The King of Plagues

by Jonathan Maberry

  “Kiss my nut sac,” he said with a sneer. Even with the morphine it was a pretty good hard-guy act. But he was playing to a tough crowd.

  I continued to smile. Bunny, his bulk filling the entire back of the truck, squatted on his heels and chewed gum. Top sat on a metal equipment case just above the shooter’s head, and his face was one that I wouldn’t have wanted to look into if I was this deep in my own crap.

  “You’re going to be on suicide watch, so you won’t be sneaking out of this.” I kept my tone normal, my voice quiet and reasonable. Giving him information, not making threats. Letting him think he had bargaining room. “You’ll disappear into the system. You’ll get the very best medical care. You might even keep that hand. We’ll want you healthy because the stronger you are, the longer you’ll last in interrogation. Understand me, friend, you won’t hold out … you’ll just last longer. We will get every bit of information you have. No question about it.”

  He grinned at me with bloody teeth. “Take your best shot, asshole.”

  His accent was New Jersey. Local boy.

  “Print him,” I said, and Bunny produced a small electronic device.

  The shooter clutched his good hand into a fist.

  Bunny popped his gum. “I can take prints off severed fingers, too, genius.”

  Jersey Boy kept his fist clenched. He was playing this role to the end.

  “Take ’em from the other hand,” said Top, nodding to the swollen tips of fingers that stuck out of the layers of gauze around Jersey Boy’s torn and shattered forearm.

  Bunny left the fingers attached but he used the injured hand to take the prints. It got very loud in the TacV. Ghost broke into a stream of agitated barks, and I let him go for a while, then quieted him with a control word. He settled down, but he continued to stare at the shooter as if he was an unfinished lunch.

  Jersey Boy lapsed into a breathless, panting silence. Greasy sweat glistened on his face.

  Bunny checked each contact scan and then pressed the upload button that sent the high-res digital files to the satellite. MindReader would have them in ten seconds and we’d have a match in a couple of hours.

  “You got one chance to make the rest of this process a lot less painful,” I said. “Talk to me now. Freely, openly, without coercion. You help us and I promise you that we will reward that cooperation.”

  Jersey Boy shook his head. I had to give the guy points for balls—he had a real pair of clankers. No frigging brains at all, though, because I believe he actually thought he was going to tough it out.

  Top must have been reading my thoughts. “Boy’s too stupid to know when someone’s handing him a lifeline.”

  “That ain’t a lifeline, Tupac,” the shooter said. “You want to put me in jail for the rest of my life, go ahead. Put me in Gitmo if you want. Don’t matter a goddamn thing. My man Santoro will have me back on the street inside a month.”

  “You think so?”

  He raised his head and glared at me. “I know so. Do whatever you want. You dickwipes just stepped into a world of hurt bigger than anything you ever heard of. The Seven Kings are going to rip your world apart, Ledger. You and the rest of the DMS. You, that psychopath Church, that cunt O’Tree, these ass clowns here—all of you are already dead and you just don’t know it yet.”

  Top grunted in real surprise. “Well, well,” he said, “ain’t that interesting as shit?”

  Bunny blew a big pink bubble, popped it, and continued to chew. His poker face was still in place, but from the way the muscles at the corners of his jaw bunched and flexed I knew that he was probably as rattled as I was.

  The shooter had said the name Santoro. That was a nice name. A Spanish name. Very interesting.

  “The ‘Seven Kings,’ huh?” I said. “Why don’t you tell us all about them?”

  “Why don’t you suck my—”

  Without saying a word, Bunny reached out and grabbed Jersey Boy’s shattered wrist, gave it a light squeeze. It wouldn’t have dented a soda can, but the shooter screamed loud enough to hurt my ears.

  Outside I heard the sergeant supervisor yelling indignantly, demanding to be let in. DeeDee’s voice cut him off in mid-protest. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but it redirected his outrage from me to her.

