Hardbingers

5

Miller brought up the rear as the group approached the Home door—check that: former Home.

He wasn't looking forward to seeing the remains of his fallen brothers again, especially with their hearts missing, but even without the Heir's note they'd have been stopping here—the team needed a break from the road before they began hunting up cars to steal.

They'd made good time on 95, and during the long trip they'd batted around various ways to get this done.

The timing was clear: halfway through the late shift—say, two or three a.m.—when patients were quiet and staff was minimal.

The big question was how. Miller had decided on a direct approach and, since nobody could come up with anything better, that was the way it would go down. He'd pose as a family member and learn the location of the trauma unit. When he was allowed in for a visit he'd use his silenced H-K and put one cyanide-tipped nine into each. Then he'd run like mad.

He'd be on his own getting out of the hospital, but after that—what?

They kept coming back to their tried-and-true escape sequence—same as they'd used after the hit on the woman and the kid. Gold would have a car idling outside the ER. Miller would jump in, Hursey and Jolliff would run interference in their wake. A few minutes later they'd all be back in the Suburban and on their way to Hyannis.

Miller took a deep breath and let it puff his cheeks as it escaped. The getting-out part would be dicey. He could count on up to a minute of shock and confusion before the staff would realize what had happened. Their first concern would be their patients and they'd start resuscitation before doing anything else. But someone would eventually make a call, and then security would be mobilized.

Nobody had promised him an easy time in the MV. The risks came with the territory.

"Hey," said Gold. He stood in the doorway with his keys in his hand. "Didn't we lock this before we left?"

Miller's pistol seemed to jump into his hands with a life of its own. Nerve ends jangling with alarm, he pushed to the front of the group.

"Damn right we did."

The fucker had been here and stolen the hearts. Miller wanted to scream.

Gold gripped the knob and jiggled the door without opening it. Even in the poor light Miller could see that it wasn't latched. Whoever had killed Zeklos had no doubt stolen his keys.

Big question: Was he waiting inside?

Jolliff was on his wavelength. "Think he's in there?"

Miller thought not.

He said, "If you had an ambush set up inside, would you leave the door open?"

Jolliff shook his head. "No way. Fd've relocked it. That way we'd walk in thinking the place was as empty as we'd left it. We'd be sitting ducks."

"Okay, but why leave it unlocked? It's like a neon sign saying someone was here."

"Because that's just what it is. He wants us to know he was here. He's thumbing his nose at us, just like he did with that note on Zeklos. He's taken the hearts."

"Bastard," Gold said.

Miller's sentiments exactly. Still… nose thumbing or not, in a case like this it never hurt to be too careful.

"Okay. We need someone to go in low and slow and find the light switches. We'll stack up here; soon as the lights go on we'll ease in and secure the first floor. Anybody want to volunteer?"

"I'll go," Gold said. "Haven't seen any action in a while."

Miller took one side of the door, Hursey and Jolliff the other. Gold eased it open and entered in a crouch. Miller tensed to respond at the first hint of trouble, but none came.

Light flared from within, then he heard Gold say, "So far so good. Except for the bunk area, this level looks clear."

Miller entered in a crouch, pistol held before him in a two-handed grip. He found Gold squatting by the monitoring console.

Gold said, "I'll check the bunk area. Cover me."

They did just that as he zigzagged toward the open doorway. He reached inside and the lights came on. After a quick peek he entered, then came out a minute later.

"Nobody home," he said. His breath steamed in the cold air.

Miller relaxed, but not completely. He lowered his pistol but did not holster it. He couldn't see anything wrong, but some extra sense was on high alert.

He walked over to the far wall where they'd left the fallen brothers. He pulled the sheet off the closest. The heart was where they'd left it. No signs of further desecration, no notes.

The good news—if any good news about this scene could be called good—was that the cold appeared to have stalled decomposition.

Then why that note about a "collection"?

Miller did a slow turn. The other three, pistols in hand, had spread out, checking the nooks and crannies. The place looked exactly as they'd left it. What had the intruder wanted here?

Maybe they'd find something on the upper floors.

"Look for a note," he said.

The others nodded and split up.

Seconds later Hursey said, "Found something!"

He stood by one of the outer walls of the bunk area, just to the right of the doorway. He pointed to the floor.

"I'm pretty sure that wasn't there before."

Miller squatted for a better look. Two words… hand printed in red at the base of the wall.

"You're right. It wasn't." At least he was pretty sure it wasn't.

"What the hell's it mean?"

Miller shook his head. "Damned if I know."

"Here's another one," Gold said, pointing to the floor to the left of the door. "Same thing. I don't get it. What—?"

