Infernal

the future

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to the usual crew for their editorial help on the manuscript: my wife, Mary; my editor, David Hartwell; Elizabeth Monteleone; Steven Spruill (especially Steve); and my agent, Albert Zuckerman.

Thanks, too, to all the gunnies on the repairmanjack.com Forum for their spirited and informed debate about Jack's new backup pistol. As usual, I did a little improvising along the way, so any errors in the weaponry department are mine.

Thank you, Bob Massey, for finding the Hinkley T40. It's perfect.

Additional thanks to Peter Wilson, Douglas E. Winter, and Paul Stanko for insights on legal and judicial matters, and to Ken Valentine for his tip on disabling a revolver.

MONDAY

1

Jack checked his watch: 2:30. Dad's plane would be touching down in an hour.

"I should hit the road."

He and Gia sat in the antiquated kitchen of number eight Sutton Square, in one of the most select neighborhoods in Manhattan. The low December sun kept the room bright despite the dark cabinets and paneling.

Jack drained his Yuengling lager. He'd rediscovered the oldest working brewery in the country a few weeks ago. The name had triggered memories of summer afternoons in his backyard, his father sipping from a Yuengling between tossing him pop flies. So he'd tried it and liked it so much he'd made it his official house brew. And Gia's house brew as well, since he made sure to keep her fridge stocked with at least a six-pack.

Gia glanced at the Regulator clock from her seat across the round oak table where she sipped her tea.

"He's not due in for an hour. You've got a little time." She smiled at him. "Are you looking forward to seeing your father or not? You're hard to read on this."

He gazed at the love of his life, the mother of his unborn child. Gia seemed to thrive on her pregnancy. Jack had always thought the old saw about the "glow" of mothers-to-be was a sentimental fiction, but lately he'd had to revise that: No question, Gia glowed. Her short blond hair seemed glossier, her eyes brighter and bluer, her smiles more dazzling than ever. She was still in the warm-up she wore for her daily walks. Though nearing the end of her sixth month, she looked like other women do ending their third. The loose-fitting top hid the bulge of her abdomen, still barely noticeable even in more form-fitting outfits.

"I'm definitely looking forward to it. And to introducing him to you and Vicky."

Gia smiled. "I'm dying to meet him. You've talked so much about him since your Florida trip. Before that, it was as if you were an orphan."

Yeah, the Florida fiasco had changed things. He and Dad had been close during his childhood, but estranged—not completely, but mostly—during the past fifteen years. The goings-on in South Florida had forged a new bond between them. And Jack had learned that he wasn't the only one in the family with secrets.

"Glad as I'll be to see him, I'd prefer going to him instead of him coming to me. No lodging problems that way."

Wide-eyed, Gia said, "Did he think he was staying with you?"

Jack nodded. "Uh-huh."

She stifled a laugh. "How did you tell him that nobody stays with his son?"

"Nobody except you." And only when Vicky was sleeping over somewhere.

"How did you break it to him?"

"Told him my place is too small and too crowded." He shrugged. "Best I could come up with on such short notice."

His father's holiday jaunt had been sprung on Jack. Dad had planned to be moved back to the northeast by now. He'd found a buyer for his Florida house and had had a signed contract in hand. Then, a week before closing, the buyer dropped dead. Talk about inconsiderate.

So Dad had had to put the place back on the market. He found another buyer, but the new closing wasn't until mid-January.

He'd planned to be settled in time to spend Christmas with his sons and grandkids. Since that wasn't happening, he'd decided on the spur of the moment to come north just for the holidays. Spend a couple of weeks up here, then head back to finish packing for the move.

Great, Jack had thought, until Dad had announced that his first leg involved a stay in New York City.

Yikes.

"But didn't you tell me you think he has a pretty good idea of what you do?"

Jack nodded. "Yes. An idea. But he doesn't know. And I'd like to leave it like that. It's one thing for him to suspect what I hire out for; it's another entirely for him to get involved in the day-to-day workings of my life." He had to laugh. "He'll be giving me all sorts of advice and maybe even trying to set up a pension plan for me. He's very big on pension plans."

"Well, he's an accountant, isn't he?"

"Was. And once an accountant, always an accountant, I guess. But that's not the only reason I'm putting him up in a hotel. I—"

Gia shook her head. "I think that's awful. Here's this old man—"

"He's a very spry seventy-one."

"—coming here for the first time in ages to visit his son, and he gets stuck in a hotel. It's not right."

"Gia, we were together in his place down there maybe three or four days and he was making me crazy, always asking me where I was going or where I'd been, worrying about me if I was out late… like I was a teenager again. I can't handle that."

"Even for a few days?"

He could hear Dad's voice in his head now. He'd meet Gia, his future daughter-in-law, and be enchanted by her and Vicky, but when they were alone he'd start in on how they did things differently in his day: First they got married, then started a family. Jack didn't want to hear it.

A tough old bird, Dad, and traditional to the core.

"You're making me sound like a Blue Meanie. I can't have him nosing around my place while I'm out. He might pull open the wrong drawer. You know how that is."

