Dead Zero

by Stephen Hunter

  BACK ALLEY

  JUST OFF THE SHOOT ZONE

  THE 1300 BLOCK OF ST. PAUL STREET

  MOUNT VERNON DISTRICT

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  1558 HOURS

  Romy Dawkins lifted the can to hoist it into 144’s dumper bin, and that’s when he saw him.

  “Hey,” he called to Larry and Antwan, “hey, there’s a guy here.”

  The man lay behind the row of cans, facedown, evidently passed out or dead.

  Antwan came over, and then Larry climbed down from the cab. As crew supervisor and driver of the big truck, this was not welcome news. They still had half the route to go, there was some big traffic tie-up in the blocks ahead, and now they had to deal with a drunk.

  “Fuck,” he said. “Kick ’im, see if it gets him up.”

  Antwan drove a heavy boot into the figure, who groaned, stirred, then settled back.

  “He’s out, boss,” said Antwan.

  “Okay,” said Larry, “nothing we can do. I’ll call the cops, and we go on. We got a route to finish.”

  “He could—”

  “Let the cops worry about it,” said Larry. “It’s their job.”

  At that point, the collapsed man rolled over. He held a dark automatic pistol in one hand.

  “Okay,” he said, “I will hurt you if I have to, but that’s not the point. You do what I say, you get out clean. You fight me, you go home in a box.”

  He was sort of Asian, semi-Asian you might say, with no accent whatsoever, very hard, sharp dark eyes and a demeanor that suggested he meant what he said. He connected with a lot of kung fu and Hong Kong shoot-’em-ups most of the trashmen had seen on DVD. He looked like Chow Yun-Fat in The Killer, only for real and really pissed off.

  “You guys, you haulers, you drop to your knees, fast, come on, fast! You, driver, assume the position against the fender.”

  All obeyed.

  “Never heard of no garbage truck robbery before,” said Antwan. “You must be one dumb motherfucker you think you gettin’ any change off us.”

  “Just chill, trashman,” said the Chinaman.

  He knelt and deftly looped a set of flex-cuffs—high-strength, plastic, disposable handcuffs—around each set of big wrists. With a yank, he tightened both of them.

  “Ouch,” said Romy. “Too fucking tight.”

  “You wanna be tied up or dead, big guy? Okay, get over here,” he said, gesturing with the pistol. He led the three of them to the rear of the truck.

  “You two, you climb into the scoop, you lay flat, you don’t breathe, you don’t shout, you don’t yell, nothing. You give me up and before I go, I’ll take you down. Don’t disappoint me, don’t disappoint your widows and orphans.”

  Larry the driver helped the bound trashmen into the scoop, which was big enough to conceal the two.

  “Don’t fall in love and come out of this engaged,” said the gunman.

  “Motherfucker,” said Antwan.

  “Throw some shit on them, Larry.”

  Larry lifted a can and shook its contents over the two bodies.

  “Larry, man, that’s rank, goddamnit,” Antwan protested.

  “Okay, Larry, into the truck. You’re going to turn left, hit St. Paul, go right, pass beyond Eager and Read, and turn right in the alley before Madison.”

  “Man, they got all that blocked off.”

  “Not for this crate they don’t. And if a cop stops you, I know you can talk your way by him.”

  Larry got into the truck cab, while the gunman, keeping him covered, moved around, came in the other door, and settled low in the well under the dashboard.

  “Chinaman,” said Larry, “this is all fucked up. This is going to cost me my job.”

  “You tell ’em I had you at gunpoint and, as a matter of fact, I do have you at gunpoint. You do what I say. This isn’t about you. You’re just a little part of it.”

  Larry threw the big truck in gear, ground down the alleyway to his cross street, turned left, then right at St. Paul.

  “You’re just a garbageman doing your job. Keep your face still. I can read it like a paperback and you don’t want to get hurt over nothing that concerns you. Believe me, this is not worth dying for unless you lost a son in Afghanistan.”

  At the alleyway, Larry turned right, but halted at a policeman’s signal.

  “Closed down, big guy,” the officer said. “Some security thing a block over.”

