David Morrell - Brotherhood of the Rose

by Brotherhood of the Rose(lit)

  "Please. I knew I could count on you."

  "That's what fathers are for."

  Saul put the phone back on its hook. He'd been watching the entrance to the bowling alley. He heard the rumble of another gutterball. An opposing player laughed. Beyond an open door marked Office, a bald man flicked some switches on a wall. The lights went dim. "Closing time!" the waitress said.

  Saul glanced through the glass door toward the parking lot. Arc lights gleamed. Behind them, shadows loomed. No other choice. Skin prickling, he crossed the lot.

  From the dark at the end of the deserted block, he saw his destination. A hotel. Eliot had said he'd make a reservation, but Saul hadn't guessed he was being literal. A kind of joke. Saul almost smiled.

  The only light on the street was the glowing neon sign above the dirty concrete steps leading up to the dilapidated wooden structure.

  AYFARE HOTEL Saul decided the burnt-out letter on the sign was either an m or a w. Mayfare. Wayfare. It didn't matter which. The important thing was one of the letters was missing, a signal to him that all was ready, the place secure. If every letter had been working, he'd have been warned to stay away.

  He scanned the neighborhood. Seeing no one, he started down the street. The district was a slum. Broken windows ' Garbage. The tenements looked deserted., Perfect. Alone, at three o'clock in the morning, he wouldn't draw attention here. No police cars would bother patrolling this district, stopping to ask where he was going and why he was out so late. The local residents would mind their own business.

  His footsteps echoed. Unwilling to risk getting trapped in a taxi, he'd been walking for several hours, his legs stiff, shoulders aching. He'd backtracked, often going around a block, to check if he was being followed. He hadn't seen a tail. That didn't mean there wasn't one.

  But soon it wouldn't matter. He was almost home. The neon sign grew larger as he neared it. Though the night was cool, sweat trickled down his chest beneath his turtleneck sweater and the bulletproof vest he always wore for a few days after a job. His hands felt numb. He subdued the urge to hurry.

  Again, he glanced behind him. No one. He approached the hotel from the opposite side of the street, tempted to go around the block, to scout the neighborhood, to reassure himself everything was as it should be. But since no opponent could have known he was coming here, he didn't see the need for further evasive tactics. All he wanted was to rest, to clear his mind, to learn why he was being hunted.

  Eliot would care for him. He stepped from the curb to cross the street. The dingy hotel, its windows darkened, waited for him. Past the door, a rescue team would have, food and drink and comfort ready. They'd protect him.

  Though his heart raced, he walked steadily, seeing the warped cracks on the wooden door.

  But he felt uneasy. Procedure. Eliot had always said, no matter what, don't violate procedure. It's the only thing that guarantees survival. Always circle your objective. Check the territory. Make extra sure.

  Obeying the impulse, he pivoted, shifting abruptly toward the sidewalk he'd just left. If in spite of his caution he'd been followed, this final unexpected change in direction might confuse a tail and make him show himself.

  The blow jerked him sideways, its impact stunning, unanticipated, high on his left side near his heart against his bulletproof vest. He didn't know what had happened. Then he realized. He'd been shot. A silencer. He gasped, the wind knocked out of him.

  His vision blurred. He fell to the street, absorbing the jolt as he rolled to the gutter. The bullet had come from above him, from a building opposite the hotel. But the vest should have stopped it. Why was he bleeding?

  Confused, he groped to his feet, bent over, stumbling across the littered sidewalk. His chest felt on fire. He lurched down an alley, pressing himself against its wall, peering through the dark. Shadowy objects hulked before him. At the far end, he saw another street.

  But he couldn't go down there. If he'd been followed, it wouldn't have been by just one man. There'd be backup other members of the death team watching the nearby streets. When he came to the end of the alley, he'd be shot again, maybe in the head or the throat. He'd trapped himself.

