Nolan made no response. He didn’t know what to say, though he was glad to know at least one person who wasn’t judging him tonight.
“Vasko’s declared war on us,” said Coral, huffing hard as they rounded the corner onto the sidewalk outside the park. “On the OCI, even on the president. Vasko will be livid over this. It’s not just you he hates, you know.”
“It’s me he’s obsessed with,” replied Nolan. “All the same, you might want to think about a safer line of work.”
“You should consider laying low awhile yourself. Things will get a lot worse now.”
She was right about that much, Nolan had to agree.
“Or contact the president,” she suggested. “He seems to genuinely want to help you.”
Nolan ignored this. He had no use for a politician like Hastings, old friend or not.
They crossed the street and Nolan started running toward his waiting friends at the Potter Building, but Coral abruptly stopped and grabbed him by the arm. He slowed only reluctantly.
“You really are Nolan Gray, aren’t you.” For a fleeting instant, her eyes danced, awestruck. She wasn’t quite smiling, but nearly.
“You should go,” he replied, nodding to her fellow agents, who had gathered on a street corner a few blocks away. “Take care of yourself, Agent Lively.”
65
Days turned to weeks, and Vasko canceled all public appearances. He continued working in his glass building, putting on a good show for the people of New York who looked up at his office from the streets below, in search of hope. But he kept to himself and spent most of his time trying to predict Nolan Gray’s next move.
He’d greatly enjoyed toying with this man that killed his family, but now that the world knew Nolan was alive, and now that Nolan had made it clear he was attempting to systematically take down Vasko’s operation, Vasko found the game a lot less enjoyable. Nolan was no longer playing by the old rules, and therefore Vasko found it much harder to predict his actions.
As much as he wanted to look into Nolan’s eyes as he wrapped his fingers around Nolan’s throat and squeezed the life from him, he had begun to wonder of late if his actions had awakened a predator. Vasko had been so cavalier about threatening Nolan, playing with him, even outmaneuvering him. But with every stronghold of Vasko’s that Nolan took down, Vasko became increasingly withdrawn and unwilling to see or talk to anyone. He puttered about in his office, often sleeping at night on a couch in the office—what little time he was able to sleep.
Vasko made an exception to his seclusion on Christmas Eve, scheduling a meeting in his office with a new group of mercenaries. He’d personally conducted hours and hours of research, interviewing the toughest, meanest, most skilled, and most ruthless guns for hire that money could buy. New Year’s Eve was just days away, and he was committed to overseeing the festivities himself—even pulling the overly elaborate lever that would trigger the ball drop at midnight.
It was late in the evening on Christmas Eve when a group of five hardened mercenaries walked into his office and seated themselves without offering salutations or waiting for an invitation to sit. If you wanted someone dead, there was no one better at the job. Hardcore mercs who never let things like morals or conscience get in their way.
Their leader was a man who called himself Speck. That was all, just Speck.
Vasko rarely felt frightened or intimidated by anyone anymore, but this Speck character gave him pause. At five foot nine, he had arms the size of baked hams, both of which were covered in scars and tattoos up to his neck. This was easy to see because he wore a black muscle shirt that bore an obscene phrase about his extracurricular hobbies. He wore black pants and black leather boots that laced up almost to his knees. Speck had multiple piercings in his ears, nose, and eyebrows, and a skull tattooed on his forehead. Atop his head, his black hair was displayed in a severe crew cut.
His four friends dressed and appeared similar to their leader, though each showed off some unique properties. One had hair dyed an odd color of green, while another had two tiny horns implanted under the skin of his forehead.
“I understand that you served with the marines during the war,” Vasko said, his opening greeting, since none of his guests offered to shake his hand or even volunteered their names. “And that you were dishonorably discharged. Mind if I ask why?”
When Speck talked, his voice rumbled impossibly low, like a tape recording that had been slowed down. “They said I enjoyed it too much.”
As he spoke, two of his friends who were sitting on the same couch that Vasko used for sleeping suddenly whipped out nine-inch knives and began having an impromptu knife fight. Their blades clashed with such ferocity that it made a terrible racket and even threw off a spark once.
“You enjoyed being a marine too much?” asked Vasko, distracted by the two men on the couch.
“The war,” said Speck. “I dug the war.”
Vasko hesitated. “I see. And your friends? Did they feel similarly?”
Speck shook his head. “Not all of ’em fought in the war. But they’ve seen plenty of action with me.”
“What kind of action would that be?” he asked, deciding it would be best to abandon chitchat.
Speck raised his head for the first time and looked Vasko in the eye, as if seeing a slow, naïve child. “We kill things. We fight dirty. And we don’t care about your reasons.”
Vasko almost asked what kinds of things they killed, but decided to steer the conversation back on track. “And you’re willing to kill anyone? No matter the situation, or the target’s identity?”
Speck looked bored, ignoring his two friends with their clanging knives, while Vasko found it almost impossible to think while they were sparring. “Rumor has it you’re looking to take out Nolan Gray. We’ve killed plenty of people before—people, predators, vehicles, entire buildings—but we’ve never gone up against someone with Gray’s training. That’s the one reason we’re here. Been a while since we had a challenging target.”