"Hey!" Jolliff called from the far side of the room. He stood by the stairs, his head cocked toward the stairwell. "I hear something."

Miller joined the migration to the doorway. The four of them clustered, listening.

Miller heard nothing at first, then…

A voice.

Jack held the transmitter in his left hand, the mike in his right as he crossed the street and approached the warehouse door.

"Yeniceri," he said. "Calling all yenic,eri. I know you're here. Come out, come out wherever you are. Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you. I'm even less dangerous than unsuspecting women and children."

He'd intended to repeat the taunt immediately, but choked on the rage and grief evoked by those final words.

He swallowed hard and kept moving. When he reached the door he was able to start again.

"Yeniceri. Calling all…"

Miller strained to make out the words. The voice, blurred by distance, distorted by static, had a tinny quality. That told him that it was either a recording or a transmission.

He nodded. Knew it. The guy couldn't resist leaving a pee stain on yenigeri turf. What was it this time? The electronic equivalent of a note?

Gold turned toward him.

"Well, I don't see any way around it. We'll have to go up and find out what's going on."

"Yeah," Miller said. "But not all of us." No way he was going to leave their rear flank exposed. "Gold, you came in first, so you stay down here and take our backs. Watch the door. I don't want any surprises."

Gold nodded, but didn't look happy about it.

Miller hit the light switch as he put his foot on the first step. The stairwell lit up. Nothing unusual there.

He motioned Hursey and Jolliff to follow, then started up. No hurry. They had plenty of time. The door on the first landing stood open. He kept his pistol trained on the dark rectangle.

The voice became louder as he ascended but no more distinct. No question—coming from the third floor. But he wasn't going there. Not yet. Level two had to be cleared first.

He stopped on the landing and reached around the door frame. He found the light switch and flipped it. As the ceiling fluorescents in the O's office flickered to life, he peeked into the space. The desk and the furniture were as they'd left them. The stains on the splattered walls were the same—no messages written in blood there.

He motioned to Jolliff to stay where he was and for Hursey to follow as he moved in.

A quick check confirmed the empty feel of the office. The only hiding place was the desk's kneehole, and that proved empty.

"Jolliff," he said. "Get in here and watch the door while we check out the living quarters."

A search of the O's apartment—the closets, the pantry, even under the beds—yielded nothing.

"One more stop," Miller said as he led the way back to the stairwell.

"… Calling all yeniceri. I know you're here…"

Jack stood in the cold, repeating his mantra over and over.

What was taking them so long? They should have reached the third floor by now. The only reason for the delay he could think of was a stop on the second floor to check that out.

Good move.

Now—up to the third floor to get this circus going.

As they went up the steps, Jolliff's view was pretty much restricted to Miller's big butt. He leaned around and noticed that the door to the third level stood open as well. But unlike the second, the lights here were already on.

As he followed Miller's slow ascent, the voice grew louder with every step. But he still couldn't make out what it was saying.

At the top he and Hursey squeezed up beside Miller, pistols at ready.

A quick peek showed the level as they'd left it except for one detail: The black, elongated oval of a boom box sat on a table against the front wall. It was plugged into the wall socket and attached to an FM antenna taped to the bricks behind it. It had a CD and cassette player; the radio dial glowed.

Here was the source of the voice, but accompanied by too much static to be understood.

"Be careful," Miller said. "Could be just a distraction. Spread out and secure the space."

The third level offered fewer hiding places than the first and Jolliff figured the other two could complete their sweep in less than a minute without him. As Miller and Hursey moved away, he stepped up to the box. Not understanding the words was making him crazy. After all, he'd been the first to hear it. That made it his discovery.

He bent close. The voice seemed to be repeating something over and over. Closer. One of the words sounded familiar.

He bolted upright when he recognized it.

He called out, "It's coming over the radio. I'd swear I just heard it say 'yeniceri.'"

He looked around at the others. Miller and Hursey had stopped and turned to stare.

He leaned forward again and reached for one of the knobs.

"Maybe if I tune it in better…"

Jolliff heard Miller say, "Wait."

But why wait? He wanted to hear what the voice was saying.

As he gripped the knob to adjust it, a small corner of his brain let out a silent shout of warning. But he ignored it.

Miller again: "Jolliff, maybe you shouldn't—"

Then the boom box exploded.

Leaning against the outer wall, Jack felt the blast more than heard it. Little chunks of mortar rained from the bricked-up windows on the third floor, but all the bricks remained where they were. He'd planted a small charge—deadly at close range but not overly destructive. He didn't want officialdom here just yet.

He dropped the microphone and reached for the brand-new set of keys he'd had made this afternoon.

