. They hadn’t left him much choice.

Them or us.

But her choice of words irked him.

“Don’t say ‘just.’ There’s no ‘just’ killing someone. And these weren’t ‘just’ someones. They were someones who were abducting you. I don’t know what their plans were. Maybe they just wanted to question you. Maybe they were going to question you and kill you. I don’t know. I may never know. But I do know one of them was going for his gun. And I also know that neither of those two will be trying that again.”

“You’re not the Jack I knew. You’re scary.”

“I’m nothing of the sort. I would have been perfectly happy to resolve that little problem without fireworks, but I wasn’t given a choice. And once the guns come out, you need to keep firing until no one’s shooting back. It’s not pleasant, but it’s the way it is.” He glanced at her. “My turn at twenty questions: Why are they after you?”

She sighed. “It’s—”

She winced and cupped a hand over the stitches in her scalp.

“What’s wrong?”

She spoke through clenched teeth. “My head. I don’t think I’m supposed to be up and about yet.”

Jack knew she was right. But he couldn’t see taking her to another hospital.

“What do you want me to do?”

She lifted her head and lowered her hand. “It’s passed. I’ll be okay once I get home. I live—”

“—in Jackson Heights. I know. I’ve been there.”

She made a face. “Ew. Did Eddie let you in? Why were you there?”

He told her about how her finger had been tracing “burn my house” on the sheet.

“ ‘Burn my house’? Why would I want you to burn my house?”

“That’s what we wanted to know. That’s why we went out there.”

“No way. That’s been my greatest fear—that someone would burn all the hard evidence I’ve collected. If anything, I’d be trying to tell you ‘don’t let them burn my house.’ Maybe only the second half was coming through.”

“Well, whatever, it sent us out there and I saw your collection. What—?”

Jack’s phone rang then: Eddie, and he sounded upset.

“ Jack! Where are you? Weezy’s gone and all hell’s broken loose here! There’s a rumor of a shooting —”

“I’ve got Weezy. She’s safe. But you might not be if you hang around the hospital. Go home and stay there. I’ll contact you later.”

He hung up and turned off the phone. Little chance of Eddie being followed now. Whoever was behind this probably thought they had Weezy in their grasp, so no need to follow her brother. But that would change once they found out their men were dead.

He glanced at Weezy. “That was Eddie. He’ll be okay. But you . . . that’s a different story. Who’s after you?”

“It’s a long, long story.”

“I know some of it. I had a talk with your pal Harris. I gather from all this that you know something about the nine/eleven attacks that someone wants kept quiet.”

Her lips tightened. “What did he tell you?”

“About the puts and calls in the Cardoza account and how he traced him back to a Pakistani named Bashar Sheikh.”

“Is that his name? Bashar Sheikh?” Excitement seemed to overcome her fear. “He found him?”

Jack nodded. “Says he has a photo and the guy looks familiar. He’s counting on you to identify him.”

“Wonderful!” She clapped her hands. “I hope I can.”

“Still have the eidetic memory?”

She nodded. “Sometimes it’s a blessing, sometimes it’s a curse, but, yeah, I still have it.”

Jack reached the FDR and turned downtown, heading for the Queensboro Bridge.

“What do you know, Weez? Why are people after you?”

“That’s just it: I don’t know. Not yet. But I’m getting close.”

“To what?”

“To why the Trade Towers were knocked down.”

Jack suppressed a groan. “You’re not going to tell me it wasn’t al Qaeda, are you?”

“Oh, al Qaeda members flew the planes, no question about that. And they did it for all the reasons al Qaeda has stated. They’re very up front and honest about that. But I believe someone or some group with another agenda had bin Laden’s ear and was pushing him toward those particular targets and that particular method of attack.”

“ ‘Another Pearl Harbor’?”

“No. It’s not the government. We’d have had dozens of whistle-blowers by now if it were. It has to be a secret organization—or organizations. Though I have no proof, I believe the Dormentalists are peripherally involved, but I’m pretty sure the Septimus Order is in the thick of it.”

“The Order? They’re pretty tight with the Kickers these days.”

“I know, but the Kickers didn’t exist back on nine/eleven.”

Jack shook his head to clear it. He was falling under the spell of her words.

“What possible reason could the Septimus Order have for bringing down the Trade Towers?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

“Wait—does this have anything to do with your Secret History of the World?”

“It’s not my Secret History, Jack. It’s the Secret History. And I’m surprised you still remember it.”

Oh, he remembered it, all right. It had been hanging over his life like a Joe Btfsplk cloud. And he’d met a guy who’d lived through most of it.

“Let’s just say I’ve had a change of heart and leave it at that for now. But what could possibly be worth all those thousands of lives?”

“That’s what I’m trying to learn, and that’s what someone doesn’t want me to find out. But I do know this: It all seems to hinge upon one man, a shadowy, elusive figure named Wahid bin Aswad. I call him The Man Who Wasn’t There.”

Jack wasn’t following. “Well, if he wasn’t there—”

“Oh, yes, he was. It’s just that a process has been under way for years to erase all evidence of his existence.”