Gia nodded. She knew.

Jack remembered the time, early in their relationship, when she'd wanted to surprise him by cleaning his apartment. She'd happened upon a stash of guns and phony ID and he'd almost lost her.

"Well, did he buy your too-small story?"

"I doubt it—not completely. It was awkward, and it's going to remain awkward the whole time he's here."

"It's going to be really awkward when he sees your place and notices the daybed in the TV room."

"I'll think of something."

"You don't have to. He'll stay here."

Not this again.

"Gia, we've been through—"

She held up her hand. "Too late. I've taken it into my own hands. It's a fait accompli."

"As much as I love when you speak French, what are you talking about?"

"I canceled your father's hotel reservation."

"You what?"

"I'm the one who made it, remember? So I figure I have a right to cancel it."

"Do you know how hard it is to find a hotel room this time of year?"

She smiled. "Virtually impossible. Which means he'll have to stay here." She reached across the table and took his hand. "Come on, Jack. Lighten up. He's going to be Vicky's adoptive grandfather. Shouldn't she get to know him, and he her?"

Jack couldn't argue. It would take his father ten minutes—probably less—to fall in love with Vicky.

"I just don't like the burden it'll put on you, being pregnant and all. The extra work—"

"What extra work? I'll bet he makes his own bed. That leaves me with the burden of putting out an extra coffee cup and toasting extra bread in the morning." She gave a dramatic sigh and pressed the back of her wrist against her forehead. "It's going to be rough but I think I'll be able to muddle through."

"Okay, okay. He stays here." He stared at her. "Have I told you lately that you're wonderful?"

She smiled that smile. "No. At least not in recent memory."

He gently squeezed her fingers. "You're wonderful."

2

Tom quelled a ripple of anxiety as he started down to the baggage claim area. The flight had been perfect, the attendants beautiful, the food… edible. If this were Miami International he'd feel fine; he could make his way through there blindfolded. But he'd never been to La Guardia.

He supposed it was part of aging: You come to depend on things being comfortable and familiar, and get rattled by the new and different. But a big part was Jack's damned secretiveness. He'd said he'd meet him in the baggage area, but what if he forgot? Or what if he got tied up in traffic or delayed by something? Tom wasn't averse to taking a cab, but to where? He didn't know Jack's address. Oh, he had a mailing address, but Jack didn't live there.

Relax, he told himself. You're borrowing trouble. You have a cell phone and you know his number.

A gaggle of bearded men in black hats or yarmulkes and women in wigs and long-sleeved dresses descended ahead of him. These fifty or so Orthodox Jews—he'd heard someone mention that they were Hasidic—had occupied the rear half of the plane. Tom wondered what they'd all been doing in Miami. Not one of them looked tan.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and followed the crowd along a short corridor that opened into the baggage claim. He found a lake of expectant faces spread out in a thick semicircle. Dozens of black-suited, white-shirted limo drivers milled about, some holding up handwritten signs with the names of their fares, others simply killing time until a given plane arrived. Behind them stood relatives and friends waiting for loved ones. Jack would—should—be somewhere in the throng.

But where?

He scanned the faces, looking for his son's familiar features. There—a brown-haired man waving at him. Jack. Good thing he was waving or Tom would have missed him. He could have been anybody in his hooded blue sweatshirt, plaid flannel shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Virtually invisible.

Tom felt a flood of love tinged with relief. He didn't understand his younger son—didn't much understand the older one either, for that matter—but his time with Jack back in September had been an eye-opener. The affable, laid-back man he'd come to think of as rudderless, perhaps even something of a loser, had metamorphosed into a grim warrior, intensely focused, who'd wrought a terrible vengeance on a murderous crew.

Tom had participated in the killing and afterward had expected fits of guilt and remorse. They never came. Strangely, the killing didn't bother him: The dead in this case deserved it. And taking the long view, hell, he'd killed more and probably better men during his tour in Korea.

But though he'd learned to respect Jack that night, he still didn't understand him. Which was why he'd decided to come here. He wanted time with his son in his own environment.

Jack's excuse about his apartment being too small… it didn't ring true. He'd been disappointed and even tempted to call him on it, but decided to go along. Just more of his number-two son's obsessive secretiveness. He guessed he'd have to accept that as part of the package.

Tom locked on to Jack's deceptively mild brown eyes as they worked toward each other through the crowd. Jack waited as the line of Hasidim passed, and then he was reaching for Tom's hand. What started as a shake turned into a brief embrace.

"Hey, Dad, you made it."

For a reason he could not explain, Tom filled up. His throat constricted and it took him a few seconds to find his voice.

"Hi, Jack. Damn, it's good to see you again."

They broke apart and Jack grabbed Tom's carry-on.

"I can handle that," Tom said.

"What a coincidence. So can I." He nodded toward the small horde of Hasidim. "What'd you do, come in on El Al?"

"I remember reading about some gathering in Miami."

On the way to the baggage carousel Jack pinched a fold of fabric on Tom's green-and-white jacket.

