He calls me a fool, tells me I have no clue what I’m in the middle of, what I’ve involved him in. He has a family and they could all be killed because of this.
I tell him tough shit, man. Those are the rules. You go in deep and sometimes you get hurt. I’ll honor my original deal with him, not one penny more. Ten grand dropped off in his name at a night deposit box. It’s the best I can do.
I’m thinking about that big industrial building.
I’m picturing my wife there.
I’m seeing David Hartman with his filthy, greasy hands all over her. I have to save her. Cheyenne Mountain be damned.
So drop dead, hacker. This is bullshit.
SAVIOR-1 doesn’t answer for ten minutes.
Then, the IM pops up with two words.
That’s all I get.
Just two words for ten grand.
They’re worth every goddamn penny.
Resurrection Express.
12
00000-12
GARBAGE MEN
It’s the face of God, son. Don’t look.
I sit in the basement armory, my fingers moving fast again across the keys of the computer, wondering what the hell I’m doing. I’m checking every available database for information on bomb shelters and defense grids. Big projects built on American soil. Nobody knows jack. At least not anybody who wants to talk. I ask about Jayne Jenison again. Nothing this time. Complete radio silence.
You ain’t got the balls.
God is a mean motherfucker and he hates you.
The silence scares the hell out of me. They all wanted to talk the other night—the money brought them running like starving mice to a moldy cheddar lump—and now everyone’s scared to death. People don’t shut up on secure lines unless the fear of God is in them. I’m starting to think that the less I know about all this crap, the better off I’ll be when the chips come down.
But the nagging voice still haunts me—the Sarge’s voice. His eyes, when he tried to cancel Alex Bennett’s ticket. The ghost of that sick, mean bastard, filling the silent spaces, spiraling off on weird new trajectories in my head, like the voice of some terrible beast that knows all the secrets about everything . . .
You wanna see the face of God?
He wasn’t just being cute.
They’ve built something big.
It’s something called Resurrection Express.
What I’m sitting on might be the key to it. They might not be able to move without it. Turns out I’m using their own nasty plot—whatever the hell it is—as a shield. I can destroy the thing when it can’t protect me anymore, smash the discs and toss them in the lake. Let them run their dead game without their little black box. I may be playing with fire . . . but I could be holding all the cards.
If that’s true, Hartman knows what it is. Someplace underground. Where my wife went, and all those other girls went, too.
Where something very big is happening.
Which means Jenison could have been lying—Hartman could still be on their side. And their side could be right under our noses.
I do one last check on the GPS position of the iPhone. It’s still sitting in the heart of that big industrial building.
Okay, David.
This is it.
This is when I look you in the eye.
If my gamble is right.
• • •
That night, we sit in a room filled with smoke and we do the deal.
The Weasel is actually a pretty thick guy—built like a steamroller and topped by a mane of dirty dreadlocks. He has red slashes for eyes and a nose that looks like it’s been crunched back together in the field after being bashed sideways with a rifle. Marcie sits with him on a ratty couch. Every now and then, she reaches over and strokes his shoulder or tries to hold his hand, and he develops a nervous tick and kind of pushes her away. He looks at me with a thin stare the whole time we talk.
“You got two good friends of mine killed,” he says. “And now you’re sitting in my living room, asking for a favor. I oughta kick your ass outta the world.”
I almost smile when he lays that on me. Sounds like a Deep South farmer trying to talk tough. But I know better.
“Shit happens,” I tell him.
He doesn’t look impressed, either.
One other guy sits at a table near us, weighing bags of reefer from several large bricks. He looks old and badly patched up. A hippie who turned into a soldier who turned into a hippie again. He never tells me what his name is and I never ask. He is slightly more alive than the Weasel when he talks, and has a really odd lower-Bronx accent, so I decide to call him Happy. They make a hell of a sight. Toxic twins, living on bad memories, bad chemistry and scag weed. Happy starts smiling at my bad joke, his voice croaking out a grim little staccato:
“Hey, man . . . good business is where you find it.”
Franklin paces the room, which is dim and featureless and falling apart, just like the rest of the house. His cigarette is burned almost to his knuckles. “This is a high-risk situation we’re talking about. How much cash do you have, Elroy?”
“Enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I have close to a quarter million stashed here in town. And a key to a safe deposit box if we go into sudden death.”
“Sudden death.” The Weasel snorts. “Really fucking funny, kid.”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
He pulls his arm away from Marcie again. “I’m starting to wonder if you even know who the fuck you’re talking to, kid. You got any idea how much bread a guy like me pulls down just to kill somebody?”
“I’m not paying you to kill anybody.”
“You’re not paying me to do anything. Not yet.”
“Calm down,” Franklin says. “The kid’s all right. Whatever he’s involved in, it’s something major, but he damn well has the cash to pay his way. His father was Ringo Coffin.”
The color drains from the Weasel’s face. “Bullshit.”
“As I live and breathe,” Franklin says.
“That would make you Elroy Coffin,” Happy says, counterbalancing a Ziploc bag full of dope. “One of my old amigos did a job with you. Remember a guy named Bones McCoy?”
