F. Paul Wilson - Hardbingers

"I don't think so."

"You would have made same mistake as I. I did what I was supposed to: I watch alley. But none of us—you included—guess that he was already out on street. He would have snucked up on you just like me."

Miller sneered. "He might have tried to, but I'd've caught him. Fd've been watching three-sixty."

Zeklos gingerly rubbed his neck where the stun gun had burned him.

"He hurt me. He knock me out. I have soil my pants and had to change them. Is that not enough? I should not be eating the corn of humiliation too."

Miller's laugh had a nasty edge to it. " 'Corn of humiliation'? Where do you come up with this shit? Is it some sort of Romanian thing?"

Cal had heard enough. Miller needed to vent, and justly so, but Zeklos had suffered enough.

"Okay, let's all take a breather and cool off. By tomor—"

"Tomorrow, hell!" Miller said. "This guy's a menace, not just to anyone who gets stuck working with him, but to the MV itself. I want him out. As soon as we can get a quorum together, I want a vote so we can settle this once and for all."

This wouldn't be happening if the Twins were still around. The matter would have been brought before them for a decision. But they'd disappeared almost a year ago and command structure had been slowly going to hell ever since.

"That's pretty harsh," Cal said. "And I don't think you've got the support."

"Oh no?" Miller turned to the other yeniceri. "You all remember last November, right? The first time we let Zeklos solo. A simple hit and run. Nothing to it, right? But what does he do? He screws up!"

Zeklos, head still down, said, "The steering… it fail me."

"No," Miller said, jabbing a finger at him. " You failed. The target is still walking around! You blew that window of opportunity and we haven't had another." He turned back to the other yenigeri. "Am I right or am I right?"

"Damn right!" said one of the guards.

"Yeah," said another.

Cal noticed that it was Hursey and Jolliff doing the talking. Both were part of Miller's claque. When off duty they followed him around like dogs.

The divisiveness was more fallout from the Twins' absence. Cal had tried to fill the void but he had no mandate.

"And why is he here? Think about it: His Oculus was killed."

"Not fair, Miller," Cal said. " Lots of Oculi have been killed in the past year, not just Zeklos's."

"Yeah, but Zeklos is here, alive and well, while all of his Romanian yeniceri brothers are dead. How do we explain that?" He pointed at Zeklos. "Where were you—hiding under a rock?"

Finally Zeklos lifted his head. His eyes blazed.

"I was at home. I had illness, much illness!"

"Yeah, sure. We'll have to take your word on that. But the fact remains that your Oculus is dead and you're not." He held up his index finger. "That's strike one. Then you screwed up the hit and run." A second digit popped up. "Strike two. And tonight you let that guy get away." A third finger joined the others. "Three strikes and you're out."

Cal saw other heads nodding—all six now.

Miller was making a good case. Things didn't look good for Zeklos. But then, this was hardly a quorum.

And yeah, Zeklos wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but blackballed? What else did the guy have?

About as much as I do, Cal thought. Nothing.

He raised his hands. "Let's not be too hasty here. We don't have to resort to such extreme measures."

He glanced at Zeklos and cringed inside at the light of hope in his eyes. How long would that last?

"What's extreme?" Miller said. "You're either in or you're out, part of the team or not. No in between."

"Just hear me out." He turned to Zeklos. "Zek, you've got to know you've been screwing up. Even you have to admit that."

Zeklos's gaze returned to his shoes as he nodded.

Miller said, "Well, then, I guess it's unanimous."

Cal shot him a look. "What I'm proposing here is something like a tune-up. Go back to training camp for a refresher."

Zeklos's head snapped up. "But I am yeniceri!"

"Of course you are, but sometimes our skills get rusty. It can happen to the best of us."

"I cannot go back to b-b-be trainee!"

"Consider it like baseball. Just think of it as getting sent down to the minor leagues for a while." Cal looked at Miller. "Will that satisfy you?"

Miller shrugged. "As long as he's out of here."

"I do not know this minor league," Zeklos said with a trace of defiance. "But I know I am full yeniceri, and I do not go back to play with children."

Cal locked eyes with him. "If you don't, Miller's going to call a vote. And then you might not be any kind of yenigeri."

Come on, Zeklos, he thought, trying for telepathy. I'm offering you a chance. Take it.

Instead, Zeklos's eyes took on an Et-tu-Brute ? look. Then he squared his shoulders and looked around.

"I am going home."

"Okay," Cal said. "I know it's a tough decision. Think on it, then come back in the morning."

Zeklos didn't nod, didn't shake his head. He simply turned and walked out the door.

13

Jack straightened in the backseat when he saw someone step out of the warehouse. The skinny little buck-toothed guy they'd called Zeklos started walking away.

He rapped on the plastic barrier and startled Ibrahim out of his doze.

"Get ready to move."

They watched him until he turned right a block and a half away.

"Let's go."

"Follow him? But there is no traffic. He will see us."

"Just drive around. I'll stay down. Third time you pass him—if it comes to that—ask how to get to some street."

Jack slouched low in the seat as the cab started to move. He scratched his chest as they passed the warehouse. The skin had started to itch and burn again but, as before, quickly passed. He wondered about that but let it go.

"You are not a killer?" Ibrahim said.

The question startled Jack.

"Why do you ask?"

"I see this movie— Collateral —where killer takes taxi to killings. It is directed by Michael Mann. I am liking this film, but I do not want to be driving a killer."

Jack had to smile. "No, not a killer. Just need to talk to one of these guys alone. That's all. Just talk."

They turned onto Columbia, a wider, busier two-way. Good.

Jack peeked through the rear corner of his window as they passed Zeklos. He walked with his head down, his hands in his pockets. The picture of dejection. Someone wasn't having a good day.

"Is this an exciting thing you do?" Ibraham said.

"Not very."

"Oh. That is too bad."

"Hey, exciting isn't always fun."

After what Jack had been through lately, unexciting was a major plus.

"I think maybe you could tell me what you do here and I can write screenplay that I sell to movies."

"Screenplay?"

Had he somehow made a wrong turn and wound up in L.A.?

"Yes. I sell it to Hollywood. Maybe Michael Mann direct."

"Maybe he will. If he does, you'll be set for life."

As Ibrahim did a wide swing through the neighborhood, Jack switched his focus to the street signs they passed, trying to orient himself. Most had names; he'd have preferred numbers. As they returned, going the opposite direction, Jack snapped out of his slouch.

Where'd he go?

They'd reached the fringe of what might pass for a business district. All the stores were closed, but a triangular Red Hook Lager sign glowed in the window of a bar on the right.

"Wait here. I'll look inside."

When Jack reached the door—the place called itself the Elbow Room—he pulled it open only a couple of inches. And there at the bar, tossing back a shooter of something, sat his guy.

Jack peeled off another C-note as he hurried back to the cab.