"Look at you—puffy starter coat. Very cool. Eagles colors, no less."

Tom nodded. He'd been a lifelong Eagles fan.

"Bought it last week. Figured I'd need something to protect me from the cold."

As they joined the passengers and waited for their luggage, he studied his son. Hard to believe that this regular-looking Joe had led them into a firefight in the Everglades and saved him from being sucked into a tornado.

He owed Jack his life.

"Well, Dad, anything special you want to do while you're here?"

"Spend time with you."

Jack blinked. The remark—the bold-faced truth as far as Tom was concerned—seemed to take him by surprise.

"That's a given. I'm just putting the finishing touches on a job, and after that, I've cleared the deck."

"What sort of job?"

A shrug. "Just fixing something for somebody."

. . .fixing something for somebody… not big with the details, his son.

"But other than hanging out," Jack went on, "is there any play you want to see, restaurant you want to try?"

"I'd like to go to the top of the Empire State Building."

Jack grinned. "Really?"

"I've never been. Lived less than two hours outside this city most of my life and never once made it there. So, before I die—"

Jack rolled his eyes. "Oh man!"

"No, seriously. I've decided to make a list of certain things I've always wanted to do, and the Empire State Building is one of them. Have you ever been to the top, Mr. New Yorker?"

"Lots of times. I always bring flowers and leave them there."

"What? I'd never take you for a fan of An Affair to Remember.'"

He laughed. "No, I bring them for Kong."

"Kong?"

"King Kong. That's where he was killed."

Tom stared. "You were always a weird kid, Jack. Now you're a weird adult."

He shook his head. "Uh-uh. Still a kid."

But not acting like one now, Tom thought as he noticed the way Jack's eyes darted back and forth, constantly on the move. Watching for what? Terrorists?

No… his gaze seemed to linger more on the security personnel than on the Arabic-looking members of the crowd. Why? What about them concerned him?

He realized Jack looked edgy. He suspected that whatever it was Jack did for a living, it probably wasn't on the right side of the law. Tom hoped that was only a sometime thing.

After what Tom had seen of Jack's capabilities back in Florida, he'd make one formidable foe, no matter which side of the law he was on.

But from what Tom had seen during Jack's visit he knew that his son was involved in something else, something beyond legal systems. Perhaps even beyond normal reality.

A girl who could control swamp creatures… a hole in the earth that went God knew where… a man who could walk on water, who Jack had called by name. They seemed to be enemies.

And that was all Tom knew. He hadn't been able to squeeze much explanation from Jack beyond cryptic statements about having had a "peek behind the curtain."

His stated purpose now was to spend the holidays with his sons and grandchildren, and that was true to an extent. But Tom was determined to use the time to learn more about the man his son had become. Which wouldn't be easy. He knew Jack saw him as a bedrock traditionalist, and to some extent he was. He made no excuses about hewing to traditional values. He sensed Jack had no quarrel with those, but held to a looser, more flexible view as to how to uphold them.

Still, no way to deny that Jack was on guard here. Not that he had to worry about the two blue-uniformed security people in sight—a skinny guy and a big-butted woman standing together near the exit. They seemed more interested in each other than in what was going on around them.

Still, Tom looked for a way to ease Jack's discomfort.

"Where's the car?"

Jack jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "In the big garage across the way."

"Much of a trip?"

"Not bad. We go upstairs, take the skywalk across. That'll put us on level four. I'm parked on level two, so we take an elevator down and go from there."

That seemed like too much time. If being here bothered Jack, this could be a way to get him out more quickly.

"Why don't you go get the car? By the time you come back, I'll be waiting at the curb with my luggage."

"How many bags?"

"One big one. And don't give me that can-the-old-guy-handle-it? look. I handled it in Miami and I can handle it here. It's got wheels."

Jack hesitated, then said, "Not a bad idea. The sooner we get on and off the BQE, the better. Rush hour starts early around here. Meet you outside."

His relief at getting out of the terminal was obvious.

3

As Tom watched Jack thread the crowd toward the stairs, trailing his carry-on, someone opened an exit door. A gust of cold December air sneaked through and wrapped around him. He shivered. Now he knew why he'd moved to Florida.

He returned his attention to the still and empty baggage carousel. A moment or two later a Klaxon sounded as an orange light began blinking; the carousel shuddered into motion.

As luggage started to slide down a chute to the revolving surface Tom edged forward with everyone else, looking for his bag. It was black, like ninety percent of the rest, but he'd wrapped the handle in Day-Glo orange tape to make it easier to spot.

One of the Hasidic women stood in front of him, carrying a one-year-old. A little girl, bundled head to toe against winter. Her large brown eyes fixed on Tom and he gave her a little wave. She smiled and covered her face. A shy one.

From the corner of his eye he saw a door swing open on the far side of the carousel. Two figures emerged but he paid them no mind until he heard the unmistakable ratchet of a breech bolt. He froze, then spun toward the doorway in time to see two figures in gray coveralls, ski-masked under black-and-white kufiyas, raising assault pistols.