  When Bunny released Jersey Boy’s wrist the bandages were soaked through with blood and the man’s face was gray. Without taking my eyes off him, I said, “Top, tell the blues that we’re commandeering this prisoner on the grounds of national security. Have the rest of the team follow. Bunny, you’re driving.”

  “Where we going, Boss?” Bunny asked as he clambered past me into the driver’s seat.

  “Somewhere … quiet,” I said, and gave him directions to Tamanend Park.

  “You’re digging your own grave, Ledger,” said the shooter. “We’re going to kill everyone you ever knew or loved. Your family, your friends, your neighbors, and your dog. You just signed their death warrants.”

  I rose and leaned over the prisoner and bent my face to within an inch of his. I said nothing. No words could convey the outrage, naked fury, and bottomless contempt I felt, so instead I smiled at him. It wasn’t the Cop or the Modern Man smiling. This was the blood grin of the Warrior who crouched inside my head and knew that he was about to be let out to play.

  The shooter must not have liked that smile, because after a few seconds the contemptuous grin he wore dimmed and then faded completely. And he looked very appropriately afraid.

  Interlude Forty

  Aboard the Delta of Venus

  The St. Lawrence River

  December 19, 6:17 P.M. EST

  Sebastian Gault sat on the edge of the sofa, bent forward with his elbows on his thighs, watching as Eris worked her magic on the computer. The boat rocked gently with the cross-waves of the choppy St. Lawrence River as the captain steered it away from Crown Island.

  All day she had been seeding the Net with vague comments about the wrath of the Goddess striking down the firstborn of the wicked. That sort of thing. She crafted original posts and sent them to her team, who kept the social media engines revving hour after hour. Online speculation as to who these firstborn were was spreading like wildfire. In the wake of the London bombing and what was now being called a terrorist attack in Southampton, Pennsylvania, these posts were having a measurable effect on the world market. The President had ordered Wall Street shut down for another day, but other markets around the world were staggering.

  Gault got up and strolled over to the wet bar to make drinks. “I wish there was a way you could aim your virtual hate arrows at the real world.”

  “At Joe Ledger,” she said with a laugh.

  “Yes. I want his balls nailed to my trophy wall.”

  “You’re even talking like a King now. How delightful, lovely boy.”

  Gault laughed and sat down to watch her magic turn to dark sorcery.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  The Crime Scene

  Southampton, Pennsylvania

  December 19, 6:09 P.M. EST

  I stepped outside the TacV and called Church.

  “Santoro?” He tasted the name. “Could be our Spaniard. I’ll have Bug run that. You get anything else from him?”

  “Not as much as I will get.”

  “He needs to have a pulse when he gets to the Hangar, Captain.”

  “Don’t sweat that, Boss. He’ll be alive and kicking. Can’t say he’ll be enjoying life, but that’s the breaks.”

  “Tragic. What else do you need?”

  “We have to roll, which means I’m going to lose control of this scene. If the shooters met with Santoro, then there is a chance, however small, that we can pick up some DNA or hair and fibers from their gear and vehicles. I need you to talk to someone who will in turn call Southampton PD and impress upon them the importance of not touching a goddamn thing.”

  “Not a problem. Jerry Spencer touched down at Philly International eight minutes ago. I had Fran Kirsch drive up from the Wa
rehouse with a full team and all the gear Jerry will need.”

  Fran was a forensic photographer and Jerry’s right hand. She had all of the warmth and personality he lacked. She also had a degree in psychology, which helped with profiling while collecting and analyzing the evidence.

  “Good. You get anything more out of the two survivors from Jenkintown?”

  “No. They’re both Chosen—too low-level to be of any use.”

  “Damn.”

  “I want you and Dr. Sanchez up here at the Hangar ASAP. Bring Dr. O’Tree as well.” He paused. “How is she handling this?”

  I was surprised he cared enough to ask. “She’s pretty rattled. First time she’s dropped someone. It leaves a mark.”

  “Yes,” he said, and I could hear the whisper of ghosts in his voice.

