Blackjack (10 page)

“Come on, Buddha. You saw those bodies yourself. All of a sudden we got partners?
Silent
partners?”

THE ROUND
screen in the War Room flickered. “What the hell is he up to now? More damn driving around the city?” the blond man muttered, moving a joystick to control the screen images.

With the camera’s eyes, the team saw Cross step out of the camo car, which immediately pulled away. They watched as he walked to the back of the shack on the pier, grabbed a pole thick enough for a firehouse, and slid smoothly down until he disappeared from sight.

The pole itself went all the way into the water, but Cross only dropped about halfway down—slowing whenever his boots made contact with the stops jutting out of the pole.

Cross then jumped lightly onto a short landing which had been laboriously constructed under the pier. Within seconds, he was inside his hideout.

The blond man was busy at his private computer, tapping in coordinates, watching the screen for data translation. All of a sudden, his expressionless face lit up:

“Got him! Son of a bitch lives in a goddamn
cell
, can you believe it? Let’s see, now.…” He continued to work the computer as street maps flashed on his screen, from macro to micro, zeroing in.

“Yes!” the blond man half-shouted in triumph. “The waterfront, not far from where the ore boats come across the lake. Let’s get rolling. We’re looking for a spot on the north side of Pier 29.”

THE INSTANT
the team’s van began to move, it dropped even the vaguest resemblance to any ordinary vehicle. Its sheer mass of “military” and “futuristic” radiated menace.

Cross stepped out of a stall shower, a towel around his waist. He lit a cigarette, sat down in a sling chair, closed his eyes, and blew smoke at the ceiling. His facial expression resembled an Easter Island statue on Botox.

Wanda was working at her computer, handing each new piece of printed-out information to the blond man, who scanned and tossed the sheets over his shoulder the way a wolf works his way through the carcass of a fresh-killed sheep, seeking the most edible parts.

“He’s got communications,” Wanda said. “Microwave … Using a bounce on the transmitter … You have to dial a number.… Okay, I have it. It’s a pay phone. Pulling up the location now.”

The camera showed a narrow doorway with discreet neon lettering running vertically in a window slit next to it. The neon spelled out:

The camera moved past a muscular woman at the door, her folded-arms stance saying “bouncer” as clearly as if written
across her chest. Orchid Blue turned out to be a high-class gay bar, accommodating same-sex and mixed couples both, with nothing outrageously campy allowed. The camera nosed through the place like a patient bloodhound. It ended up in the back, showing a bank of pay phones next to the restroom.

The last phone had a large “Out of Order” sign prominently placed across its face. Closing in, the camera showed that the receiver itself had been severed from the phone—the coiled metal cord dangled, clearly expressing that there was no point even
trying
to make a call.

“Okay,” the blond man said, “back to base. It’s time to give this Mr. Cross some idea of who he’s dealing with.”

INSIDE THE
War Room, the blond man could not keep the smirk off his face as he punched in a number on the phone console.

“Orchid Blue … what kind of name is that for a nightclub?” he asked, slyly. “Any of you guys ever heard of it?”

Everybody shook their heads except Tiger, who gave him a challenging look … which he promptly ignored.

A phone rang inside Cross’s cave. It continued to ring as he took three precisely spaced drags on his cigarette.

The blond man did not share his target’s calmness. He pounded on the console, muttering, “Pick up the damn phone!” at the image on the screen.

Wanda worked the monitor’s dials. The image on the round screen sharpened.

Cross reached out a hand, picked up the receiver. Said: “What?”

“Mr. Cross,” the blond man said, “I have a proposition for you.”

“Yeah, fine. Meet me at …”

“There’s no need for that, Mr. Cross. And no time. You either step outside when we tell you or we’ll be coming to pay a visit in person.”

“Visit me where?”

“Right where you are, right this minute. We’re locked in on you. In fact, we can see what you’re doing even as we speak.”

“Is that right?”