Instinct and training took over as Tom dove for the floor, carrying the mother and her little girl with him. The woman cried out, and as the three of them fell, her fat, bearded husband in his long black coat and sealskin hat whirled toward them, his face a mask of shock and outrage.

Then the shooting began and the man dove floorward along with everybody else.

Tom heard shattering glass and a scream of pain behind him. He turned in time to see the two security guards go down, caught in a spray of bullets that shattered the glass doors behind them. The woman's legs folded under her and she hit the floor not six feet from him. A pulsating crimson fountain arced from her throat. He saw more shock than pain in her eyes. She'd never had a chance to draw her pistol.

The shooters seemed to have made a point of taking down the guards first. More would be coming, but for the moment the killers were unopposed. They mowed down anyone trying to run, and then began a systematic slaughter of the rest.

Tom watched in horror as the two faceless gunmen split, each taking a side of the carousel, tearing up the helpless, cowering passengers with a succession of short bursts from their stubby, odd-looking assault pistols. They worked quickly and methodically, pausing only to change magazines or cut down those who tried to flee.

Tom's gut writhed and his bladder clenched with the realization that he was going to die here. He'd been shot in Korea, he'd survived the firefight of his life and Hurricane Elvis just a few months ago, only to be exterminated here like a roach trapped on the floor. If only he had a gun—even a .22 pistol—he could stop these arrogant murderous shits. They knew no one could fight back.

Tom turned. The dead guard's pistol beckoned to him from its holster.

Just then a man leaped up and tried to dive into the baggage chute, but an extended burst cut him nearly in half, leaving his body wedged in the opening.

That long burst emptied the killer's magazine. As he switched to a fresh one, a brawny Hasid leaped to his feet and charged, roaring like the bear he resembled. The killer, caught off guard, backpedaled and slipped on the bloody floor. The Hasid was almost upon him when the other killer turned and ripped him up with a burst to the chest and abdomen that sent him spinning to the floor.

Now! Tom thought, not giving himself time to think as he pushed himself up to a crouch and started a high-assed scramble. Now!

He heard shooting behind him, saw pieces chip out of the floor as bullets hit it, felt something tear into his thigh. It knocked him flat, but pushed him forward as it did, putting the gun within reach. He heard the hollow clink! of an empty chamber and knew with a sudden burst of hope that the shooter's magazine had run dry. Bolts of agony shot through his leg when he tried to move it, but he'd been hurt worse than this. All that mattered was the pistol. He had a tiny window of opportunity here and had to make the most of it.

His fingers were closing around the grip when he began to shake. Not just his hand and arms, his whole body. He tried again for the pistol but his arm seized up. He couldn't breathe. He felt his body begin to flop around like a beached fish. His pulse pounded in his ears, slowing.

What was happening? He'd only been hit in the leg. Had he taken another slug somewhere else? What…?

Tom's light, his air, his questions, his time… faded to nothingness.

4

Jack had to take a circular route to reach the pickup area, a reluctant mini-tour of the airport. La Guardia was small as major airports went, and appeared to be the victim of some weird temporal dislocation. The dingy, Quonset hut-style hangars looked to be of 1930s vintage, while the green-glassed terminal itself was strictly fifties in design. The massive, six-story, bare concrete parking garage could have been built yesterday.

As he nosed his Crown Vic along the pickup lane outside the Central Terminal, he saw people running—not toward the doors, like late travelers, but from them. Screaming people, faces masks of terror, fleeing for their lives.

Jack's heart double-clutched. They were pouring from the baggage area… fleeing the far section… the section where he'd left Dad.

No… it can't…

He gunned the engine and sped toward the far section, narrowly missing a panicked man and a screaming woman. He jerked to a halt when he saw the shattered doors and broken glass glittering on the sidewalk, the bullet holes in the still-intact panes.

Oh, Christ… oh no-no-no!

He jumped out and dashed across the sidewalk, almost slipping on the shards of glass, and skidded to a halt inside the baggage area.

Blood… blood everywhere… lakes of red on the floor… even the carousel was red… a man's feet and legs hung out of the baggage chute… the bloody rag-doll body of a baby girl sprawled among the endlessly circling luggage.

No other movement, no crying, no screams or wails of the wounded. Just silence. Not one of the victims so much as stirred.

Jack stood frozen and stared, numb, paralyzed…

Dad…?

Where was his father? He'd left him standing right over there by the—

There! Shit! A body, a gray-haired man in a green-and-white coat.

No-no-no-no!

As Jack forced himself forward a voice shouted from somewhere to his left.

"Freeze!"

Jack heard the word but it didn't register. Stiff and slow, he kept moving, a living zombie.

"Freeze, goddammit, or I'll drop you where you stand!"

Jack kept moving, forcing himself forward a few more steps until he reached the corpse. He dropped to his knees in a pool of still-warm blood, grabbed one of the shoulders, and rolled him over.

The face—his lips were pulled back in a horrific, agonized grimace, but his glazed eyes left no doubt about it.

