Heirs of Cain (22 page)

The voice was frighteningly familiar.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Jefferson stuttered. “You’ve got to listen to me.”

Jefferson, his pants soaked, overwhelmed by sheer terror, zipped his pants. The warm urine cooled as it ran down his legs. He worried about how he would smell once it dried.

By any set of standards, this had not been a pleasant piss.

“I’ll come with you, man,” he said. “I don’t want no trouble.” His voice was urgent, tight, panicky.

When the pressure against his body eased, he thought of bolting for the door. But that would be a foolish tactic. Running meant signing his own death certificate. He mentally calculated his odds and quickly realized his best chance—his only chance—would be to wait, pray for an oversight or a mistake, anything that might shift the balance of power in his favor. Then he would make his move.

But—

This was Cain, the legend, and he never blundered. Ever.

Jefferson did hold one card: a small can of Mace hidden in his right sock had miraculously gone undetected. That would be his salvation.

“We’re going out the front door, then to the right,” Cain whispered. “Don’t be foolish. It’s not worth it.”

Jefferson felt the gun press into his back. “Listen, Cain, you’ve got it all wrong. Let me explain.”

“Outside.”

They left Butterfield’s, made a right, walked a few yards, and turned down an alley. Jefferson felt his old confidence returning; this was, after all, his home turf. He’d smacked around dozens of guys here. One poor
putz
called it “Derek’s Alley.” If there was any place where he might have the upper hand, this was it.

But it was also an alley of shadows, and Cain thrived in shadows.

Without realizing it, Jefferson’s right forefinger traced the L-shaped scar.

At the end of the alley, he turned and saw Cain for the first time in more than twenty-five years. Seeing his former commander did little to lift his spirits. Or his hope of surviving. Cain was wiry, hard, strong, as fit as he had been in the jungle. He looked untouched by the passing years.

And, of course, those eyes. Gray, steely, cold. One look at them and Jefferson knew his situation was extremely delicate. He knew blood time when he saw it.

He was going to die.

Unless—

He could maneuver close enough to hit Cain’s eyes with a shot of Mace. It was risky, dangerous. It was also his only option. Distance between the two men was critical. And tricky. He had to get close enough to administer a blinding dose without getting so near that Cain’s lethal hands would become a factor.

No one, regardless of the circumstances, wanted any part of Cain’s hands.

The gun? It would never come into play. The great Cain was too arrogant to ever use any weapon other than those hands.

“You’ve become sloppy, Deke,” Cain said. “I taught you better than that.”

Jefferson inched his feet closer. “Look, Cain, you don’t have any reason to treat me like this.”

“Way I see it, I have three reasons.”

“Give me one.”

“You tried to kill me,” Cain said.

“You’re wrong. I never tried to kill you. We’re family, remember? It’s what you always said—that we were family and we had to stick together.”

“What about Cardinal? He was family.”

“I heard about him. That was a bad break.”

More movement.

“Why’d you waste him?”

“Me? I didn’t kill Cardinal. It must have been Seneca.”

More movement.

“It was you, Deke. You killed Cardinal, and you tried to kill me. Seneca wouldn’t have botched things like you did.”

“I swear, man, you got it all wrong.” Jefferson eased forward another six inches. He was almost there, almost where he needed to be. Only a few more inches and he would be within striking distance.

“You have ten seconds to tell me what’s going on,” Cain said. “The clock’s ticking.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Tick, tick, tick.”

“I swear, Cain. I don’t know nothin’.”

“What’s Seneca got planned?”

“Look, Cain, I don’t know anything worth telling. I swear on my mother’s grave. All I know is Seneca called me, told me to go see Cardinal and Snake, and see if they’d be interested in doing something like Fallen Angels. Just like Nam, remember? He told me to waste them if they refused. Snake was too far gone—the junk done got the best of him—so I let him slide. With Cardinal, I—”

“Killed him.”

“Man, I had to. I didn’t want to deal with Seneca. He’s crazy; you know that.”

“Where is Seneca?”

“I don’t know. New York City, maybe. I think he’s stayin’ there these days.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Couple of weeks ago. We went to Florida to meet some guy.” Jefferson moved forward another three inches.

“What guy?”

“I don’t know his … wait. Simon something. A real fat ass. Lives on a boat with a good-looking young ho.”

“Why, Deke? Why turn against family?”

“Like I said, Cain, I didn’t want to deal with that crazy Indian.”

“But now you have to deal with me.”

“You ain’t gonna kill me.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Why?”

“Sinners must pay.”

“Come on, Cain. Please. I’ll help you find Seneca.”

“I’ll find him, or he’ll find me.”

“You have to believe me, Cain. I didn’t want to kill Cardinal. Or you. I was afraid; that’s all. It was nothin’ personal.”

“And there’ll be nothing personal when I kill you.”

Jefferson caved in to his fear. Although he was still three inches too far from Cain to initiate a strategically sound move, he let his hand reach for the canister of Mace.

It was his second blunder of the night.

The last one he would make.

Cain anticipated the move long before it occurred. Not only anticipated it, but visualized it, broke it down into microscopic detail, and played it out in his mind. He’d even orchestrated it by purposefully leaving the Mace untouched, fully aware Deke would see it as his means of escape.