  “Officer, I am so behind schedule. I ain’t going through, but I got to get in the alley, collect, then I’m backing out and getting on with my route. This traffic done messed me up bad, bro.”

  “It’s not my problem,” said the cop.

  “Five minutes,” said Larry. “No shit, then I’m out of here.”

  The cop shook his head, seeing a conundrum that could only be solved by mercy. “Don’t nose out onto Charles,” he said. “You get yourself and me in big bad trouble.”

  “Got it, Officer.”

  Larry geared the big truck into motion, and it lurched, then began to creep forward over the cobblestones, between the looming profiles of old mansions turned into apartment houses, whose perspectives dampened the sunlight away.

  “How far?” said Larry.

  “Right to the edge of Charles Street. But don’t go out. Not yet.”

  Larry eased forward a bit.

  “Now what?”

  “We wait.”

  Helicopters gnashed overhead, their black shapes scooting across canyons between the buildings, and Larry, looking out, could see figures of policemen on roofs.

  “What you waiting for?” Larry said.

  “When the action starts, the birds will descend. As they descend, their pilots will be changing the pitch of the rotors. I’ll hear it. Then you roll this crate out another five feet, turn it off and put your hands through the wheel, and I’ll cuff you. You fuck me by gunning into the street, I will kill you and you would be dying for nothing on this earth that can be weighed or counted, you hear?”

  “I hear you, man. Ain’t dying today, no way.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “Man, them guys got a hell of a lot more guns than you, Chinaman.”

  “Can’t be helped,” said the gunman.

  “You gonna get so fucked up.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” said the gunman, and then even Larry heard the helicopter engines begin to alter the speed at which they churned out their message of fuel consumption, exhaust, and brute energy.

  “Go, goddamnit,” said the Chinaman.

  Larry eased out till his cab cleared the edge of the building. About two hundred yards to the right, he could see a convoy of black Explorers, blue-red light flashes blinking out from their interiors, before and aft a great black Lincoln limousine. A gaggle of people seemed to be emerging from the restaurant.

  “Wrists,” said the Chinaman.

  Larry put one wrist through the wheel and the other around it, felt the loop go over one, then the other, then yank tight as the Chinaman pulled hard on the flex-cuff strap that locked in place, even against the power of his strong arms.

  Larry watched as the man shifted in the seat, reached under the old overcoat he had on, and rotated out what appeared to be a toy gun with a thick, short barrel. It had a telescope too, and appeared to be cinched somehow to the shoulder under the coat.

  “You a fucking terrorist?” he asked.

  “Not quite. Now shut up.”

  Carefully the Chinaman braced himself, bringing his right leg up, crossing it and forcing it under the left leg, locking it tight, at the same time locking himself against the seat back. Larry understood that he was tightening himself up for a shot.

  Holding the rifle in his right hand, he rolled down the window just halfway.

  Quickly the rifle came up and Larry understood that he was in the presence of some kind of artist, for the move had the grace of an athlete, that sure manipulation of limbs and torso in liquid syncopation, and Larry knew tha
t whatever he was aiming at was a dead man walking. It was Chow Yun-Fat.

  But he didn’t shoot.

  What the fuck, Larry thought. Conditioned by a popular culture that rode narratives to completion and left no gun unfired, he felt a secret urge slide into his bloodstream, along with a quart or so of chemicals. Shoot the motherfucker, he couldn’t help himself for thinking.

  Swagger’s eyes saw nothing; he had a frozen moment. But then he saw some kind of blurry movement on the truck cab, took another second to relate it to his own knowledge and discern through his fading distance vision that the window had come halfway down, had another thought arrive so fast it came as a rebus, not a sentence: window half down means shot/window full down means curious watcher. Then forces he’d never figure out took over.

  He threw himself hard against Nick, shoving the astonished FBI agent against a parked car, reaching simultaneously to the .40 Glock secured against Nick’s leg, nimbly popped the security latch, and pulled the gun skyward. He pulled the trigger five times fast.

  “What the fuck?” said Nick.

  “Gun, gun, gun,” screamed Bob, “over there, that garbage truck.”