Dad.

Dead.

Jack felt as if his chest might explode. He let out a sound that was equal parts moan and sob.

He shook his father. It couldn't be. They'd been talking just a few minutes ago. He couldn't be dead!

"Dad! Dad, it's me, Jack! Can you hear me?"

The voice said, "Are you fuckin' deaf? I told you to freeze!"

Jack looked up into the muzzle of a pistol held by a mustached security guard.

"This… this is my father."

"I don't give a fuck, I told you to—"

"That will be enough!"

An older man had come up behind the guard. He looked to be about fifty and wore a blue NYPD uniform with sergeant stripes. His nameplate read DRISCOLL.

The guard backed off a step. "I found this guy wandering around. He could be—"

Sergeant Driscoll's voice dripped scorn. "He wasn't wandering around. I saw him come in. He was looking for someone." His eyes dropped to Jack's father's inert form. "And he found him."

"But—"

"But nothing." He shoved the guard away. "Get over by the door in case anyone else tries to wander in."

The guard moved off.

Driscoll muttered, "Asshole," then squatted beside Jack. "Look, I'm sorry about your dad, but you've got to go outside."

"What happened?" His own voice sounded far away. "I left him here just a few minutes ago… we were talking about going to the Empire State Build—"

"I'm really sorry, but you're going to have to wait outside. This whole area is a crime scene and you're contaminating it, so you've got to leave."

"But—"

He pointed to the floor beneath Jack. "Look at what you're kneeling in. If we're gonna catch these guys, we need every scrap of evidence we can get." He slipped a hand into Jack's armpit and lifted. "Come on. If you want to help us catch the fucks who did this to your dad, wait outside."

The cop's touch lit a flicker of rage that flashed through the dead, dumb grayness that filled Jack, but he quickly doused it. Lashing out at this man who was trying to do the decent thing would solve nothing. He could walk away or be carried away; either way, he'd be leaving his dad behind. And if he was carried away, they'd find his ankle holster and the unregistered AMT .380 it held.

So he let the cop help him to his feet and shuffled toward the shattered doorway where the security guard stood.

He watched Jack's approach.

"Hey, sorry about back there. Case like this, you don't know who's friend or foe."

Jack nodded without making eye contact.

Outside—chaos. EMS trucks screeching to a halt, shuttles trying to get out of the way, limos inching out from the curb, hundreds of people milling about, some weeping, some hysterical, some in slack-faced shock.

He saw a harried-looking cop standing by the Vic, shouting, "One last time: Who owns this?"

Jack hesitated, unsure of what he might be getting himself into, then decided that stepping forward would be less complicated, especially since his fingerprints were all over the car and it was registered in someone else's name—someone unaware of that.

Jack waved and hurried toward the cop. "Me! It's mine!"

"Then move it! You're blocking the—hey, you hurt?"

"What?"

He pointed to Jack's legs. "You're bleeding."

Jack looked down and saw the wet red splotches on his knees. For a few seconds, he didn't understand. Then—

"No…" His voice caught. "No, that's my father's."

"Jesus. He all right?"

Jack wanted to tell him what a stupid fucking question that was but bit it back. He simply shook his head.

"Listen, I'm sorry." The cop pointed to the Vic. "But ya still gotta move it. Just drive it into the garage. Then you can come back and wait with the rest."

"Wait for what?" Dad was dead.

The cop shrugged. "I dunno. News about survivors, I guess. Not like you gotta choice. Airport's locked down. Nobody out, nobody in."

Jack said nothing as he slipped behind the wheel and pulled away.

5

Dad… gone…

The words registered but his mind couldn't get a grip on it, the… finality.

He'd returned to the garage, found a spot on the perimeter of an upper level, and parked facing west. The falling December sun gleamed through the crystalline sky and stabbed his eyes. The sky had no right being so bright. It should be dark, with wind and hail and lightning.

Numb, he lowered the visor and… just… sat.

Gone… one minute alive and full of plans and enthusiasm, the next a cooling lump of meat in a pool of blood. Part of Jack insisted it was all a bad dream, but the rest of him knew he wouldn't wake up from this.

Knowing nothing made it worse. Who? Why? Some al-Qaeda strike? Or maybe al-Qaeda wannabes massacring a crowd of Orthodox Jews? Was that what this was all about? Made a sick sort of sense. But what made no sense was why, with all the flights from Miami to New York, his father had to wind up on that one.

Jack had a blood-red urge to gun up and shoot down every Arab he could find. He knew that insanity would pass, but he reveled in the fantasy until it reminded him of the backup piece strapped to his ankle.

He glanced around, saw no one about, so he reached down and pulled the little AMT .380 from its holster. When the FBI and CIA and NYPD and Homeland Security and whoever else would be involved began allowing people to leave the airport, he'd bet the ranch they'd be searching every person, every car. He wasn't sure his tried-and-true John Tyleski ID would hold up—Ernie was painstakingly thorough when he created an identity, but no fake was perfect.

And even if it did pass, he couldn't risk carrying. Had to dump the pistol.