I turn my mouth sideways. “Yeah, he was the doctor on Star Trek.”
The Weasel hisses. “Notice how you’re not making any of us laugh, tough guy?”
Happy shakes his head. Smiles a little. I notice that his eyes never leave the bag of dope. I’ve already clocked these guys for exactly what they are, and this conversation is nailing it to the floor. A semi-connected bunch of semi-professional killers who are really terrible at playing poker, or maybe they just don’t care about hiding who they are. I know where I stand at least.
I rub my eyes, still foggy. “Whatever goes down, it has to go down now. There are people looking for me and I’m not even sure this house of yours is safe.”
Franklin steps over to the coffee table, where the brown suitcase I gave him two days ago sits. He pats it with one hand. “This package of yours was still right where I left it. That means we’re not that hot, at least not yet.”
“Not until they decide to tighten the dragnet again,” I tell him. “They could be just watching us, waiting for the next move.”
Happy makes some slurry noise that sounds like this: “Who the fuck are they, anyhow?”
“Whoever they are,” I tell him. “The less any of you know, the better off you’ll be. We have to move now. If you guys aren’t in, that’s fine. I’ll take my marbles and get the hell out of here.”
Franklin picks it right up. “A quarter million?”
“That’s all my marbles. You get a hundred grand.”
“That’s still a lotta dough. How do you figure we work the transaction?”
“We put my suitcase in a safe locker, and you hang on to the key. We do the job quick, then I take you to the money. You give me the key and I hand over the cash. Simple.”
“And I pro
mise not to come in your mouth, either,” the Weasel says.
“Look, take it or leave it. I’ll find help on the street if I have to.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Franklin says, then he turns to the Weasel. “He was good for it last time. This could be one hell of a windfall.”
“Yeah and a few more of us could get killed, too.” That’s Happy, throwing some more weed on the scale.
Franklin lights another smoke and stands up with his shoulders straight. “I say the kid’s righteous. I say we kick in.”
“I say you’re right,” Happy says.
The Weasel rolls his eyes at me. “Well, I guess the ‘ayes’ have it then, don’t they?”
Franklin shifts his weight on one foot, giving him a serious look. “That mean you’re in? We go all for one or not at all, you know that.”
“Yeah, I’m in. It’s a lotta money, like you said.”
I don’t waste any time. “I’ve pulled specs on the building we have to enter. Electronic security is minimal. We case the perimeter, kill the alarm systems and go in hard. The way I figure it, nobody gets killed. But no promises. We pack major firepower and do what we have to do. They could have a lot of guns inside the building. I’m not exactly sure what we’re walking into.”
And the more people you have standing in front of you, the less likely you are to get killed.
Franklin looks like he reads my mind when I think that.
Gives me a really suspicious grin.
“Okay,” he says. “Looks like you bought us. Tell them the objective.”
“We’re going after a woman named Toni Coffin. She could be anywhere inside the building. There could be hundreds of women with her. It may all be tied in with an organization or an operation called Resurrection Express. Any of you ever heard of it?”
They all shake their heads.
“Then you know as much as I do,” I say slowly, hoping they can’t sense the lie. “We go into the building hard and cover the place, room to room, until we find her.”
I pull the photo from my shirt pocket and lay it on the coffee table in front of me.
“This is her. The brunette. I know it’s not much to go on, but it’s the only photo I have.”
And I’m not even sure if that’s her, not even sure I’ll recognize my own wife when I see her. Hell, I’m not even 100 percent sure she’s in there—this whole thing is a crap shoot. But some chance is better than no chance at all.
They don’t need to know all the little details, do they?
The Weasel looks intrigued. He picks up the picture and stares at it a few seconds. “This your mother or what?”
“My wife.”
“I say no problem,” Franklin says. “We’ve got a name, a face and a location. What we need now is a down payment.”
“The five grand I gave you is the best I can do for now. We don’t have time for anything else. Get me in and out of there and you’re all rich. I’m a man of my word.”
Marcie finally pipes up. “I’m worried about this. Too many ifs. What if we get in there and they’re waiting for you? What if these people know you’re coming?”
I smile, really big.
“That’s exactly what I’m hoping for.”
• • •
I shake hands with Franklin and the Weasel spits on the floor. I open the suitcase and run my fingers along the black plastic casings of the sixteen hard drives. With any luck, the seventeenth drive still waits back at the parking garage, along with the money these guys are about to earn. They don’t need to know about that. They don’t need to know shit. We move in one hour.
Franklin closes up the suitcase. Spins the combination dials. He tells me we’ll leave it in a locker at the UPS center just down the street—airports and bus stations will be too hot. We’ll go there together and leave it there together. Then we’re official.
They get armed and dangerous. Mostly Uzis, the same guns they were using at the hotel bar. But they also pack hunting weapons—big shotguns, like the Sarge had. And a couple of HKs for extra kick. Franklin packs that huge revolver—the .357 Korth he saved my life with—but his main axe is Heckler and Koch. I tell him that I recently saw one of those blow up in someone’s hand and he just grunts and slings an Uzi on his other shoulder. You know, to be on the safe side and all.