  He staggered past a fire escape and the stench of overflowing garbage cans. Behind him, silhouetted by the hotel's neon sign, a man approached the alley, his footsteps echoing in the eerie quiet - The man walked with his knees bent, stooped, aiming a small automatic with the tube of a silencer projecting from its barrel.

  The Mossad, Saul thought again. The characteristic, flatfooted, seemingly awkward crouch that insured an assassin could keep his balance, even if wounded. He himself had been trained to maintain that posture.

  The assassin entered the alley, pressing himself against the dark of the wall, inching forward, blending with the night.

  He's being careful, Saul thought. He doesn't know I left my handgun behind. He'll come slowly.

  Whirling, Saul stared toward the other end of the alley. A second figure entered. No way out.

  But there had to be. The fire escape? No good-as he struggled up, he'd attract their fire. He sensed them pressing closer.

  The door beneath the fire escape? He lunged, twisting the knob, but it was locked. Using an elbow, he smashed a window next to the door, knowing the crash would alert his hunters, rushing, feeling the glass lance through his jacket. Blood soaked his arms. His shoes scraped as he thrust himself through the window, wincing from pressure on his chest, tilting, falling.

  He struck a floor. Darkness surrounded him. Soon, he thought. The men in the hotel. They'll charge out to help me.

  Stay alive till they get here.

  He scrambled forward, bumping against an unseen banister, jarring his chest. Sweat slicked his face. Feeling around, he touched two stairways, one up, one down. Stifling a groan, he staggered up. The hall stank from urine. He sprawled on a landing, squirmed ahead, and cracked his skull against the spoked wheels of a baby carriage.

  He touched its greasy side. As blood dripped off his arms, he shoved the carriage toward the top of the stairs. The wheels creaked. He froze. Don't make a sound. Outside the window, a shadow crept near.

  He sensed what his hunter felt. The only entrance to this building was the broken window. But the window might be a trap.

  The shadow paused. But Saul had been shot. He was on the run. The shadow might feel confident.

  He did. With amazing speed, the shadow dove through the window, thudding on the floor, rolling quickly, stopping in the dark.

  The assassin would find the two sets of stairs. But up or down?

  Which way had Saul gone? The rule was up. The high ground was easier to defend.

  The problem was, had Saul remained consistent, obeying the rule, or had he gone to the basement, hoping to fool his enemy? A mental toss of a coin.

  The tenement was silent. All at once, the gunman charged the stairs. Pushing the baby carriage, Saul struck him in the face, hearing the carriage clatter as the gunman toppled. Lunging down, Saul kicked, feeling the jaw give way. He heard a moan and grabbed the gunman's sweater. Jerking it down with one hand, he rammed his other arm up toward the throat. The larynx snapped. The gunman fell, convulsing, suffocating. His pistol thumped.

  Saul bent in pain to find it. The feel was familiar, palmsized, He'd used the weapon often-a Beretta, this one equipped with a barrel long enough to accommodate a silencer. A customized.22, so precisely remachined that what it lacked in power it gained in accuracy. The handgun preferred by the Mossad-another of their calling cards.

  He peered through the shattered window. Down the alley, the second gunman stalked through the shadows. Saul squeezed the trigger, jerking from repeated spits, continuing to shoot as the gunman fell and heaved. He leaned against the wall, trying to keep his balance. There'd be other hunters. He had to assume it. His survival depended on assumptions. Get away. He hurried up the stairs.

  A baby cried in an apartment. He reached the top of the stairs, pushed a metal door, and came out crouc
hing on the roof, his pistol aimed at air 'vents, clotheslines, pipes, TV aerials. No one. Move. He crept through shadows, biting his lip from pain as he eased to a lower level. Stars glinted coldly.

  Abruptly he faced the edge. The next building was too far away for him to reach with a jump. Glancing around, he saw a rectangular structure projecting from the roof, opened its door, and stared toward the black of a stairwell. Dear God, the pain!