Vasko cocked a single eyebrow, thinking. “The rumors are true,” he confided. “So here’s the million-dollar question. What makes you think you can take Nolan Gray down, when so many others have failed?”
Speck turned to look at his two knife-wielding friends. “Throw ’em!” he said.
As one, both men reared back with their knives and flung them fast through the air toward Speck, who put out both hands and caught the razor-sharp blades. Following through, he twirled them and threw them up over his head. Vasko watched in shock as Speck produced a small handgun he didn’t even know the man had been carrying, and fired two shots wildly into the air. He caught the knives as they came back down, one in each hand, and handed them to Vasko.
Both of the blades had round bullet holes through them near their tips.
“Anything else you wanna ask me, Mr. Vasko?”
Vasko placed the two knives down on his desk and stared at them for a moment. Finally he lifted his face to look at his visitors.
“You’re hired,” he said.
66
I have good news,” said Nolan, midday on the day after Christmas.
“I have bad news,” replied Arjay.
Nolan had just arrived back at the RV after a busy morning, stomping his boots against the metal steps and rubbing his arms. A bitterly cold Christmas Day came and went without any major skirmishes throughout the city, and a handful of residents were taking this as a sign that it could be safe to venture out for traditional post-holiday activities like returning unwanted gifts.
So in addition to reconnaissance amid a heavy snow that refused to let up, Nolan had actually gotten to spend a little time helping innocent upstanding citizens. He’d almost forgotten what that was like. In both cases—an elderly gentleman who suffered a heart attack in a department store and needed emergency medical attention, and a little girl Nolan found playing in the snow two blocks away after she disappeared from her frantic parents’ sight—the people he encountered call
ed him by his real name. Nolan found that that felt surprisingly gratifying.
Branford glanced back and forth between both men and finally crossed his arms over his chest. He nodded at Arjay. “You go.”
“We’re broke,” announced Arjay. “Completely, in absolute totality. As in, ‘I don’t know where our next meal will come from’ poor.”
“All right,” grumbled Branford, turning to Nolan. “And you?”
“I found it,” he replied.
Branford sat up straight. “Are you sure?”
“Saw it myself.”
Even Arjay’s eyebrows were up with excitement. For weeks, Nolan had been searching the city piers in his free time for Vasko’s legendary storehouse. As the search went on, reports reached them from The Hand’s website, from random conversations in public places, and from police band chatter, of just how much was stored in this vast facility—and with every report, their estimates grew. Reportedly, there were incredible caches of weapons, thousands of kilos of illegal drugs, billions in counterfeit money, and much more, all stored in this one central location. It wouldn’t be Vasko’s only stockpile, of course, but as his biggest and most important, his organization could become crippled without it.
The three men had agreed over a week ago that if and when they located this massive storehouse, they wouldn’t bother reporting it to the police; instead, they would destroy it. While it was full of overwhelming amounts of incriminating evidence against Yuri Vasko, there were two problems. First, Vasko would have any and all paperwork connected to the storehouse assigned to one or more front companies with no official ties to his organization. And second, until Vasko was ousted and the rule of law was restored in New York, the chances of his even being so much as arrested—much less tried in a fair courtroom—were slim to none. He simply held too much power; he’d already proven time and again that he had ascended far above the law.
Another thing they’d gleaned via various sources was a fact that Nolan found deeply heartening. It came as quite a surprise to realize that most of the city’s population knew the truth about Yuri Vasko. Even though he put up a great public front, and actually followed through on his promise of dispensing aid to anyone in desperate need via that glass monstrosity of his in Times Square . . . he wasn’t fooling anyone. Too many had lost loved ones or lost their livelihoods to Vasko’s regime, and as much as people wanted him gone, the incalculable control he wielded over New York forced her citizens into playing along with his charade. But that’s all it was.
“When do we go?” asked Branford, anxious to get underway.
“A few days. We’ll need to plan, and get our hands on some quality explosives. But I haven’t told you everything. It gets better. This morning, I was . . . talking to one of Vasko’s men, and he told me that somewhere in this storehouse, his boss has a secret vault that’s loaded with cash. And I mean real cash, not the forged stuff.”
“How much?” asked a suddenly excited Branford.
“Millions.”
Branford closed his eyes and let out a sigh of relief. Then he smiled for the first time in weeks.
“Why is this good news?” asked Arjay.
Branford looked at him, incredulous. “Weren’t you just whining about our finances a minute ago?”
Arjay looked like all the air had been squeezed from his lungs. “You cannot be serious. . . .”
Nolan sighed. “Why not? How else are we supposed to fund our cause? The people have nothing to donate, and it’s not like we can take out a loan at a bank. Vasko owns all of them. This is the only way.”
Branford nodded emphatically. “Absolutely. Desperate times . . .”
Arjay took a very deep breath and tried to maintain his calm, but it was a visible struggle. “First of all, why must I always be the one to point out the uncrossable line while we’re happily trudging over it? And second . . . ‘Why not?’ Because it’s wrong! Regardless of the situation! Some rules are never meant to be broken. Nolan, you’re a Christian—or at least you claim to be! Stealing is addressed in one of the Ten Commandments, is it not?”
