F. Paul Wilson - Infernal

Jack knew.

"Since you're right-handed, Joey—"

"How'd you know that?"

Jack had to think about that. He sized up a person's handedness without thinking. It had become instinct.

"I noticed. I'm right-handed too, so why don't we do it this way: I go in with a nine in my right and a shotgun in my left. You go in with a nine in your belt and a Browning at the ready."

Joey shook his head. "Uh-uh. I want the nine out—I don't get the answers I'm looking for real quick, I'm gonna spend a round or two on persuasion."

"Okay. But just stay cool."

Cool… Jack was anything but. He could feel his guts knotting. This headlong rush was not the way he did things. Had he the time—Christ, something like sixteen hours left, maybe less—he'd have spent days working up to this, knowing all the exits, watching the place all day so he'd know exactly how many people he'd find when he went through the door.

If they were stepping into an armed camp or, worse yet, a trap, where the Lilitongue was going to take him might be the least of his worries.

"I'm cool. But I hold the nine, okay?"

Jack repressed a sigh. This was Joey's show. He'd located these guys, set up everything. Jack had to play backup.

"Okay." He hoped he wouldn't regret it. "But remember, even if it gets ugly, I need one of them alive… just one."

"What—? Oh yeah. Your truth serum."

As they waited for the sun to set they cruised the area—with the windows cracked to let out Joey's smoke—and discussed some strategy: who'd go in first, the sequence of events as they wanted them to go down, things they'd say, questions they'd ask.

"Let me do the talking," Joey said. "At least most of it. I got things to say to these shits. I got a lot to say. And hey, I know you run a game now and then, but for me it's in the blood. I come from a family of talkers. We can talk our way into a gal's bed as fast as we can talk our way into a guy's bank account. I can get 'em saying what we need to know."

Jack couldn't argue. He'd done his share of persuading—lots of ways to persuade—but he'd never considered himself much of a talker.

"Okay. But don't go Fidel on me."

"Castro?"

"Yeah. I've heard that his shorter speeches run a couple-three hours."

Joey laughed. "Okay. No Fidel and no Crazy Joey. I'm going the divide-and-conquer route, Jack. In no time at all I'll have them pointing fingers at each other. And then we'll know our next step."

7

-15:21

Shortly after the sun dipped below the horizon, Joey turned onto the block of the Center for Islamic Charities. Jack scanned the twilit sidewalks. Not much happening. Of course, in a largely Muslim neighborhood, not too many would be worried about having fewer than two shopping days till Christmas.

Joey found a parking space near the front of the Center. Jack slipped out of his leather jacket. He pulled his watch cap low and the collar of his coveralls high, hunching his shoulders to hide as much of his face as possible.

"Pop the trunk, will you?"

As Joey complied, Jack stepped out with one of the Tokarevs in his belt and the shotgun under his jacket.

He did another sidewalk scan while Joey turned off the car, grabbed his weapons, and stepped out. Only one man in sight, down at the corner to the right. As Jack watched he stepped off the curb and walked away.

Jack held the sawed-off tight against his thigh as he dropped the leather jacket into the trunk, then stepped onto the curb. Joey came around and joined him.

"Case anything happens, the keys are under the front seat."

"Nothing's going to happen."

Joey grinned. "Lots gonna happen. Ready?"

Jack nodded. He still wished they'd had more time to plan, but this was all he had. He'd been handed a lemon, so…

They crossed the sidewalk, Joey going first to open the door. They stepped through as one, Jack so close on his tail they could have been Siamese twins.

Rug-draped walls, bare floor. Rickety chairs, battered desks and tables that looked like secondhand rejects. And five bearded wonders—four sitting, one standing—talking, reading, or drinking coffee from little cups. Three wore robes, two long coats, all wore headgear of some sort—kufis or skullcaps, some beaded, some open-weave knit. Not a turban in sight.

As planned, Jack and Joey split to flank the doorway. As Jack kicked it shut and pointed his sawed-off at the occupants, Joey began shouting and waving his pistol.

"All right! FBI! Everybody! Hands in the air!"

Shocked faces, wide startled eyes as three of the sitters jumped to their feet, hands in the air. The fourth stayed where he was, didn't raise his hands, and didn't look frightened.

"You are not FBI," he said.

Jack saw the bruise on his cheek and recognized him: Hamad Al-Kabeer.

An icy wave of rage washed away all doubt and some of Jack's sanity as he recognized something else.

The voice… here was the gloating voice he'd listened to almost every day for over a week.

We are the Wrath of Allah, fedayeen in the war against the Crusader-Jewish alliance. We have struck and we will strike again, until all the enemies of God and helpers of Satan are cleansed from the face of Allah's earth. This is but the beginning.

He felt his arms start to lift the Browning, his finger tighten on the Browning's trigger. One blast of double-ought… reduce his head to red mist…

No. Not yet. After we find out who's behind them, then Al-Kabeer goes.

"Not FBI?" Joey flashed his shark smile. "Really? What makes you think that?"

"You do not have the jackets or the vests. You are fakes. Get out!"

"You forgot to mention one other thing: The FBI don't carry silenced pistols." He pointed it at Hamad. "Can you guess why this is silenced?"

The pistol jumped and made a phut ! sound. Al-Kabeer fell out of the chair, screaming as he clutched his left leg.

Jack couldn't imagine a sweeter sound.

Joey's voice went cold. "So I can do that whenever I want."

The four remaining upright began shouting in panic, waving their hands, pleading.

As much as Jack wanted to start pulling his own trigger, he forced himself to stick to the plan. But the situation could head south fast if he didn't slap the reins on Joey.

"Everyone be cool," Jack shouted, waving the shotgun at them. He lowered his voice and said, "You too, Joey."

"Yeah-yeah. Okay." He raised his voice. "Just cooperate and this will all be over real quick. Give me any lip and you'll end up like El-Kabong there."

"Down on the floor!" Jack said. "Face down, arms out."

"Yeah. Like you're praying to your candy-assed god. You do it, what, ten times a day, right? So you should know the position."

Jack thought it was more like five times a day. Or maybe six. Didn't matter. Why was he thinking about it?

He watched their hands as they stretched themselves out on the wooden floor. Anyone who made a move toward a pocket or a waistband…

But everyone did as they were told. When they were all stretched out—the bleeding Al-Kabeer too—Joey nodded to Jack and made his way to the rear of the space.

Okay. Back on target: The plan had been to get everyone onto the floor immediately, then check the back rooms. Jack hadn't seen a floor plan, didn't know how deep the space was, and so he was only guessing that back rooms existed.

Only one door visible in the rear wall. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Joey go through in a crouch, his pistol ahead of him. Jack kept the shotgun moving, back and forth, holding his breath as he waited for a burst of gunfire, a scream of pain. He heard doors opening and slamming shut—one… two… three…

And then Joey returned carrying a pair of machine pistols.