  One floor, then another, then another. At last on the bottom, he peered toward an exit. Someone might be waiting, but he had to take the risk. The street was dark. He eased out. Holding his breath, he reached the sidewalk. No shots. No figures lunging at him.

  He'd made it. But where could he go? He didn't know how badly he was hurt. He couldn't show himself much longer or they'd find him.

  He thought of the hotel. The gunmen had intercepted him, trying to stop him from reaching it. He didn't understand why help wasn't here. The gunmen had used silencers. Maybe the rescue team didn't know he'd been shot.

  But he'd been hit on the street outside the hotel. Surely the rescue team had been watching. Why had they failed to rush out, to help him?

  Because they didn't know where he'd gone. They didn't want to jeopardize the integrity of the hotel. They were keeping their position in hope that he'd reach them. Get there.

  He saw a rusty Plymouth Duster parked at the curb, its -battered shape the only car on the shadowy block. If it wasn't locked. If it would start.

  if. He pulled the door. It opened. The keys weren't in the ignition switch. Chest aching, he bent down, fumbling beneath the dash, finding what he needed. He joined two wires. The Duster started.

  Clutching the wheel, he stomped the accelerator. The Duster roared from the curb. He screeched around a corner. Buildings blurred. The street seemed to shrink as he squealed around another corner.

  Ahead, he saw the hotel and veered toward the curb. In the light from the neon sign, his hunters couldn't use a nightscope. Its lens would magnify the light so much a gunman would be blinded.

  He jerked from the impact as the Duster hit the curb and shuddered across the sidewalk. Skidding to a stop before the grimy concrete steps, he shouldered open his door. The car was positioned so it gave him cover. He charged up the steps, hitting the entrance, slamming through. At once hedropped to the floor and spun to aim his handgun toward the street.

  He'd reached the hotel. He was safe.

  the silence stunned him. The rescue team? Where were they?

  Peering behind him, he saw only darkness. "Romulus!" he shouted, heard an echo, but received no answer.

  He crawled around, smelling dust and mildew. Where the hell-? The place was empty. Confused, he searched the murky lobby. No one. He checked the office and the rooms along the hall, darting glances toward the entrance, straining to listen for anyone coming.

  Completely deserted. Nothing had been prepared for his arrival. Not a secure location. Christ, this hotel had been the bait to lure him into a trap! They'd never expected him to get inside!

  He understood now that the men who'd waited here had indeed come out. But not to rescue him. Instead to track him down and kill him. They were out there searching for him. And the car outside would tell them where he was.

  He ran toward the door. Hurrying down the steps, he saw a gunman appear at the corner, aiming a short-barreled submachine gun, unmistakably an Uzi.

  Saul shot as he ran, seeing the gunman grab his arm and jerk behind the corner.

  He hadn't bothered to waste time reaching for the wires beneath the dash to turn off the Duster's engine. The driver's door hung open. He yanked the gearshift. Squealing, the car jolted off the sidewalk, fishtailing, roaring down the street. A volley of bullets shattered the rear windshield. Glass exploded over him. Slumping, he steered, trying to hide himself.

  On the corner ahead, another gunman stepped out. Saul swung the steering wheel in his direction, pressing the accelerator, racing toward him. Thirty feet, twenty. The gunman aimed a pistol. Ten feet. Suddenly the gunman broke his stance, diving in panic toward a doorway.

  Saul veered, avoiding a fire hydrant, speeding past the gunman, screeching down a side street. A cluster of bullets whacked the Duster.

  He skidded through an intersection, listing, racing down another side street. Checking his rearview mirror, glancing ahead, he saw no other gunmen.

  He was safe. But blood streamed down his chest where he'd been shot, and from his elbows where he'd cut himself breaking the window. Safe. But for how long?

  Despite his urgency, he eased his foot off the accelerator. Don't run traffic lights. Obey the speed limit. Bleeding, in a stolen car with a shattered rear window and bullet holes in the body, he didn't dare get stopped by the police. He had to ditch this car.

