Infernal

by F. Paul Wilson

  Well, why not? Not as if he had anything better to do with his time.

  Jack hit the sidewalk and headed away from Tom. Toward Central Park.

  Tom followed.

  When Jack reached Central Park West he hailed a cab. As soon as one stopped, Tom hurried up to the curb to hail one of his own, all the while keeping an eye on Jack’s. He breathed a little sigh of relief when he saw it stop at a red light two blocks down.

  A cab screeched to a halt in front of him. He jumped in and said, “See that cab up there—the one with the plate that ends in seventy-two?”

  “Yes,” said the dark-skinned driver in a thickly accented voice. “You wish me to follow?”

  “I wish.”

  “Then this is what I shall do.”

  And follow he did. Jack’s cab picked up Broadway at Columbus Circle and followed that until it reached 42nd Street. It turned east. Jack got out where 42nd T-boned the United Nations. He stayed on the curb, looking as if he was waiting for someone.

  “Hold it here,” Tom told the driver.

  A few minutes later an old Grand Am pulled into the curb and Jack got in. Tom had a quick look at the driver and thought he looked familiar. Who—?

  Then he remembered. Jack’s scam artist friend from the morgue. Joey something.

  “Okay,” Tom said as the Grand Am bolted from the curb. “Now we follow that car.”

  * * *

  -16:14

  “Man, do you look beat,” Joey said as Jack settled into the passenger seat. “Whatcha do, pull an all-nighter?”

  “Feels like it.”

  Jack had retrieved his Crown Vic from the garage and driven Gia and Vicky downtown to a spot in the East Village—a former vacant lot now full of bundled trees. Pickings were slim this late in the game, but they’d found a decent one and tied it to the roof of the car.

  Gia had stayed with the car while Jack took Vicky into an art supply store where she bought her mom a new set of pigment tubes.

  Then it had been back to Sutton Square to put up the tree and decorate it. Jack had held Vicky up to place the star on top before hurrying back to his apartment.

  The good news was that Tom hadn’t been in.

  Jack had donned a dark gray twill coverall, then pulled on his leather driving gloves and a navy blue knit watch cap; he packed up his Glock plus an extra set of jeans and a flannel shirt, then put on his flight jacket and headed down to the UN.

  Joey said, “Decided to bring your own hardware after all?”

  He was pointing to the backpack Jack had placed on the floor between his feet.

  Along with his extra clothes he had a Tupperware container of the Compendium recipe. But how was he going to explain the gunk to Joey?

  Simple: lie.

  “Some extra clothes and—”

  “Clothes? What for?”

  “Bloodstains. This could get wet.”

  “Shit. I didn’t think of that. What else you got?”

  “A kind of truth serum I want to try on one of these guys.”

  “What for?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. See if they’re the whole deal or if there’s something bigger behind them.”

  “You mean see if they’re the shooters or the handlers. That’s cool.” Joey smiled. “And if they’re being handled, we work our way up the chain, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Only thing I haven’t figured out is how we make sure El-Kabong is in there.”

  “Easy,” Jack said. “We call.”

  Jack used his Tracfone to call information, then he punched in the number.

  An accented male voice answered on the third ring. “Center for Islamic Charities.”

  Jack tried to imitate his accent. “Yes, is Hamad Al-Kabeer there?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “He does not know me, but he was recommended as someone who would see to it that a charitable donation would find its way into the right hands.”

  “Who was it who recommended him?”

  “I’d rather say so in person, if you understand.”

  “I understand. You are arriving here?”

  “Yes, I will be in your area later today and thought I might stop in to see Mr. Kabeer.”

  “He’ll be here, Mr…?”

  “I prefer to introduce myself personally, if you understand.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good! Then I shall see you soon.”

  Jack cut the connection.

  “He’s there.”

  “Awright! Time to kick some burnoosed butt!”

  * * *

  -15:59

  No one had answered the first ring, so Tom pushed Gia’s doorbell again.

  He was pissed. It had taken that damn stupid cabby all of five minutes to lose the Grand Am. When he’d resigned himself to the fact that he’d never catch up to Jack, Tom had told the cabby to drop him at Eight Sutton Square. The guy had known Sutton Place but had no idea of how to find Sutton Square. So Tom had had to direct him.

  Idiot.

  Tom wasn’t sure why he’d given in to the impulse to come here. Best guess was that he wanted to smooth things over with Gia. He knew she was upset with him—she couldn’t be anything else—and that was a weight on him. He had to make her understand.

  He caught a flash of movement in the sidelight—Gia peeking to see who it was. She opened the door.

  “Hello, Tom,” she said, her tone as flat as her expression.

  Well, no reason to have expected a big welcome.

  “Hi, Gia. Since I was in the area I—”

  “Jack’s not here.”

  I know, he thought. That’s why I am.

  “That’s okay. I really wanted to speak to you.” He shivered in a gust of cold wind off the river. “Can I come in? Just for a minute?”

  She said nothing as she stepped back and held the door open. As soon as it closed behind him, Tom turned and reached for Gia’s hands.

  She slipped them behind her back.

  “What do you want, Tom?”

  “I want to apologize for everything that’s happened. I had no idea—”

  “You did! That’s why you went looking for it.” Her eyes blazed, her words strained through clenched teeth. “Why couldn’t you have left that thing where you found it?”

  “If I’d known it would come to this, don’t you think I would have?”

  “I don’t know what you would or wouldn’t do!”

  “Aw, Gia, you can’t believe—”

  Tears rimmed her eyes. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to our lives? Not just Jack’s but to Vicky’s and mine?”

  This was heading in the wrong direction.

  “I know I—”

  “You know? You don’t have a clue! I told you that Jack is our rock! But some time around eight o’clock tomorrow morning he’ll be gone!”

  Her features hardened again as she jabbed her index finger against Tom’s chest.

  “Can you understand that? Our rock will be gone. And all because of you!”

  Each poke against his chest was like a knife thrust.

  “Gia—”

  “I don’t think I have anything more to say to you, Tom. I know you didn’t mean for this to happen, but in the end it all comes back to you. You’re responsible.”

  “Isn’t there something I can do?”

  She opened the door.

  Tom walked out.

  The frigid air on her front step felt balmy compared to the chill in Gia’s foyer.

  * * *

  -15:35

  They made good time to Paterson. When they reached the city limits Jack climbed into the backseat and opened the duffel Joey had brought. He gaped at the two sawed-off Browning 10-gauge pumps and suppressor-fitted 9mm Tokarevs. He ejected a cartridge from the shotgun and checked it: double-ought buck.

  “Jeez, Joey! You planning on taking on an army?”

  “Ya never know, Jack. I got the silencers figuring maybe we can do our work and get
out without raising too much ruckus.”

  Were Abe here he’d be telling Joey there was no such thing as a silencer, only a suppressor. But Jack didn’t correct him.

  “The shotguns will sort of put a crimp in that.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re for backup—in case we have to clear the room, y’know?”

  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.”

  * * *

  -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 wa
ll. 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…