Earlier in the day he'd picked open the three locks and then removed them. After taking them to a locksmith to be rekeyed, he'd replaced them but left the door unlocked. Wouldn't do to let Miller and company learn too early that their keys were no good.

Sure now that no one would hear him, Jack inserted each new key and turned it, triple-locking the door. Then he left the keys in place and waited.

Would have loved to trot back to the warmth of his car and keep track of events on his computer, but he had one more thing to do here. He raised his fist and swung it toward the door.

The sound of the blast paralyzed Gold for a few unbelieving seconds.

An explosion? Here? At Home?

Had someone booby-trapped the third floor? He couldn't wrap his mind around it.

Finally he reconnected to his limbs and got his body moving toward the stairwell. He stopped at the bottom step and cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Miller! Hursey! Jolliff! What happened?"

No answer. No sound. Not even a groan. Just fine plaster dust drifting from the upper level.

He pulled his pistol. He'd have to go up.

But as he put his foot on the first step, someone began pounding on the front door.

He froze. Who the hell—?

He looked up the stairwell, then at the door. Maybe the bricked-up windows had blown out and this was a cop, or a fireman, or a neighbor.

Shit!

Couldn't let anyone in—not with eight corpses lined up against the wall here and maybe three more upstairs. The fact that they were knocking instead of entering was a good sign. He'd left it unlocked and they could have walked right in.

Another look up the stairs. He heard voices now—loud, echoing down the stairwell. Whatever had happened up there, they were still alive.

But he couldn't go up just yet—whoever was out there eventually would try the knob and then the MV would be in even bigger trouble—if that was possible. He had to see who it was, and the best way to do that was a peek through the camera over the door.

He ran back to the monitoring station. They'd shut it down before leaving.

As he hit the ON switch he had a premonition—an instant before the explosion—that he'd made a terrible mistake.

The blast slammed against the inner surface of the steel door like a giant fist. Jack had placed himself to the side as he'd pounded on it—just in case it blew. But it held. So did the bricked-up windows—sort of. He saw bricks bulge in the frame of the nearest, but only one fell out. He hurried over, grabbed it, and forced it back into its slot. It would go only partway in, so he left it like that.

He stepped to the curb and looked up and down the street. Only a couple of pedestrians out in this cold, and they seemed oblivious to the muffled booms from within the warehouse. No one in the park. The passing cars were clueless.

All praise nonresidential neighborhoods.

He headed back to the car to watch.

Miller pushed himself up from prone to his knees. He shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears. For a few dazed heartbeats he wondered where he was and what had happened. The air was smoky, and what was that smell? Almost like burning…

Then he remembered.

Jolliff!

He turned as he struggled to his feet. Movement to his left: Hursey rolling over and groaning. Something—someone—sprawled in the middle of the floor, burning. Miller stepped closer for a better look. Bile rose in his throat. If he hadn't known it had to be Jolliff, he never would have recognized him.

The man lay spread-eagle in a pool of blood. His face was gone. Crisped. Blown off. No skin, no eyes, no hair, his broken jaw twisted at an angle. The blast had ripped open his throat as well. Blood still oozed from the torn arteries within. His jacket was on fire.

Miller took off his own jacket and beat out the flames, then stepped back and watched for movement in the chest. He couldn't see how anyone could look like that and still live, but you never knew.

But no movement: not a twitch, not a breath.

Beyond Jolliff's remains he saw Hursey stagger to his feet and wag his head like a dog trying to shake off a fly. He gave Miller a dazed look, then his gaze dropped to Jolliff. He paled and moved his lips.

At first Miller thought Hursey had lost his voice, then realized it was his hearing. He couldn't make out a word over the whine in his ears. He stepped closer.

"What'd you say?"

No problem hearing his own voice, though he sounded like he was under water.

Hursey's surprised look said he'd just realized that his hearing was on the fritz as well. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. "Don't tell me that's…"

Miller nodded.

Without speaking they both skirted the body and approached the spot where the boom box had been. The table still stood, though its top was scorched. Tiny bits of black plastic lay scattered everywhere.

Hursey leaned close to his ear. "Jesus!"

Miller was studying the wall behind the table. It looked unscathed—not even scorched. That meant only one thing.

He turned to Hursey and pointed to the wall. "Shaped charge."

Hursey stared a few seconds, then said something. Miller didn't have to hear him—he could read his lips.

"The fuck!"

Right. The fuck. But a smart fuck.

A shaped charge—the basis of armor-piercing rockets and antitank grenades—focused the energy of the explosion. It allowed a lot of bang from a small amount of plastique. The guy hadn't wanted to blow out the walls, so he'd used an inverted cone-shaped charge to do most of its dirty work directly in front with the least amount of collateral damage.