  But by that second, everything was lost in chaos, as the radios all shrieked and ten people started talking at once, signifying the confusion on the ground.

  “Break-break, shots fired.”

  “Principal down.”

  “Call a goddamned ambulance.”

  “Where is the fire coming from?”

  “North, north, a burst of fire north, about a hundred feet up—”

  “Negative, negative, that was an agent returning fire. I can’t see a sniper.”

  “All units, all units, stand fast, go to glass, get me situation reports fast. What is story on principal, Ground One?”

  “Fuck, it’s a mess, we got agents all over him, the kids are crying, I don’t see blood, but I can’t—”

  “Did you take fire?”

  “I don’t know, I can’t verify.”

  “Somebody tell me what the fuck is happening. Air, any air, do you have a visual?”

  “Negative, negative, I just see crazy shit around the principal, I see agents and cops racing toward him, I see no—”

  Cops were thundering toward Nick and Swagger as well, drawn by the sound of the pistol. Nick held up his hands, waving them off, and went to the radio.

  “This is King Four, Memphis, goddamnit,” he said. “My guy fired because he saw sniper activity, 700 block Charles, sited on the garbage truck that’s halfway out of the alley, get people there fast, be very careful, suspect is extremely dangerous, I say again, armed, extremely dangerous.”

  “Principal is okay, there was no shot, we have no evidence of bullet damage, no sound of report.”

  “Get people on the truck, get people on the truck.”

  Bob relaxed, handed Nick the gun.

  “They have no bullet damage,” Nick said, incredulously. “And no sonic. He didn’t get the shot off, because you grabbed my gun and started the parade.”

  “Fuck,” said Bob, feeling a sudden terrible weariness flood his limbs, coupled with a need to sit down before his knees melted and pitched him onto the sidewalk. He staggered to the car, and set himself against the bumper. I am way too old for this shit, he thought.

  “You saw it? You saw it? It must be two hundred yards away, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I saw the truck move out, caught my eye. I saw the window come down, or I think I saw the window come—”

  “All units, all units, we have principal in Charlie One, we are out of here, we are out of here, secure area.”

  But by the time they got there, they found no sniper. They found a city sanitary crew flex-cuffed in its own garbage scoop and cab, they found an unconscious policeman judo-chopped by a lithe Asian martial arts expert but otherwise undamaged, except that his car was stolen. That vehicle was found one hour later, in East Baltimore, a neighborhood named Canton. But no one saw how it got there, there were no prints, and there was no sign of the sniper.

  UNIDENTIFIED CONTRACTOR TEAM

  MOUNT VERNON DISTRICT

  DOWNTOWN BALTIMORE

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  1830 HOURS

  Bogier pressed it hard, but finally saw that nothing was gained by remaining on the scene.

  He used the satellite phone to run his decision by Mr. MacGyver.

  “We’re not doing any good here and we’re running totally on fumes. Swagger will be tied up for hours; he’s not going anywhere. We’re going to check into a motel, crash, and pick up Swagger tomorrow at the FBI HQ.”

  “Are you sure, Bogier? Swagger has ways of—”

  “It’s just CSI bullshit, without the chicks. Measuring, interviewing, collecting, all that cop stuff. The area’s a complete mess with downtown shut down. We’ll be in traffic for an hour even getting out of here.”

  “What’s the latest?”

  “I have nothing inside. I’m just listening to the news. Someone—Ray, we know—pointed a gun at Zarzi, but Swagger—I’m guessing it was Swagger—picked up on him and fired pistol shots at him, and the shots set off a Chinese fire drill. Ray never pulled down, Swagger missed, the cops went into crazy-town mode, sirens, ambulances, SWAT team, choppers, the whole nine yards. Somehow Ray got away in the confusion. He conked a cop and slipped out.”

  “Shit.”

  “So near, so far. He was just a few fucking blocks away from us. But who knew; we had to park where we could find parking.”

  “I’d stay with Swagger.”

  “Goddamnit, my people are about to collapse. Nothing will happen here for at least twelve more hours. Tomorrow will be press conference bullshit. You can watch it on Fox. I’ve got to get these guys some shut-eye. It’s my call, that’s how I’m calling it.”