Tough guys. Who can figure them?
The Weasel packs the plastic explosives. It’s his specialty—high-voltage killpower. There’s no going back after you’ve used it, he says. Just clears the room, man. Happy is on the team, too, and for a second I question the wisdom of giving a guy with that many missing brain cells a gun, but Franklin says he’s never seen a better shooter under fire. I don’t have any choice but to believe him.
They have a black unmarked van, an old model, I figure around 1995 or so. They call it the Ops Wagon. It’ll do.
I visit the bathroom a few minutes before we take off and I still don’t get my safe deposit box key back. Hurts bad when I try to force a movement. Feels almost like I break something in the strain. I forget about it fast, flush the toilet. Check the battery life on the cell phone in my pocket. Half bars, good enough. I pack a satchel with some important tools, last-minute stuff. Like my last thousand bucks, busted into small bills, courtesy of the Toxic Twins. I still have Alex Bennett’s Colt Python, and I stick it in there, too. Like a tribute to the lady.
Bennett.
I’m sorry for what they did to you.
If you’re still watching, I’m gonna make them bleed for it.
A whole goddamn lot.
• • •
I show the boys the layout one final time. Tell them the plot. It’s simplicity itself. We get close and look at the lay of the land—if the coast is clear, we run in like Indians and scare the hell out of the cowboys. The Weasel says it’ll be just like old times. I don’t ask him what old times he’s talking about.
I look at the computer screen and I picture Hartman one last time.
Picture his eyes.
Coming for you, scumbag.
• • •
It’s half past midnight when we get to the UPS Center. I walk through the place with Franklin. We rent one of the big lockers along the back wall of a maze. Twenty bucks for twenty-four hours. Good deal. The suitcase goes in and I put the key in Franklin’s hand.
“Okay,” he says. “We’re in business now. I turn this bad boy over when you show me a hundred large.”
I nod to him, silently.
• • •
It’s almost one in the morning when we get to Hartman’s place.
The neighborhood is a lot of warehouses and squared-off factory buildings sitting on the edge of wilderness. Right at the far edge of town, just past the last subdivision. There’s a loft apartment building down the street. Storage units in rows. No bars, no stores. The air stabs my face with cold needles. I finally notice that I’m still hung-over from last night’s party. I’m wearing clothes that are already soaked through with sweat. The inside of the Ops Wagon smells like oiled steel and unvarnished macho.
We park a block away from the industrial building with the headlights off. There’s a big chain-link fence surrounding the place, topped with razor wire. Won’t be a problem. The five of us split into teams. Me, Franklin and Happy bail from the back of the van and circle the compound, headed towards the main power array, which should be just at the rear, near the loading docks. Marcie and the Weasel go the other way, casing the perimeter. We’ll meet them inside, just as soon as I cut the juice to the alarm box.
Franklin is right behind me, his feet falling heavy, his equipment rattling on his back. None of these guys have dressed for adventure—not like those soldiers we did the last run with. Civilian clothes all around. We’re easy night targets, but the stealth approach is only going to get us so far. It doesn’t matter.
We get to the box and I pry it open with a mini-crowbar from my satchel. It’s all wires and circuit boards and fuses that look older than Frank
lin. Wow. This is going to be easier than I thought. With this kind of arcane power setup, it’s a sure bet there’s not even backup grids inside the place, which means security is a bad knock-knock joke. They won’t have laser sensors or motion detectors. Probably not even a video surveillance system, but we can’t count on them being that far back in the Dark Ages.
Still, it’s easy enough. I kill almost everything, using a pair of needle-nose pliers, and I leave the main power to the building.
Around back, the fence is wide open, waiting for us.
I tell Franklin to lead point inside the loading dock, which is also wide open, with several gray vans waiting in an area lit up by a big hanging fixture, along with a couple of guys who don’t look armed. He gets to them in a heartbeat. Takes both of them out with a silenced pistol. Two shots in the backs of their heads. It happens really fast. Whup. Whup. So much for going in without casualties. I shake my head and live with it.
Happy has my back as I move in to join Franklin, who is dragging the bodies by their ankles and shoving them under the vans. Blood gushing from their heads. They were both Mexicans wearing cheap clothes, no sidearms. He shot two unarmed men and didn’t even flinch. Can’t think about that now. I check the inside of the loading docks for security cameras. Nothing at first glance.
A thick beep sounds in the loading area and a door to the inside of the place opens. Another couple of Mexicans walk right into our guns. These guys are armed—9-mils. They surrender immediately when they see Franklin’s Uzi in their faces, putting up their hands. I yell at Franklin not to kill them and I can see that he almost squeezes the trigger before he catches my drift. Happy takes their cheesy little gangbanger guns off their hips as Franklin hustles them over against the nearest gray van and I cuff them together at the wrists, using steel bracelets that are very easy to escape from. But they don’t know that.
“English,” I hiss at the one on the left. “Comprende?”
They both nod yes, shaking like hell.
One of them sees his buddy’s feet sticking out from under the van, and turns white. “Please . . . don’t kill me . . .”
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