Miller wanted to kick himself for being such a jerk. He'd let this guy play them like hooked fish. He'd counted on one of them adjusting the knob to fine-tune the reception.

He grabbed the table, lifted it, and hurled it across the room.

As the table landed, the building shook with a muffled boom. Miller stared at it a few seconds before realizing the boom had come from below.

The sound of Gold buying it?

"Fuck!"

He pointed to the doorway, motioned Hursey to follow, then started for the stairwell. He wasn't going to rush. No telling what else was rigged. He faintly heard Hursey's footsteps through the hum in his head and realized his ears were recovering.

"Damn!"

First thing Jack had done upon returning to his car was to check the third-level view. It looked empty except for an unidentifiable body in the center of the floor. He could tell from its size that it wasn't Miller, but nothing more.

But on the second floor—trouble. The explosion above must have jostled the camera out of position. It still worked but instead of its fish-eye lens taking in the O's office and the stair door, it had angled so that he saw only the O's desk.

His first-floor view was still okay and now showed Miller and Hursey, pistols held before them, warily entering from the stairwell. They approached the remnants of the monitoring console and the smoking remains of whoever had activated it. Jack figured that was the newcomer he hadn't recognized.

He watched Miller and Hursey approach the body.

Scared, Miller? Terrified? Hope so. But don't think you've seen it all. Still a few surprises left.

He pulled out two cell phones—one labeled LEFT and the other RIGHT—and accessed a preprogrammed number on each. With his fingers poised over the SEND buttons, he watched and waited.

Hursey had to pee something fierce. He was ready to wet his pants, but bit his upper lip and held it back.

Don't let me end up like Gold and Jolliff… please-please-please.

Jolliff… gone. He couldn't believe it. They'd been buds since boot camp. But missing him would have to wait till later. Right now priority number one was getting his ass out of here in one piece.

He followed Miller to Gold's body. Not much left of him, just an unidentifiable, human-shaped mass of bloody, steaming, burnt flesh.

Miller said something about another shaped charge, but Hursey couldn't follow him. He hadn't seen Jolliff this close up. Now, looking at Gold, not only did his bladder become more insistent, but he wanted to hurl as well.

This was a dream… a bad dream… and he'd wake from it soon.

"We're getting out of here."

Miller's voice again—faint, but the words recognizable.

Hursey could only nod. He looked at Miller and saw that he was pale and sweaty, even in this cold. Miller… scared… confused. Never thought he'd see the day.

The big guy pointed to the front door and said, "Ease over there and don't touch anything—I mean anything—along the way."

Hursey didn't have to be told twice. He was closer so he led the way. He started tiptoeing and stopped himself. That wasn't going to do any damn good.

Finally, the door. He hesitated before grabbing the knob, afraid for a second that it might be booby-trapped like the others. But no… they'd come in through it, right?

Still… his heart was banging away a thousand miles an hour as he closed his fingers around the knob… and very slowly turned… and oh so gently pulled—

It didn't move. He pushed and shoved but it wouldn't budge.

"It's locked!"

Miller pushed him aside and tried it himself with equal success. He cursed and pulled out a set of keys.

"Gold must have locked it."

Yeah. Poor Gold. Locked the door to stay safe, never knowing the real danger was right in front of him.

Hursey watched Miller shove a key into the top lock and twist. It wouldn't turn. Miller shot him a concerned look and tried again with another key. Same result. He noticed Miller's hand trembling as he wiggled the third and last key into the lock.

No luck.

Miller turned to him, his face white. "He changed the locks."

"No way." Hursey took a closer look at their scratched surfaces. "Those are the same locks. I swear it!"

"Try your keys."

He dropped them as he fumbled them from his pocket. He tried them all in all three locks.

"I don't get it."

Miller's expression was grim. "They've been rekeyed."

Hursey reached for his cell phone. "I'm calling for help."

Miller grabbed his arm. "Yeah? Who? The cops? The fire department?"

Hursey saw what he meant.

"How about the MV? A couple of them could come down here and—"

"And nothing. They couldn't get here till tomorrow afternoon. You want to sit in this mousetrap till then?"

"Then what do we do?" Hursey hated the queer quaver in his voice, but he couldn't help it. "How do we get outta here? Even if we had a crowbar—and we don't—we couldn't get through that door."

"Don't need one. We unscrew the locks and take them out—just like he did."

Hursey studied the locks' faces and saw each was fastened to the door by two Phillips-head screws. So simple. Why hadn't he noticed? But then he remembered—

"I hope you've got a screwdriver on you, because we moved all the tool boxes out."

Miller glared at him. Why? For wet-blanketing his idea?