  And do it fast.

  He drove past a truck stop, squinting at the bright lights of a gas station and a restaurant. Two pickup trucks, three semis. Heading a quarter mile farther, he turned toward a trailer court. Four-thirty. No lights were on in the trailers. He parked between two cars on a strip of gravel, shut his headlights off, and disconnected the ignition wires beneath the dash.

  Pain made him wince. After glancing around to make sure he hadn't attracted attention, he wiped the clammy sweat from his brow. Straining to take off his jacket, he lifted his turtleneck sweater, touched the Velcro straps on his bulletproof vest, and tugged them, pulling the vest off.

  Eliot had always insisted, never violate procedure. After a job, take precautions. Wear your vest. In case of complications from the job. Established methods keep you alive.

  The vest was somewhat bulky. A quarter-inch thick, weighing a pound and a half, it was made from seven layers of Kevlar, a synthetic nylonlike fiber five times stronger than steel. But Saul was big-boned, rugged, and the extra girth made him seem merely overweight. At the casino, though he hadn't risked carrying a gun, he'd felt confident the vest would be unobtrusive. Once again, a habit had saved his life.

  But the bullet should only have stunned him. It shouldn't have gone through the vest. It shouldn't have wounded him. Frowning, he fingered the blood on his chest, probing for the bullet hole. Instead he touched the bullet itself, embedded a quarter-inch into his chest, sticking out between two ribs, its impact slowed by the vest.

  He gritted his teeth and pulled it free, exhaling, stifling the urge to vomit. For a moment in the dark, the car seemed to swirl. Then the spinning stopped, and he swallowed bile.

  He wiped the bullet, troubled. Nothing made sense. It shouldn't have gone through the vest. The bullet was slim and pointed, but its tip should have been blunted by its impact against the vest.

  He took a chance and opened the car door, using the interior light to study the bullet, more troubled by what he saw.

  The bullet was green. Teflon streamlined its shape, making it capable of piercing the vest. A special item favored by elite intelligence networks. Including the Mossad.

  He studied the silencer on the Beretta. Possession of one was as illegal as having a machine gun or a rocket launcher. Rather than risk getting caught with one or trying to buy one on the black market, operatives assembled their own, using parts easy to obtain and innocent-looking if distributed in a toolkit. In this case, the gunman had bought a plastic tube, wide enough to fit over the Beretta's muzzle. The tube had been filled with an alternating series of metal and glass-wool washers, the holes in the washers wide enough to allow for the passage of a bullet. The tube had a hole in the end, small enough to prevent the washers from falling out, large enough to let the bullet escape. Three holes had been drilled a quarterinch down from the tube's open mouth. Set screws through these holes braced the silencer over the pistol's barrel. Quickly assembled, it was effective for seven shots before the glass wool lost its muffling power. It c&couldd then be swiftly taken apart, its components thrown away with no sign of what they'd been used for. Simple. The method preferred by the Mossad.

  What the hell was going on? How had his opponents k
nown he was going to that hotel? He himself had known only a few hours before. It wasn't a question of his having been followed. The assassins had anticipated his movements. They'd been waiting for him.

  Eliot had made the arrangements. Eliot must have done something wrong. Perhaps he'd used an unsecured phone.

  But Eliot didn't make mistakes. Then Eliot must have been followed, his conversations picked up by a directional microphone.

  But Eliot knew better. He always carried a jamming device that interfered with microphones.

  Maybe one of Eliot's men was a double agent. But for whom'? The Mossad?

  Saul shut the door. The light went off. He used a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his chest. In the night, he felt tired and cold.

  He didn't like coincidences. Eliot had sent him to Atlantic City, a location that seemed unusual, where a member of the disbanded team had tried to... Saul began to shiver. Eliot had also sent him to the abandoned hotel, where again Saul had almost been killed.