F. Paul Wilson - Hardbingers

The suits… those three guys… armed to the teeth with quality heat and about as ruthless as they come. What were they—vigilantes?

And what was it with the black suits and fedoras? Some sort of uniform?

What Jack really wanted to know was where they'd gotten their information. They'd burst in as if they knew exactly what they'd find. But the question was, had they been there to interrupt some sort of ceremony and save the victim, or was it Cailin in particular they were protecting? Was there something special about her?

And who the hell sent them? Timmy?

Just then the man in question turned from the bar and, cell phone in hand, all but fell over himself rushing to his table.

"Jack! My God, Jack, you did it!"

"Did what?"

Timmy sat and lowered his voice. "My sister just called. They found Cailin out cold on a park bench downtown."

"Great! She okay?"

"Yes! That's the beauty part. She was drugged but she's out of it now. No sign of being, you know, molested or anything. The only thing out of line was her clothes were missing and someone had drawn these designs all over her body. Really weird-looking stuff, according to Sally."

"Well, that's great news."

"Trouble is the cops want to take pictures of the squiggles and Sally's fighting them. They say it's a clue and it's evidence, she says she's not going to have pictures of her little girl in the buff floating around every precinct locker room in the city." He puddled up and sniffed. "Thanks, Jack."

"What makes you so sure I had anything to do with it?"

"Come on, Jack. You bullshitting a bullshitter?"

This was always a problem when he did something for someone he knew—something they might want to brag about. Yeah, I told this friend of mine and he took care of it for me. Just like that . And then people want to know who the friend is. Most of Jack's fix-its involved means and methods that his paying customers preferred not to be connected with, so they kept mum.

Just as Jack would keep mum and let that good Samaritan get all the credit for finding her. The downside of that was he'd have to pay Louie and the two or three connections downstream from him—including crazy Rico—out of his own pocket, probably to the tune of a couple of grand.

But it was worth it. Jack hadn't felt this alive in weeks.

"You put anyone else on her trail, Timmy?"

"You're the only guy like you I know."

Jack didn't know whether to believe him or not.

"Well, Tim, maybe she was kidnapped by some mad doodler who wanted her to be a living work of art."

"Doodler? Guy's a sicko."

Okay. He talked like the snatch was a solo act and he'd just used the present tense. Obviously he didn't know what had gone down in that basement.

Timmy was staring at him. "You sure you didn't have anything to do with this?"

Jack lifted a hand, palm out. "I made some calls, but Timmy I swear I did not put your niece on that bench."

"Okay, then." He rose and extended his hand. "But thanks anyway for trying. I've got to get down to the hospital. I—" Timmy stopped, frowned, and pointed to the bench next to Jack. "Hey, you got something stuck on your coat."

And then he was heading for the door.

Jack looked down at his bomber jacket and saw a black, dime-size disk stuck to the leather. He pulled it off and held it up to the light.

Damn thing looked like an electronic bug or—

He went cold.

Or a tracking device.

And if so, he'd led them here.

But maybe not yet. Maybe he still had a chance.

Timmy, he thought as he hopped from his seat and hurried toward Julio's front door, you just paid me back more than you'll ever know.

7

Cal rode shotgun with the mobile tracking receiver on his lap while Zeklos drove and Miller hung over the backrest, watching the blip on the tracker.

"Looks like Upper West Side," Miller said.

Cal nodded as he studied the screen. Things looked good. They were stuck on Amsterdam and 70th in the perpetual traffic jam where Broadway pushed through on a diagonal. The transponder was signaling from almost dead ahead. The guy hadn't moved for maybe ten minutes.

"Mid eighties is my guess."

Zeklos said, "It will not be long now."

They'd already had the tracking receiver in the car because the original plan—before Miller killed them—had been to follow the three mouth breathers to others of their breed. But the black suits were a problem, so they'd stopped long enough for a change. The suits had their uses, but not when sneaking up on somebody who might have an eye out for them. They'd chosen nondescript civvies from the collection in the back of the truck, but layered. Who knew—they might have to spend some time out in the cold.

"My guess is he's home."

Miller leaned back.

"Isn't that nice. Probably warming his feet by a fire. Hope he's comfy. He's about to have company."

"Yes, he is, but no shooting unless you have to. I want to know who this guy is and where he fits into the big picture."

"Fine," Miller said, "but he's got some dues to pay for sticking that gun in the back of my neck."

Miller… a goddamn loose cannon. And Zeklos… Zeklos had competency issues.

"Look, he could have pulled the trigger, but he didn't. He didn't mess with the girl and he gave us back our hardware. We're no worse for the wear. Not even a scratch. So ease up."

"Nobody does that to me and walks away scot-free."

"Yes," said Zeklos. "And I do not forget what he has said about my teeth."

Cal ground his own teeth.

"You guys got the best look at him. Remember anything else about him?"

Zeklos shrugged. "Average-looking man. In the middle of his thirties perhaps. Leather jacket and jeans."

"Wasn't very big, I can tell you that," Miller said.

"Short?"

"Nah. In between."

"Great. An average-looking, average-height guy in his mid-thirties dressed like a zillion others like him. What happened to all your observational training?"

"His knit hat—it was pulled low," Zeklos said. "That hides very much."

"We're going to have to be right on top of him before we know it's him."

Zeklos said, "I will know him when I see him. And then we see who has bad teeth."

Cal turned back to the screen and saw something he didn't like.

"Damn! He's moving again."

Miller bungeed up against the backrest. "Where?"

"Looks like downtown. Make your next right, Zek. Maybe we can head him off."

Crosstown was a slow go, but when they hit Central Park West the transponder was signaling from the right.

"He's downtown from here. Go!"

The trouble with these RF trackers was they didn't give you a good idea of distance to the object. Could be three cars ahead, could be a mile.

They followed the signal down Broadway and had just passed Times Square when it suddenly veered to the left and then behind.

"Stop!"

The truck was still moving as Cal jumped out with the tracking receiver in hand. He ran back and watched the blip veer right. He looked up and saw a guy in an overcoat getting out of a cab.

"There he is!"

The guy looked up, surprised, then terrified as Miller and Zeklos closed in on him.

"Wait," Zeklos said. "This is not him."

Miller was shaking his head. "Yeah. Too tall."

"Check the driver," Cal said.

Miller yanked open the door and hauled out a confused and frightened-looking black guy babbling in some foreign tongue.

Strike two.

But the tracker said the transponder was here.

Cal checked the rear of the cab, the fenders, the trunk lid, the license—

There. A black disk stuck to the license plate. Cal ripped it off.

The bastard.

"Let them go, guys." He held up the disk. "Looks like we've got a player on our hands." An idea struck. "You!" he said to the passenger, who still had a deer-in-the-headlights expression. "Where'd you catch this cab?"