"No. No screwdriver. But I've got this."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife. He opened it and went to work with the four-inch blade. In less than a minute it became clear that a knife—at least this one—wasn't the answer: the point couldn't get enough traction in the screw's cross-hair grooves to turn it.

Miller slammed his fist against the door.

"The son of a bitch must have used a power screwdriver." He folded his knife and looked around. "Okay, start looking for something, anything that'll loosen those screws. But don't—repeat: don't—go pulling open any doors or drawers."

"Then how are we going to—?"

"Just find what you can without getting yourself killed. Check the second floor. I'll take the third."

Hursey made his way upstairs, looking for trip wires across the steps. They'd already tramped up and down this route, so he doubted he'd find one, but he wasn't taking any chances.

He searched through the O's office and then the living quarters. The dresser drawers were all closed and he wasn't about to try them, but the closets were open—and empty but for a bunch of coat hangers.

When he returned to the first level, Miller was already there, scouring the area around the ruined console. Hursey wandered into the bunk area. The beds were stripped, just as they'd left them, and the lockers were open and emp—

He stopped and stared. All open except one.

He took a step closer. The door wasn't completely closed. Something jutting from the bottom was holding it open. When he saw what it was he took a quick step back.

"Miller! Want to take a look at this?"

When he entered Hursey gestured to the closed locker door.

Miller shook his head and almost smiled. "Now that's insulting. He must think we're idiots."

"Maybe, but look what's sticking out the bottom."

Miller looked, squinted, and said, "The bastard."

Together they approached the locker. Miller squatted and stared at the business end of the protruding Phillips-head screwdriver.

"This is like being in a fucking video game." He looked up at Hursey. "I used to be a pretty good RPGer. Let's see if we can find some string or twine, or anything we can use to open this from a safe distance."

"We've already been through the place. You see any string? I didn't. I—" He remembered that closet. "Wait a minute. There's a bunch of wire coat hangers upstairs. If we hook them together…"

Miller nodded. "Worth a try. Good thinking. Go get them."

Hursey hurried upstairs. He couldn't help smiling. They'd beat this sucker yet. And Miller had paid him a compliment. Must be the stress. Miller never complimented anybody.

He fairly ran to the closet, grabbed the hangers—had to be twenty or so—and rushed back to the first floor. They devised a quick and easy method. If they pulled down on the middle of the horizontal section, they could stretch the triangle of the hanger into a narrow diamond shape with a hook on one end.

They had nineteen. At a foot and a half or so apiece, hooked end to end in a daisy chain, the hangers gave them a thirty-foot head start.

To keep the locker door from opening prematurely they gingerly rested the back of a chair against it. Then they looped the hook of the last hanger into the handle and retreated to the chain's opposite end.

Miller shook his head. "Not as long as I'd like."

Hursey had been thinking the same thing. The best place to be was behind what was left of the monitoring console. Not a great place, but pretty much the only game in town. Problem was, it was still ten feet away.

"Well," Miller said through a sigh. "Gotta do what you've gotta do. When I pull, run like hell."

And then, with no further warning, not even a countdown, he yanked the goddamn chain.

Hursey saw the chair start to topple as the door swung open. He saw no more because he spun and dashed to the console, fell as he slid to a stop, and scrabbled behind it. He covered his ears—didn't want to lose any more hearing—and waited.

And waited.

After nearly a minute he lowered his hands and looked at Miller.

Miller shrugged. "Let's not get fooled. Could have a long delay to suck us in. We'll just sit here and wait."

So they waited.

After a good twenty minutes Miller reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter.

"Could be a misfire. Someone's got to check."

Hursey had a bad feeling about who that someone would be.

"Let's wait a little longer."

"Uh-uh. We need that screwdriver. Heads or tails? Call it in the air."

Miller flipped the coin but Hursey found his voice locked. He couldn't utter a sound.

Miller gave him a shove. "Come on, dammit. You wanna flip?"

He nodded. Miller handed him the coin. His hands shook but he managed to toss it into the air.

Miller said, "Heads."

The coin landed, rolled, came to a stop with George Washington's head showing.

"Looks like it's you. Get moving."

Hursey let out a shuddering breath. "I don't want to end up like Jolliff."

"Don't be a baby. Look, it'll be okay. I'll walk you halfway there."

"If it's so okay, why not walk me all the way?"

Miller's lips turned up at the corners. "Well, if I'm wrong, one of us has to escape this dump and get to the hospital to finish the job."

Hursey took a breath. Now or never.

"Okay. Let's go."

He rose and started walking toward the bunk area. True to his word, Miller came along. But he stopped at the doorway.