  THE PARK WAS a few miles away. We loaded Rudy and the shooter into the waiting Chinook. I detailed DeeDee and John Smith to drive Black Bess to Brooklyn. The rest of us piled into the bird. Once we were airborne I told Ghost to lie down and stay; then I checked on Rudy. Since he’d been shot, Circe seemed to have claimed the role of mother hen. She got him situated in as much comfort as the transport helicopter would allow and heaped blankets on him to prevent shock. She hooked an IV bag to a clip on the wall.

  I saw that his eyes were open and he was looking around trying to make sense of where he was.

  “Hey, Rude,” I said, squatting in front of him, “how you doing, buddy? Are you comfortable? Anything I can—”

  “Vete a la verga, pendejo,” he snarled with as much venom as morphine would allow.

  “All righty then, I can see you need your rest.” I turned to Circe. “Say, Doc, can you give him another dose of morphine?”

  “He’s already had enough.”

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  Circe gave me a withering look and tucked the blankets in under Rudy’s chin.

  I MADE MY way aft to where Khalid was watching over the prisoner.

  “Joe …”

  I turned to see Circe hurrying after me. She looked fierce and angry.

  “Doc, are you going to tell me to go fuck myself, too?”

  “Is that what he said?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “He’s never been shot before.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry that he’s joined the club.”

  “Look,” she said. “I know you’re going to interrogate the prisoner and—”

  “Doc, if you’re winding up to give me a speech about human rights and civil liberties, then save—”

  “No,” she said, cutting me off. “I just spent the last forty minutes doing patch jobs on men, women, and children. Children, Joe. Every person in that place was wounded. Eight are dead. Four will lose limbs and at least one fifteen-year-old girl is going to be a quadriplegic and—”

  “I was there, Doc. What’s your point?”

  She stepped close and looked up at me with eyes that were as black and merciless as the twin holes of a double-barreled shotgun. She jabbed the hard nail of a stiffened index finger into my chest and in a fierce voice she said, “If that son of a bitch in there knows something that might stop this from happening, then you go and fucking get it.”

  I’ve seldom heard anyone put as much venom in a single sentence. I stepped back, reassessing everything about this woman. For just a second her tone of voice and ferocity of personality reminded me of Mr. Church. No wonder he respected her. I smiled.

  “This isn’t something to smile about, Captain. I didn’t say to enjoy it. Just get it done.”

  “Hooah, Doc.”

  She held her ground for a moment, her eyes full of challenge and aggression; then she whirled and stomped back through the cabin and sat down next to Rudy. I saw her take his hand. She did not look at me again.

  After a moment I turned and went aft. Jersey Boy watched me come, and he glared a “do your worst” look at me.

  “He’s a jumped-up street punk,” murmured Khalid. “He may not know much.”

  “We’ll see.”

  As it turns out, he knew a lot. Not as much as I wanted to know, but more than we already knew. And more than he wanted to give.

  Interlude Forty-one

  New York City

  December 19, 7:26 P.M. EST

  Toys sat in the American’s office, the bottle of tequila nearly empty and resting against his crotch. He was in the big man’s chair, watching the iron gray clouds scrape their way across the winter sky and thinking some of the darkest thoughts he owned. The first time his cell phone rang he ignored it. And the second. Finally, when it began ringing for the third time in five minutes he snatched it up, expecting it to be Gault, expecting this to be the call that would end with his oldest friend telling him to sod off … but it was not Gault.

  Toys punched the button. “Hello?”

  “How’s the mouth?” asked the American.

  “Less dreadful.”

  “Any tequila left?”

  “Not much.”

  “Finish the bottle if you want. Good for whatever ails you.”

  “This is why you’ve been calling?”

  “Hardly. I wanted you to know that Mommy Dearest and her boy toy have launched phase two of the Initiative. The bodies are already dropping.”

  Toys sighed. “Guess there’s no turning back now.”