  “All right, all right, rack ’em out. Come back tomorrow with renewed zeal and exuberance, that renowned Bogier touch you’re so famous for.”

  “You have to let us know if they cancel the Washington events. If they do, if there’s no Zarzi to bring Ray out, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  “I’ll keep you informed,” said MacGyver, and with his normal arrogant rudeness hung up.

  “What a prick,” Mick said. “Okay, let’s head to the ’burbs and sack out. We’ll be back on station 0630 tomorrow.”

  “I’m so tired I wouldn’t know what to do if some bitch started sucking on my cock,” said Crackers the Clown, not as humor but as an earnest statement of fact.

  “Well, you don’t have to worry because it ain’t about to happen. And we ain’t about to cap Ray Cruz either; he is one slippery little yellow bastard, I’ll say that.”

  “I wonder why he didn’t,” said Tony Z. “First time I ever heard of him not shooting.”

  BALTIMORE FBI HQ

  WOODLAWN

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  2200 HOURS

  He didn’t shoot because you scrambled the zone on him. He lost his sight picture because six Secret Service guys jumped on Zarzi. That’s why he didn’t shoot.”

  “You’re not getting it,” said Swagger. “He’s much faster than that. I saw the window go down. I whacked you—”

  “A little enthusiastically, I might add.”

  The other agents in the meeting laughed through their own fatigue. They’d been on-site for hours after the incident, this after the raid in the morning. Everybody was ground down, the coffee was cold, the rats had already carted off the doughnuts, and the Snickers bars had ossified. They’d been going over it for eight hours, and yet no one had said anything intelligent.

  “I grabbed the gun,” continued Bob, “I raised it, I fired. That whole thing goes at least three seconds. I’m old, I’m not fast anymore, I didn’t get a clean grip on the pistol, I had to fumble with the release button, I got it out, I got it up, then I fired. All that takes time. Three seconds. Minimum. Maybe more. What’s he doing in that time?”

  “Waiting for the target to clear. There
’s agents all over the place. He’s shooting into a crowd, he has to get a good sight pic on Zarzi. Zarzi never cleared, then the shit happens, he has the discipline, knows he doesn’t have a shot, realizes this one’s a bust, and beats it.”

  “When we get videotape, I’m betting you’ll see that Zarzi was clear. He held when he could have wasted the guy. I know it.”

  “There’s no evidence,” someone said. “It’s fine to just say, but there’s no evidence, so why even bring it up?”

  Bob ignored the comment. “I don’t see no theory by which he don’t shoot. He’s fast, that’s what’s different. On target in a split second, perfect trigger control, it’s over in less than a second. Yet he had three, and never pulled. Very hard to figure.”

  “You raise provocative points,” Nick said. “But maybe you have a natural empathy for the sniper. You want him to be running some game on us, as opposed to simply trying to kill his target out of some twisted sense of vengeance for Whiskey Two-Two, which he thinks was betrayed and targeted. I have to play your insights off against what the evidence says.”

  Bob shook his head. He was blurred too, his thinking fuzzy, his reflexes gummy, his tongue tied up in his mouth.

  “Okay,” Nick said, “I’m calling it. Get some sleep, everybody. Let the investigators continue to gather info, and the cops to look for Ray, fat chance. I want everybody on duty by 0630 tomorrow, we’ll go over this stuff and get it into a presentational order, I’m under great pressure from DC to hold a presser, so that’s scheduled at ten. Maybe something will break. Maybe Ray will turn himself in.”

  The laughter was desultory.

  “Nick, we’ve got solid IDs from the garbage crew guys. Are we going to go wide with the Cruz photo tomorrow?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. If we do, then we have a thousand reporters digging into Ray Cruz and all that info just floods everything, it’s more bullshit between us and what we have to do. We don’t talk to anybody who hasn’t already been on 60 Minutes. We make him the most famous man in America and what do we get out of it? I don’t think it helps us find him, because he’s too clever. And it dumps a huge screen of smoke on everything. Let me run it by the Agency, see what their cool, giant, Martian intellects think of it. We may want to keep it quiet, hope we can make it go away without much more disclosure.”