"Look," he said, pointing to the screwdriver that had fallen out of the now open locker onto the floor. "It's right there. All you've got to do is hustle over, pick it up, and bring it back. After that, we'll be out of here in twenty minutes, tops."

Hursey stared at the screwdriver. Seemed easy enough.

He swallowed. "Okay, here goes."

He dashed toward the locker, stooped, and grabbed the screwdriver. But before making the return trip, he couldn't resist a peek inside. And there in the locker he saw a timer sitting atop a bulging backpack. Numbers flashed on its LED readout.

…6…5…4…

"Bomb!" he screamed.

He turned and ran with everything he had; his feet slipped on the floor as he fought for traction. When he reached the doorway, he saw Miller hightailing it for the console. Not enough time for that. Neither of them would make it.

One thing Hursey knew he had to do was get clear of the doorway. The blast would funnel through it. He cleared the door and dove to his left, flattening himself on the floor and wrapping his arms over his head.

But just before he closed his eyes he saw the handwriting on the floor.

Hursey screamed.

The blast caught Miller from behind, slamming him against the ruined console. He felt ribs crack. As he bounced off, his knees buckled and he dropped to the floor. He landed prone. He lay there and rode the spinning floor. Finally it slowed, then stopped.

He opened his eyes and found himself facing the bunk area. A gaping hole had been blasted through the bottom half of one of the walls. What was left of Hursey—a charred, smoking lump of flesh—had been blown ten feet away.

The explosion… what triggered it? Not opening the locker—they'd waited too long after that. And the bomber couldn't have known that Hursey would wind up in that spot.

Or maybe he could have.

Miller remembered the signs on the floor to the right and left of the door. BAD MOVE. And it sure as hell had been a bad move for Hursey to wind up on one of them. But how had the bomber known he'd end up there?

Unless he'd put something in the locker to make Hursey think a bomb was going to go off any second. Then yeah, the only thing to do was get to the other side of the wall and dive for cover.

And the rat bastard had counted on that. The signs on the floor were his way of flipping them the bird.

But what if Hursey had turned left instead of right? Miller could understand if the walls on both sides of the door had exploded, covering either contingency, but only Hursey's side had blown. Which meant there was some sort of detector—

—or the guy was watching.

Miller pounded his fist on the floor. That had to be it.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up. Christ, he hurt everywhere. The best he could do was roll over, and that started the building spinning again. Must have a concussion too.

He waited until things steadied, then looked around, concentrating on the ceiling.

And there he found it, in the right upper corner of the room: a little black box with a lens in the middle.

The fucker had been watching the whole time. He could pick and choose which side of the wall to trigger, and when.

Miller repressed an urge to pound his fists and kick his feet like some spoiled brat in a tantrum. He was furious with himself. This guy had played them like a tin flute. And he'd allowed it.

He calmed himself. Anger was no good here. Had to be cool—at least as cool as the guy playing him. Cooler even.

Because this guy was a pro. Got the drop on them in their own car, sent them on a wild goose chase by palming his tracer off on a taxi, slipped by them at the bar. And now this.

Had to admit he had style. Could have blown the whole building as soon as they'd stepped inside. Instead he'd done surgery, taking them out one at a time. His style said he was a thinker, a planner. And a guy who knew people. He'd known someone would not be able to resist tuning the radio. And he'd known someone would eventually turn on the monitoring console. And he'd known they'd be suspicious of a single closed locker door. Could have closed them all, but no. He'd known they'd be suspicious about just one.

But all that aside, the most important question facing Miller now was what to do.

At the most basic level, he had two options: get up or stay put.

In his present condition, if he got up now he'd be staggering around and might blunder into another bomb.

But if he stayed put…

If he just lay here and played dead or badly wounded, maybe he could suck the guy in. And maybe not. Maybe the guy would figure he'd done his day's work and run off to whatever rat hole he called home.

Either way was okay. If he didn't deal with the fucker now, he'd do it later. The end was going to be the same: payback. He'd hunt him to the ends of the Earth, and sometime before his dying day he'd collect for Jolliff, Hursey, and Gold.

But for now, he'd have to put on a show.

He rolled over and pushed himself to his hands and knees. This time the room held steady. He made a show of trying to straighten up, then let himself fall back to the floor.

He'd give it an hour like this. If the guy didn't show, he'd risk ducking into the bunk area to grab the screwdriver, then he'd get to work on those locks.

If the guy did show… he'd have to leave wherever he was receiving that camera feed and unlock the front door. Miller would listen for the sound of those locks, and when he heard the first bolt click back he'd be up and moving. By the time the third was open he'd be at the door and ready to kick the shit—

Wait. He'd never hear the locks over the roaring in his ears. How was he going to work this?

He'd figure something.