  “Nope. On the upside, Joe Ledger is still sucking air.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, the crew Santoro hired screwed the pooch. It’s on the news. The rest of the Kings aren’t going to love Gault for this. It makes us look clumsy.”

  “How’d Ledger escape? I thought Santoro was sending a whole team. Did you do something?”

  “Me? No. Ledger slipped the punch all by himself. Well, he had his crew of goons. Echo Team. And … you’ll dig this … Circe O’Tree was there. She apparently capped one of Santoro’s shooters.”

  Toys started to laugh, but it hurt his mouth. “Maybe Eris will finally have that stroke I keep hoping for,” he said.

  “Hey now … that’s my mother,” said the American, but he was laughing, too.

  Their laughter faded into a thoughtful silence. Finally, Toys said, “Isn’t there any way to stop the second phase?”

  The American grunted. “Not a chance. It’s already too late.”

  “Damn.”

  “You worry too much, kiddo, and you’re looking at the wrong end of the timetable. Who gives a flying fuck if some of the Bonesmen spawn bite it? You need to decide if you want to let Gault’s showpiece play itself out.”

  “He closed me out of that whole thing. What can I do?”

  The American was quiet for a moment. “Maybe something will occur to you,” he said at last, and then he hung up.

  Toys set the phone down on the desk. He placed it next to the other phone, the one the American had dropped. Toys leaned forward on his elbows and considered that other phone for a long time.

  Something did, in fact, occur to him.

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  In Flight

  December 19, 7:43 P.M. EST

  For most of the flight I sat alone, processing what I’d learned from the shooter—whose name was Sarducci—and seeing if any of these new pieces fit the weird puzzle that was the Seven Kings. The fact of there being so many crucial employees in secure facilities kept shouting in the darkness of my thoughts, but I couldn’t yet understand what it was trying to tell me. Abstract thinking is like that. You gather facts and then throw them into a bag with guesses and bits of the unknown, and either a picture leaps out or it doesn’t. I kept shaking the bag and reaching in for a new fistful of Scrabble pieces.

  When my phone rang I expected it to be Church, but the caller ID was blank, which was weird, because I have a DMS account. Nobody’s supposed to be an “unknown caller” to us.

  “Yeah,” I said neutrally.

  There was nothing. No … I could hear someone breathing.

  “Bad time for an obscene phone call, sport,
” I said.

  “Joe Ledger?”

  A male voice. Soft, a trace of an accent.

  “I’ll see if he’s in. Who’s calling?”

  “Don’t be clever,” he said. “We don’t have that kind of time.”

  I was sure it was a voice I hadn’t heard before. He was trying to speak with an American accent, but it was a fake. I was sure of it. I pressed the three-digit code to initiate a trace.

  “It’s your dime,” I said.

  “You’re looking for the Seven Kings.”

  Ah. “Who are you?”

  “Don’t be daft,” he said. “And don’t bother to trace this call. It’s routed through a dozen networks on five continents.”

  “Are you the person who’s been calling Mr. Church?”

  “No. But—”

  “Are you calling to screw around or—?”

  “No, I’m calling to collect my thirty pieces of silver,” he said. He sighed and I waited. “I am not going to tell you who the Kings are or where to find them. Not all of them. I am not going to reveal all of their plans or give you the intelligence necessary to bring down the entire operation. That really would be a betrayal.”

  Even with the scrambler I could hear the turmoil in his voice. It made him sound hysterical and even a little drunk. Either way, it was clear that this was someone who absolutely did not want to make this call.

  “I am, however, going to offer you a deal.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “This isn’t for me,” he said, “and I want your word.”

  “I can’t give any word unless I know what I’m swearing to.”

  He paused and he was probably chewing his nails.

  “I am going to say a name. It’s all I can give you, but you should be able to put two and two together to figure where to be to stop what the Seven Kings are really doing. You’ll save a lot of lives. You’ll be a hero.”

  “I’m not looking to be a hero, sport. If you have information that can save lives, then let me have it.”