He turned the little backup over in his hands. He'd bought it from Abe six months ago after his trusty old Semmerling had been connected to the subway massacre. Hadn't had to pull it once since. Now he was going to have to toss it away unused.

Unused… he wondered if it could have made a difference in there. The shooter—probably more than one—must have used an automatic, machine pistol, most likely. He couldn't have killed so many in so little time with a single-shot weapon.

I should've been there, goddamn it.

He didn't know what use his little six-shot .380 would have been against Mac-lOs or HK-5s. Not much, probably, but you never knew.

Another fantasy… taking down a single shooter with a couple of .380s into his face… or, if there'd been two or three, taking one down, tossing his AMT to Dad, then grabbing the downed shooter's weapon and the two of them taking on the others… just as they'd taken on Semelee's clan in the Everglades.

More likely he'd now be lying dead beside his dad.

At least they'd have put up a fight, kept whoever it was from getting clean away.

And maybe being dead wouldn't be as bad as dealing with this blistering guilt for not being there when his father needed him most.

Jack forced himself out of the fantasy to deal with the reality of the moment: The gun had to go.

He popped out the magazine, removed the chambered cartridge, then pulled out the old, oil-stained rag he kept in the glove compartment. He emptied the magazine, wiped it down, then did the same with each casing.

He removed the leather ankle holster and wiped that down. Then he removed the slide assembly from the pistol frame and wiped each part.

He opened the car door. A look around showed no one in sight, so he got out and leaned over the edge of the parapet. No one below. He dropped the slide onto the pavement six stories down.

He began walking the perimeter of the level, tossing a cartridge every hundred feet or so, then finally the frame and the holster.

When he returned to his car he moved it to a more centrally located slot.

Then he crossed the skyway back toward the terminal. At the end he turned the corner and found himself in the middle of a crowd. Security personnel were blocking the escalators down to the ticketing and baggage levels.

Jack tapped a heavyset woman on her arm.

"What's going on?"

She looked at him—bloodshot eyes, blotchy face, tear-smeared mascara.

"They won't let us down! My daughter was due in! I—I don't know if she's alive or dead!"

At least you still have hope, Jack thought.

6

He'd been standing on the glass-walled skyway for two hours. Dark now—the sun had set around four thirty. He'd called Gia to tell her he was okay. She said she'd heard the news and had been worried sick. When he told her about his father she broke down. Listening to her sob, he'd almost lost it himself.

Two hours with the crowd of mourners and stranded passengers watching a seemingly endless parade of stretchers wheeled back and forth from the terminal to the ambulances below. All carried bagged bodies. He saw no wounded and wondered why.

No matter. Dad wouldn't be among them. It ate at Jack that he hadn't known which bag contained his father.

And finally the stretchers stopped rolling, and the last of the ambulances pulled away.

"Where are the survivors?" said a forty-something woman nearby. "Aren't there any survivors?"

"Maybe they were taken out another way."

"No way," she said with an emphatic shake of her head. "I know this airport, everything at this end has to funnel through directly below us. I've watched the ambulances coming and going, and right down there was the only spot they stopped."

"There have to be some survivors," said a man in a herringbone overcoat. "I mean, they couldn't have killed everybody."

Seemed logical, but Jack couldn't remember seeing anyone stirring amid the bloodbath.

He kept that to himself, however. He was concerned with where they'd taken his father… and how he was going to claim the body when he didn't own a single piece of ID under his real name.

He wandered back to the escalators. Still blocked, but he spotted a familiar-looking cop—the older one from inside—giving instructions to the security men.

"Sergeant?" he called. "Hey, sergeant?"

The cop didn't turn.

What was his name? He'd seen the nameplate but had been in shock—wait. Driscoll. Yeah.

"Sergeant Driscoll?"

When he turned Jack waved to him. He looked as if he couldn't place Jack's face.

"We met inside. Where can I claim my father's body?"

As Jack's question was echoed by other voices, Driscoll stepped closer.

"Call the one-one-five—"

"Precinct?" someone said.

"Right. They'll have a procedure in place."

"What about the wounded?" a woman asked. "What hospital were—?"

Driscoll shook his head. His grim expression became grimmer.

"We have no wounded."

"No wounded!" the woman cried, her voice edging into a wail. "They can't all be dead!"

"We have survivors who saw what happened, and they're being debriefed, but we have no wounded."

"How can that 6e?"

"We're working on that, ma'am."

"What happened?" someone else said as horrified cries rose all around. "Who did this? Who's responsible?"

He shook his head. "I can't answer that. The mayor and the commissioner will be holding a press conference at City Hall soon. You'll have to wait till then."

"But—"

He held up his hand. "I've told you all I can."

"When can we leave?" someone shouted as he turned.

"The checkpoints are in place now. You can start to head out."

And then his back was to them and he was walking away. If he heard any of the questions called out after him, he gave no sign.

Jack too barely heard them. The word "checkpoints" was blaring though his mind.

