Tom Clancy - Without Remorse

'Did you hear something?' Piaggi asked tiredly.

'What's that?' Tucker looked up from his task. More than twelve hours now, doing the scut-work that he'd thought to be behind him forever. Not even halfway done, despite the two 'soldiers' that were down from Philadelphia. Tony didn't like it either.

'Like something falling,' Tony said, shaking his head and getting back to it. The only good thing that could be said about this was that it would earn him respect when he related the tale to his associates up and down the coast. A serious man, Anthony Piaggi. When everything went to shit, he'd done the work himself. He makes his deliveries and meets his obligations. You can depend on Tony. It was a rep worth earning, even if this was the price. It was a resolute thought that persisted for perhaps thirty seconds.

Tony slit open another bag, noting the evil, chemical smell on it, not quite recognizing it for what it was. The fine white powder went into the bowl. Next he dumped in the milk sugar. He mixed the two elements with spoons, stirring it slowly. He was sure there must be a machine for this operation, but it was probably too large, like what they used at commercial bakeries. Mainly his mind was protesting that this was work for little people, hirelings. Still, he had to make that delivery, and there was no one else to help out.

'What'd you say?' Henry asked tiredly.

'Forget it.' Piaggi concentrated on his task. Where the hell were Albert and Frank? They were supposed to be here a couple hours ago. Thought they were special because they whacked people, like that stuff really mattered.

'Hey, Lieutenant.' The sergeant who ran the central evidence storage room was a former traffic officer whose three-wheel bike had run afoul of a careless driver. That had cost him one leg and relegated him to administrative duty, which suited the sergeant, who had his desk and his donuts and his paper in addition to clerkish duties that absorbed maybe three hours of real work per eight-hour shift. It was called retirement-in-place.

'How's the family, Harry?'

'Fine, thanks. What can I do for you?'

'I need to check the numbers on the drugs I brought in last week,' Charon told him. 'I think there might be a mixup on the tags. Anyway' - he shrugged - I have to check it out.'

'Okay, just give me a minute and I'll -'

'Read your paper, Harry. I know where to go,' Charon told him with a pat on the shoulder. Official policy was that nobody wandered around in this room without an official escort, but Charon was a lieutenant, and Harry was short one leg, and his prosthesis was giving him trouble, as it usually did.

'That was a nice shoot, Mark,' the sergeant told his back. What the hell, he thought. Mark whacked the guy who'd been carrying the stuff.

Charon looked and listened for any other person who might be here, but there was none. They'd pay him big-time for this. Talk about moving their operation, eh? Leave him out in the cold, back to chasing pushers... well, not entirely a bad thing. He had a lot of money banked away, enough to keep his former wife happy and educate the three kids he'd given her, plus a little for him. He'd probably even get a promotion soon because of the work he'd done, taking down several drug distributors... there.

The ten kilos he had taken from Eddie Morello's car were in a labeled cardboard box, sitting on the third shelf, right where they were supposed to be. He took the box down and looked to be sure. Each of the ten one-kilo bags had to be opened, tested, and reseated. The lab technician who'd done it had just initialed the tags, and his initials were easy to fake. Charon reached into his shirt and pants, pulling out plastic bags of Four-X sugar, which was, of the same color and consistency as the heroin. Only his office would ever touch this evidence, and he could control that. In a month he'd send a memo recommending destruction of the evidence, since the case on it was closed. His captain would approve. He'd dump it down the drain with several other people watching, and the plastic bags would be burned, and nobody would ever know. It certainly seemed simple enough. Within three minutes he was walking away from the evidence racks.

'Numbers check out?'

'Yeah, Harry, thanks,' Charon said, waving on the way out.

'Somebody get the fuckin' phone,' Piaggi growled. Who the hell would be calling here, anyway? It was one of the Philly guys who walked over, taking the time to light a cigarette.

'Yeah?' The man turned. 'Henry, it's for you.'

'What the hell?' Tucker walked over.

'Hi, Henry,' Kelly said. He'd wired a field phone into the building's telephone line, cutting it off from the outside world. He sat there, next to the canvas-covered instrument, having rung the other end just by turning the crank. It seemed rather primitive, but it was something familiar and comfortable to him, and it worked.

'Who's this?'-

'The name's Kelly, John Kelly,' he told him.

'So who's John Kelly?'

'Four of you killed Pam. You're the only one left, Henry,' the voice said. 'I got the rest. Now it's your turn.' Tucker turned and looked around the room as though he expected to find the voice there. Was this some kind of sick joke that they were playing on him?

'How - how'd you get this number? Where are you?'

'Close enough, Henry,' Kelly told him. 'You nice and comfy in there with your friends?'

'Look, I don't know who you are -'

'I told you who I am. You're in there with Tony Piaggi. I saw you at his restaurant the other night. How was your dinner, by the way? Mine was just great,' the voice taunted.

Tucker stood straight up, his hand tight on the phone. 'So what the fuck are you gonna do, boy?'

'I ain't gonna kiss you on both cheeks, boy. I got Rick, and I got Billy, and I got Burt, and now I'm going to get you. Do me a favor, put Mr Piaggi on the line', the voice suggested.

'Tony, you better come here,' Tucker said.

'What is it, Henry?' Piaggi tripped on his chatr getting up. Sodamned tired from?ll this. Those bastards in Philly better have the cash all ready. Henry handed him the phone.

'Who's this?'

'Those two guys on the boat, the ones you gave to Henry? I got 'em. I got the other two this morning, too.'

'What the fuck is this?'

'You figure it out.' The line went dead. Piaggi looked over at his partner, and since he couldn't get an answer from the phone, he'd get one from Tucker.

'Henry, what the hell is this?'

Okay, let's see what that stirred up. Kelly allowed himself a sip of water and a Snickers. He was on the third story of the building. Some sort of warehouse, he thought, massively constructed of reinforced concrete, a good place to be when The Bomb went off. The tactical problem was an interesting one. He couldn't just burst inside. Even if he'd had a machine gun - he didn't - four against one was long odds, especially when you didn't know what was inside the door, especially when stealth was something you couldn't count on as an ally, and so he'd try another approach. He'd never done anything like this before, but from his perch he could cover every door of the building. The windows in the back were bricked up. The only ways out were under his sight, and at just over a hundred yards, he hoped that they'd try it. Kelly shouldered the rifle, but kept his head up, sweeping left and right in an even, patient way.

'It's him,' Henry said quietly so the others couldn't hear.

'Who?'

'The guy who did all those pushers, the guy who got Billy and the rest, the guy who did the ship. It's him.'

'Well, who the fuck is him, Henry?'

'I don't know, goddamn it!' The voice was higher now, and the other two heads looked up. Tucker got more control of himself. 'He says he wants us to come out.'