Jack watched Miller's prone form on the laptop's screen and waited for him to move again. He didn't.

Dead?

Jack hoped to hell not. He'd planned to leave one man standing, or at least alive enough to answer a few questions. The answers were of critical importance to Jack.

He watched a little longer. The camera's lens didn't provide enough resolution to see if his chest was moving. From here Miller didn't seem to be breathing, but he could be simply knocked out.

Or faking it.

Always that possibility. But if so, he'd deal with it. At least he wouldn't be walking in blind.

He disconnected the laptop from the cigarette lighter socket. The screen flickered as it switched to battery power, then stabilized. He cradled it as he opened the car door and kept an eye on the screen on his way to the warehouse.

When he reached the door he pulled out his keys and began unlocking the deadbolts. One… two… three.

Miller didn't budge.

Jack pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The place reeked of burned flesh. A thin layer of white smoke, disturbed by the open door, undulated in the air. Jack eased it closed behind him, then placed the laptop on the floor and drew his Glock.

Slowly he stepped toward Miller with all the caution of a lost camper approaching a sleeping bear.

Miller felt rather than heard the footsteps—a vibration from the floor into his skull. He hadn't heard the door, but no question about it, someone was here.

He snaked his right arm under him where he could grip his H-K. Then he waited, tensing his muscles. Closer… closer…

A work boot edged into view, but not close enough to grab. Then a second. Someone in jeans and steel-toed boots stood about four feet away, probably staring at him, wondering if he was dead.

Come on… just a couple of feet closer.

But the shoes didn't budge.

Okay. Right time or not, he had to make his move now!

He pulled the pistol, rolled as he brought it out and up and then the crack! of a shot and a stab of blinding pain in his arm. His fingers went numb and he dropped the pistol.

The fucker had been waiting for just that move.

Miller ignored the agony in his bloody arm and lunged for those jeans. He grabbed air instead. Where'd he go?

He scrambled to his feet, spun about and saw him. Yeah. Him. The Heir… or Jack… or whatever his name was. He had Miller's H-K in his left hand and what looked like a Glock in his right, but he had them pointed toward the floor. He stood by what was left of Hursey, and the thought of what had happened to him and Jolliff and Gold turned the air red.

With a roar he charged.

But the guy wasn't there when he arrived. He felt an explosion of pain in his left knee, and then he was losing his balance, tripping over Hursey to land by the blown-out wall.

He cheeked his knee. He hadn't heard a shot. No blood. Must have kicked him.

Miller fought to his feet but the knee barely held him. He found the guy standing about a dozen feet away, silent, expressionless, looking like someone waiting for a green light so he could cross the street.

He charged again, but it was an ungainly, limping charge. The guy easily ducked to his right, and though Miller saw the kick coming, he could do nothing to avoid it. The heavy work boot rammed the side of his other knee. He felt ligaments rip and cartilage tear. He crumbled to the floor.

Two blown-out knees. Goddammit! He was playing with him, just like he'd played with the bombs. Surgery. Carving out one life at a time—only here it was one limb at a time.

Miller tried to rise but he had the use of his left arm and nothing more. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry like a baby. He'd lost. Goddammit he'd lost.

The guy squatted half a dozen feet away and stared at him. He still hadn't said a word.

"All right. You got me, asshole. No way that'd happen if you hadn't softened me up with your bombs. So do your worst. Come on. Get it over with."

And still the guy said nothing.

"You had the 0 fooled, and Davis too, but I was on to you. Knew from day one you were a phony. Have to admit, though, I didn't think you were working for the other side."

The guy shook his head and said, "I'm not."

The words seemed to echo down a long tunnel through the ringing in his ears.

"You gotta be. You've got no reason to do all this. You gotta be working for the Otherness."

Another slow shake of his head.

Miller gave him a closer look and noticed his eyes. This wasn't the same guy who'd tagged along when they did the Arabs Sunday night. That guy'd been a nothing, a schlub. This guy was scary. On the outside he looked like a cross between a stone-cold hard-ass doing some extermination work. But from somewhere in his eyes, his face, his voice came a whisper that this was all personal. Very personal.

"Then why? Who do you work for?"

"I work for me."

"Why, dammit! What did we ever do to you?"

"I had no beef with the MV at the start. Didn't want to join, but I was per-feetly content to live and let live, let you go your way and me go mine. And that's the way it would have stayed. But then you and your crew effectively killed the two most important people in my world."

What was he talking about?

"Who? When?"

"The woman and child you ran down."

"You knew them?"

A nod. "I was going to marry the woman; I was going to make her little girl my own. The woman was carrying our child."

He pulled something from a pocket and held it out.

Miller squinted at what seemed to be a black-and-white photo, but he couldn't make it out.