His earlier misgivings about his Tyleski ID withstanding full-bore scrutiny had became full-blown doubt. But even if it did pass muster, his car was another story. A check of the registration would raise a horde of questions. Like why was he driving a car registered to someone else? And to Vinny "the Donut" Donato, of all people? If someone checked with the owner they'd learn that the black Crown Vic in question was sitting in his garage in Brooklyn.

Then even more shit would hit the fan.

Bad enough to be bagged for false ID, but to be suspected of being connected to the terrorists who'd killed his own father… a father he couldn't officially claim as his own…

Had to find another way out.

7

Jack fought the numbness his mind yearned to yield to and forced it to focus. He shuttled between the garage and the skyway, getting the lay of the land and not finding much in the way of potential escape routes.

To the north lay the runways, the East River, and Rikers Island. If he didn't get out of here soon, Rikers might be his new home.

To the south, past Ditmars Boulevard and Grand Central Parkway, the glowing house windows of Jackson Heights beckoned.

East offered only dark expanses of marsh and more of the East River. The west had possibilities, but involved long stretches of exposure.

He had to get down to the highway.

Jack fell in with a group heading from the skyway to the garage. No one spoke. Shock was the order of the day.

As they entered the fourth level and scattered toward their respective cars, Jack took the elevator down to the ground floor. Crossed to the outer rim and hopped over the wall. Cut across an access lane to a low concrete wall. Hopped that, landing on a patch of bare ground. Directly ahead, across a scraggly winter lawn, lay Grand Central Parkway.

All that stood between Jack and freedom was an eight-foot, chain-link fence with a barbed-wire crown.

Blue-and-white police units and sinister black SUVs kept roaring in and out along the airport access roads.

That fence… that damn fence…

Couldn't go over it. No big deal physically—he could easily climb the links and throw his sweatshirt over the barbed wire—but he'd be spotted for sure.

Had to find another way.

Jack lay flat and began to belly crawl through the cold, dead grass. When he reached the fence he turned and crept along its base, feeling his way, searching for—

His hand slipped into a depression in the dirt. Knew he'd find one somewhere along the line. Inevitable that some dog at some time would want to get past the fence. To do that it would dig. And one had dug here.

Not deep enough to allow Jack through, but okay. The dog trough gave him a head start. All he had to do was make it a little deeper, strip down to his underwear, and slip through.

He pulled out his knife and flipped it open. A sin to use a Spyderco Endura as a digging tool, but…

At least the ground was still soft. Though cold, winter was a couple weeks off, and the ground hadn't frozen yet.

He began to dig, loosening the dirt with the knife blade and scooping it out with his free hand…

8

Jack crouched in the shadows under an overpass. He punched Abe's number into his phone and prayed he was still at the store. He released a breath when he heard him pick up.

"Abe? It's me."

"Hello, Me. I don't recall ever meeting a Me. I should know you?"

"Hold the jokes, okay. I need a favor."

"Always with the favors."

"This is serious."

Abe must have picked up on his tone. "Serious how?"

"I need a ride."

"You call that serious?"

"Abe, I'm stranded on the Grand Central. Can you pick me up?"

"I should drive all the way out to Queens when you can take a cab?"

"I can't take a cab."

"Why? Someone pick your pock—hey, wait. Are you out near the airport?"

"Very."

"Are you okay?"

"No."

"Wait—your father was coming in today. Was he—?"

"Yeah."

"Gevalt! He's not…?"

"Yeah, Abe. He's gone."

"What?"

"Gone."

Silence on the other end. Finally Abe spoke, his voice thick.

"Jack… Jack, I'm so sorry. What can I do? Anything. Just tell me."

"Come get me, Abe. Check the underpasses near the airport exit ramp. I'm under one of them. Wish I could tell you which one but…"

"I'll take the truck."

"Hurry."

9

Hours later Jack sat slumped in a funk on Gia's couch while she huddled against him. Vicky was upstairs doing her homework. Gia had told her that Jack's father had died and left it at that. Knowing that he'd been slaughtered in what the media were now calling the "Flight 715 Massacre" would only frighten her. Better for now to let her think he was an old man who'd died of natural causes—whatever those were.

They stared at the old TV, watching the same shots of La Guardia's Central Terminal, hearing the same clips of the mayor, the police commissioner, the head of Homeland Security, and the president himself. No new news, just repetitions of what little had been gleaned from witnesses who had been close enough to see the massacre, but far enough away to stay clear:

Two gunmen wearing airport coveralls, ski masks, and Arab headdress—described as "the kind of thing Arafat wore"—had entered baggage claim through an employees-only doorway and opened up on the passengers of American Airlines flight 715. The result was one hundred and fifty-two dead—men, women, children, passengers, relatives, limo drivers, security guards—everyone who'd been anywhere near the carousel.

Among the dead were forty-seven members of the ultra-orthodox Satmar Hasidic sect returning to Crown Heights from a gathering in Miami. Since the killers did not attack any of the other nearby carousels, the news heads speculated that the presence of such a sizable group of Hasidim might have been why that particular flight was targeted.