“I’m not saying I’m in love with this idea. . . .”
“Sure you’re not,” Arjay said.
Nolan swallowed his pride and didn’t allow himself to ask what that was supposed to mean. He already knew, just as he knew of the war raging within Arjay’s strict conscience. There was so much that Arjay wanted to say—stuff about compromise and the dangerous path it leads to, or observations about just how badly Nolan wanted to do anything that might hurt Vasko, even if only a little. Even if it was as petty as taking money out of his vault. But Arjay had said it all before, and his logical nature saw the futility in perpetuating the argument.
And whatever mutual concern Arjay and the general had shared when they agreed to stay on after Alice died had diminished somewhere along the way.
“Our options are limited,” said Nolan. “What matters above all other concerns is that we’re able to keep fighting until the battle is won.”
“It’s not the only thing that matters,” mumbled Arjay. “We are talking about blood money. Countless people have died to grant Vasko his fortune.”
“Then we’re going to make it count for something better than Vasko and his sins,” said Nolan.
Arjay stared them both down with eyebrows bunched and furious eyes.
Branford turned his heavy gaze on him. “Anytime you wanna leave . . . Door’s right there.”
“I’ve come this far, haven’t I?” replied Arjay, sending an offended look toward the general. “I’m here until the bitter end. I just hope that’s not a prophetic statement.”
67
Inside a gargantuan pitch-black warehouse that occupied a pier in Chelsea, Nolan flipped a switch on one wall, and the ceiling blazed with light. He’d seen warehouses this big before, but what it contained was staggering.
Large metal containers were stacked from the floor nearly to the ceiling in the center of the warehouse. Nolan cracked one of these open and watched as submachine guns spilled out across the cold concrete floor. At the far end of the warehouse sat pallet after pallet of rubber-banded, stacked, and sealed-in-plastic-wrap piles of counterfeit money.
Closest to the three men from where they’d entered the building were thousands and thousands of small cardboard boxes, no bigger than shoe boxes. Each one was packed with vials or baggies full of cocaine, heroin, crystal meth, and other devastating drugs.
Everything there, as far as the eye could see, belonged to Yuri Vasko.
“It’s like evil’s own Fort Knox,” whispered Arjay. “It arrests the very air from my throat.”
Nolan couldn’t agree more. Just standing inside that place felt wrong. Not because they were trespassing; because of the unbelievable quantities of illegal materials it housed.
“Why are you whispering?” teased Branford. “We’re the only ones here.”
“Was there no security system to protect all this?” Arjay asked, turning to Nolan.
Nolan shook his head. “Just a dozen or so thugs patrolling the perimeter.”
Arjay turned to face him, trying but failing to hide his alarm. “Did you kill them?”
“No!” replied Nolan. “How could you—? I locked them up in this little garage out back. Look, I know I killed the mayor, and that’s a big deal. But it was a special situation! And yes, we’re about to steal money, but don’t expect me to feel bad about that, considering who we’re taking it from. Regardless, I’m not going to just kill people!”
“I’m sorry for the accusation.” Arjay let out a long sigh and looked away. “Yet it is a troubling notion that taking lives could become an end to itself. Vasko destroyed our home. He killed Alice. It is perfectly natural to long for revenge.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Nolan, biting each word out of the air.
“We’re all fighting the urge to get even, Nolan.” Branford shrugged. “Frankly, I wouldn’t blame you for taking out a little righteous justic
e on Vasko and his goons. But I know you, and that’s not your way.”
“I am not out for revenge,” Nolan said, his voice louder than usual but not quite shouting. “We all agreed after Battery Park: Vasko has to be stopped. At any cost. We can’t take him down until we remove his infrastructure and resources, or someone else will just pick up where he left off. He’s going to burn the whole city down if someone doesn’t stop him. And since the OCI’s clearly not up to the challenge, it falls to me.”
The three of them grew silent. Did his two friends really think he hadn’t put any thought into this? Did they really believe that he was capable of blindly seeking revenge? Had they learned nothing from their time with him? He lived by higher ideals. He led by example. He showed people how to live a better life. He was a soldier, not an avenging crusader.
But he was of course human. The events of that dark day—including losing Alice—had changed him, every bit as much as his captivity had so many years ago. It didn’t matter, though. He did not have the luxury of giving in to petty desires like payback. Especially now that everyone knew who was under The Hand’s hood.
Branford looked again at the enormous room and its seemingly infinite contents. “Where do we start?”
Nolan gazed about. “Let’s split—”
“No, no,” said a new voice, calling out from somewhere in the warehouse. “It would make things so much simpler if you stayed together.”
All three men spun, but saw no one. Nolan’s body was coiled, his hand already on his retractable staff.
He knew that voice.
“Run!” he hissed, and leapt into motion.
Branford and Arjay were hot on his heels as Vasko’s booming voice was heard again.
“I’m afraid there’s nowhere to go, Nolan,” he said. His words were being amplified somehow and echoed through the warehouse. “Forty of my best men wait outside, surrounding this place. But here, with me, I have some special guests I’m just dying for you to meet.”
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