"That supposed to mean something?"

"It's a sonogram of my daughter. We were going to name her Emma. But now her mother and sister are vegetables and Emma's dead. Because of you."

Miller tried but couldn't quite grasp what he'd just been told. It was too far out, too crazy.

"But the Ally wanted them dead. The only reason for that would be they were connected to the Otherness."

His head did a slow shake. "No. No Otherness connection. Because they're connected to me."

"Then you must be Otherness connected."

Another head shake and a sigh—a tragic, despondent sound, weighted with incalculable grief.

"No, I'm Ally connected."

"Make sense, dammit!"

"Too late for that. But I've answered your questions, you answer one for me."

"If it's about the new 0—"

"We'll get to her in a minute." He pulled something from his pocket and set it on the floor between them. "It's about LaGuardia."

Miller's gut tightened when he saw what it was: a cyanide-tipped 5.56mm NATO round. He'd filled the hollow with cyanide himself.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Found it under one of the lockers. That was an MV operation, wasn't it."

"Fuck you."

"Might as well tell me. It's not going to change the outcome here. And confession is good for the soul."

"I repeat: Fuck you."

The guy shook his head. "How do you do that? How do you stand there and mow down fifty-odd innocent people?"

"You should know. Between yesterday and today, look how many yeniceri you took out."

"I had nothing to do with yesterday, but I take full credit for tonight."

For some reason, Miller believed him, but he wasn't about to admit that.

"So you say."

"I'll ask again: How do you stand there and mow down fifty-plus innocent people just to get to one man?"

He knows! How the fuck does he know?

"You figure it out."

"Okay. My guess is you got an Alarm from the Ally that showed you mowing down everyone at that particular baggage claim at that particular moment. Right? So you became Wrath of Allah."

Miller could only stare. He'd nailed it—except the Wrath of Allah part. He and Hursey had done the deed, yeah, but didn't make any calls to the media. Hadn't even thought of that. He'd been shocked when he heard some group calling itself Wrath of Allah was claiming credit for the attack.

He had to say something. "You don't second-guess the Ally. It sees the big picture, you don't."

"You'd have been a hit at Nuremberg."

"This isn't a game, goddammit. Human rules don't apply."

"Yeah, maybe. Who helped you—who was the other gunman? Jolliff or Hursey?"

"You can go to hell."

Suddenly he looked sad. "Do you know the name of the man you were supposed to kill?"

Miller shook his head. "No. Just that he'd be in the crowd."

"I knew him," the guy said. "I called him 'Dad.'"

Miller thought—no, was sure he'd misheard.

"What did you say?"

"My father. You killed my father that day."

Miller could only stare. If this guy was telling the truth, that meant that the yeniceri—him most of all—had pretty much clear-cut his life. If he was telling the truth. A big if, but the look of loss on his face said he was.

What the fuck? Why did the Ally have such a hard-on for this guy? What had he done to get a cosmic being so pissed at him?

He'd probably never know the answer to that, but he did know that if positions were reversed, he'd have been planting bombs too.

Other things he knew were that he could expect no mercy from this guy, and that he had only minutes left to live.

Strangely enough, that didn't bother him as much as he would have ex-pected. Not like he was leaving a wife and kids behind. As he'd been told half a million times, a spear has no branches.

And then the answer hit him: The Ally was pruning this guy's branches, making a spear out of him. Miller could see only one reason for that.

"You are the Heir after all."

He nodded glumly. "So I've been told. But enough about me: Where's your new 0?"

Miller shook his head and looked longingly at the NATO round, just out of reach. A foot closer and he'd have been able to grab it and use it to make a quick exit.

"Can't have you planting a bomb under her too."

"I just want to talk to her."

"Yeah, right."

"You're going to tell me."

Miller shook his head again. "Ain't gonna happen."

He waggled his Glock. "I could make your last hours seem very, very long. Eternal."

Torture… Miller's gut clenched at the prospect. Would he be able to hold out? He didn't know. Everyone had their limit. Where was his?

He hoped he never found out.

He hid his dread and said, "Do your damnedest. I ain't saying shit."

The guy sighed. "You know what? I believe you."

He picked up the NATO round as he rose and walked around to Miller's left side.

"Don't take this personally. It's simply to keep you out of trouble."

He lowered the stolen H-K until its muzzle was only two inches from Miller's left elbow and fired. Miller screamed—he couldn't help it—and rolled onto his back. At which point the guy shot him in his right elbow.

The guy used his foot to roll him over onto his belly, then went through his pockets.

"You won't find anything there," Miller gritted through the pain.

Soon enough the guy realized he was right.

"Don't go away," he said as he walked off.