After finishing their bloody work, the killers had fled through the same doorway. In the hallway beyond they'd discarded their coveralls, their masks and kufiyas, as well as their assault pistols. Word had leaked that both pistols were Tavor-2 models, manufactured in Israel. That started speculation that the choice of weapon might have been a way of adding insult to injury. Jews slaughtered by Israeli-made weapons.

But the question most asked by the news heads to their endless parade of experts on terrorism and Arabs and Islam, singly or on panels, was why there were no wounded. How could every wound be fatal? Finally someone offered the possibility that the terrorists might have used cyanide-filled hollow-point rounds.

"Oh, my God!" Gia said. "How could they?" Then she shook her head. "Sorry. Stupid question."

"I figured it might be something like that."

"Why? How?"

As he'd knelt next to his dead father, Jack's reeling mind hadn't been able to process all the surrounding sights and sounds. But as he'd waited in the cold darkness for Abe, he'd slowed and corralled his chaotic thoughts, and painstakingly pieced together what he had seen.

Dad hadn't been lying in a pool of blood—he'd been lying next to one that seemed to have come from the uniformed woman beside him. His body wasn't bullet riddled; in fact Jack had seen only one wound, a bloody hole near the left buttock, but not much bleeding from that.

"My father's wound—at least the one I could see—seemed to be a flesh wound. Of course the bullet could have ricocheted off a bone and cut through a major artery. But after I heard there were no wounded, that everyone who'd been shot was dead, I began to suspect cyanide."

None of this had been confirmed, but Jack was pretty sure it would turn out to be something along those lines.

Gia shivered against him. "I've never heard of—I mean, what hideous sort of mind dreams up these things?"

"Cyanide bullets aren't new. They're a terrorist favorite, but usually when they're out to assassinate a specific target. The poison guarantees that an otherwise nonlethal wound will be fatal. First I ever heard of them was back when we were kids—when those Symbionese Liberation Army nuts used cyanide-tipped bullets to kill that school superintendent. But for mass murder? Never heard of them being used for that. At least until now."

Gia closed her eyes as a tear slid from each. "So if they'd used regular bullets your father could have lived… if he'd laid still and played dead, he might have survived, and we'd be standing around his hospital bed now talking about how lucky he was."

Thinking about what could have been and might have been never worked for Jack. Seemed like self-torture, and he felt tortured enough right now.

"I doubt it."

Gia opened her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I saw a smear of blood about the length of his leg on the floor beside him. His hand was on the holster of a dead security guard. I think—no, I'm sure he was going after her gun. Dad wasn't the type to sit and wait to be killed. He was an excellent shot. If he'd reached the gun… who knows? I doubt he could have taken down both of them, but maybe he could have hit one of them, and that might have scared off the other."

Could have … might have…

Useless.

Just as useless as the rerun of his fantasy of teaming up with Dad to take out the killers.

Gia said, "He would have been a hero."

"Most likely they'd have cut him to ribbons as soon as he fired his first shot."

"At least you got to see him again. If this had happened down in Miami, you, well… you're now the last one to see him alive."

Jack knew he couldn't claim that blessing for himself.

"No, the killers were."

"I mean in his family—oh, God! Family! Did you call your brother?"

Shit!

"No. I didn't even think…"

Truth was, thoughts of his brother rarely if ever crossed Jack's mind. He'd never considered Tom a real brother, just someone who shared some of his genes and, for the first eight years of Jack's life, the same house. Ten years older than Jack, Tom hadn't been a presence even before he'd gone off to college, and after that he'd faded to a wraith who'd float in and out over the holidays and breaks.

Jack had his number somewhere. He'd had to call him a few times last September to update him on Dad's coma, but not often enough to remember.

"You've got to call him."

Yeah, he did. But how much would Tom care?

Jack caught himself. Not fair. Maybe Tom hadn't gone to visit Dad in Florida when he'd been hurt, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be devastated to learn he was a victim of the flight 715 massacre. Back then he'd said he was tied up with "judicial matters," whatever that meant. Yeah, he was a judge in Philadelphia and maybe he couldn't leave in the middle of hearing a case, but still… if your father's in a coma and no one knows whether or not he's going to come out of it, hell, you find a way.

"Tom's number is back at my apartment. So's Ron's."

His sister's kids needed to know about their grandfather.

He kissed Gia on the top of her head. "Got to get home and make those calls."

Gia looked up at him. "Can't you call information?"

"For Ron, yeah, I suppose. But I know Tom's is unlisted, him being a judge and all."

She grabbed his hand. "You're going to come back, aren't you?"

"Sure, I guess."

"Jack, you shouldn't be alone tonight. This is something that needs to be shared. Vicky and I can help you through this, but you've got to let us. I know you, Jack. You're like an injured wolf that goes off to lick its wounds alone. You can't keep this bottled up. You've got to let it out. I'm—we're here for you, Jack. Please don't shut us out."

"I won't. I'll make my calls and then come back."

As Jack left, he hoped he'd be able to keep that promise.