“Mr. Cross, we are aware of your little phone-forwarding system, but you are not dealing with a pack of maladroits this time. You don’t believe me? I’ll make it simple. Raise your hand; I’ll tell you how many fingers you’re holding up. Come on, go ahead.…”

The screen flickered. Tiger chuckled.

“Very funny, Mr. Cross. And very mature as well. Have I convinced you yet?”

“What is it you want, buddy?”

“I’m not your buddy. And what I want is for you to step out of your cave long enough for a civilized conversation. You listen to our proposition. That’s it. Nothing more.”

“How close are you?”

“Forty-five minutes.”

“I’ll be outside.”

AS THE
surveillance van picked up speed, homing in on its objective, Cross took inventory, as if considering a number of propositions. He glanced at a round hatch-style door set into his back wall—obviously an emergency escape route. The red pull-down handle made it clear that this was an option which could only be used once.

Finally, he shook his head and started to get dressed.

WHEN THE
van rounded the last corner, Cross was standing at the edge of the pier, hands in the pockets of a coat that trailed to his ankles, so voluminous it could almost be a wraparound cape. The coat was a distinctive bright white with a high collar and wide raglan sleeves. At his feet, Cross had a small satchel, roughly the size and shape of a doctor’s bag. His back was against a wood pylon.

The van pulled to a stop. Man and machine eyed each other, waiting.

The side of the van opened with a hissing noise—a hydraulic panel, not a hinged door. Tracker jumped lightly to the ground and approached Cross, his hands open at his sides. He bowed slightly.

“I am Tracker. Will you come with us?”

Cross returned the bow, perhaps an inch lower, maintaining eye contact. “You’re not the one who talked to me on the phone.”

“That one is inside. Where you should be … so that we can explain our offer to you without observation.”

“Down here, you don’t have to worry about stuff like that. Looking into another man’s business could get you killed.”

Tracker shifted his body slightly, checking the area, sweeping with his eyes. “The … thing we’re after, you wouldn’t see it coming.”

“The thing
you’re
after. Not my problem, then.”

“It will be, I promise you. Very soon, too. If we meant you harm, you’d be gone now. I have approached you respectfully, have I not?”

After five seconds of utter stillness, Cross walked toward the van, deliberately allowing the Indian to move in behind him. He walked ponderously, as if his coat was a suit of armor.

Cross climbed inside the van, took the seat gestured by the Indian, and found himself directly across from the blond man.

The blond man smiled his thin smile, asked Cross, “Can I take your coat?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. I assume you won’t be offended if I don’t offer to shake hands. Our records indicate considerable expertise in improvised weaponry. I’m told you can kill a man with a sharpened credit card.”

Cross gave him a contemptuous look. “There’s women who can do that with a dull one.”

Percy laughed.

Tiger crossed her arms under her heavy breasts, arched her back, and spit out: “Maybe you should try a woman you don’t have to pay for. Provided you can find one, that is.”

Cross turned to her. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to offend you. There’s something about this guy I don’t like, and I let it make me say something stupid. That’s not professional. I was wrong.”

Tiger’s expression changed, but she watched closely to see if she was being played with. And finally decided she was not. She uncrossed her arms, leaned a bit forward.

“That’s okay,” she smiled, “I don’t like him, either.”

The blond man remained profoundly uninterested in all this—he was well accustomed to people not finding him likable.

“Sorry for the demonstration,” he told Cross, “but we didn’t have time to approach you through the usual channels.”

“You want to hire me, then?”

“That’s exactly what we want.”

“What’s the job?”

“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to show you rather than
tell you. That means a drive to our HQ, but it’ll be easier that way. Quicker, too.”

Cross shrugged, flashing back to the cold truth of what Tracker had told him: if these people wanted him dead, he’d have stopped breathing some time ago.

But that possibility cut both ways. Now that he had the satchel he carried inside a closed space, he knew his crew was safe, no matter how this ended. If things went wrong, he wouldn’t be leaving even a scrap of DNA behind.