By his calculations, it would all be over in five seconds.

Jefferson went for the Mace too quickly, fumbling the canister—another blunder that, in the final analysis, wouldn’t have made any difference to the ultimate outcome, because in his haste he also lunged forward, becoming easy prey for Cain’s hands.

Cain had seldom been quicker or more precise. The result: few kills were this easy. It was a simple matter of shifting his body slightly to the left to avoid unnecessary contact with the bull-like Jefferson, then executing two clean karate chops, one to the temple, the second to the bridge of the nose. The first blow may have been fatal, but in all likelihood, it was the second blow, the one driving bone into brain, that ended Jefferson’s life.

Jefferson fell like a wounded elephant, dead before he hit the ground.

There was no need to check for a pulse, but Cain did so anyway. Never leave an opponent breathing. How many times had he told that to his students? Never give an opponent a second chance. It was one of Cain’s sacred commandments. If Jefferson had listened, if he had made sure Cardinal was dead, he might still be alive.

There can be no mistakes during blood time.

Kneeling next to Jefferson, feeling for a pulse he knew wasn’t there, Cain heard Lucas’s words echo in his head—”brother against brother”—and felt a strange sense of anger and disappointment. He felt something else as well: arrogance. His men were good, among the finest killers this country ever produced. He had taught them well, made sure they were exceptional. Yet he, Cain, was the best. Jefferson, good as he was, never had a chance. He was simply overmatched.

The great Leonardo once said that the student who does not surpass his master fails his master.

Leonardo would have been displeased with Deke.

Deke allowed his skills to atrophy. Even more crucial, he failed to keep a wary eye on old friends.

That was the one secret Cain elevated above all others, the one edge he refused to share. Study your comrades as closely—perhaps even more closely—than you study your enemy. Friends don’t always remain friends, and no one is more dangerous than a comrade who becomes the enemy.

The phone rang twice before Lucas picked up.

“Deke is history,” Cain said.

There was a momentary pause. “How appalling. I hoped it would never come to this.”

“What did you think would happen, Lucas? That Deke and I would sit down, hoist a few beers, and discuss old times?”

“No. But I do remember how hurt you were when Rafe bought it in Nam.”

“That was different. Rafe died in combat, doing his job.”

After a lengthy pause, Lucas said, “How many of the six are dead?”

“Cardinal, Rafe, Moon, and now Deke,” Cain answered.

“Two because of this business with Seneca. Even Moon. We suspect he was working for Seneca when he died in Afghanistan. What a messy world this has become.”

“It’s always been messy, Lucas.”

“Ah, yes, my boy, I’m afraid you’re right.” Another pause. “Did you learn anything regarding Seneca’s whereabouts?”

“Deke went with Seneca to see a guy in Florida. His name is Simon. You might want to check him out.”

“Simon Buckman.”

“You’re familiar with him?”

Lucas chuckled. “My boy, you’ve been away too long. Everyone knows Simon.”

“Fill me in.”

“What do you want to know?”

“For starters, who he works for and what he does. Minor information like that.”

“Simon has done many things for many people, including us. He was never a major player, always the middle man. All it takes to secure his services is a healthy stack of bills. His loyalty, such as it is, belongs to whoever is waving the most cash at any given moment.”

“Sounds like a real jewel.”

“My boy, you don’t know the half of it. Simon is a rare gem, indeed.”

“He doesn’t sound like someone Seneca would hook up with. How do you figure their connection?”

“I can’t even begin to speculate,” Lucas said. “Simon has been known to act as a broker for arms shipments around the world. If there’s a war or revolution or
coup d’état
, Simon usually makes a few bucks. Perhaps he’s working with Seneca on an arms shipping deal.”

“This isn’t about arms shipments, Lucas. And it’s not about revolutions. This is about a planned assassination. A take out. Who the target is: that’s what we’ve got to find out. And fast. I have a feeling we’re running out of time.”

“What’s next for you?” Lucas asked.

“Florida. See this Simon Buckman.”

“Do you have any idea where Seneca might be?”

“Maybe New York City. At least, that’s what Deke said.”

“Why don’t you go to New York? See if you can locate Seneca? I’ll send some of my people to Florida. We like to make periodic visits to our friend Simon. This is the perfect time to find out what he’s been up to lately.”

“I’ll catch an early flight to New York.”

“Be very careful, my boy. Seneca isn’t like the others.”

There was a long silence. Finally Lucas said, “I’m truly sorry you had to eliminate Deke. It couldn’t have been an easy thing to do.”

“It’s always easy to kill a traitor, Lucas.”

Cain hung up the phone, undressed, showered, and lay down on the bed. Within seconds he was back on that riverbank, watching a gook’s head bobbing in the dirty water.

Silence, then whispered voices, past and present, ran through his head.

“First kill, sir?”

“Every kill is a first kill.”

“Couldn’t have been easy
.”

“No, you’re wrong, Lucas. Killing Deke was easier than snuffing the dinks in the jungle.”

“Shadow Ghost. Isn’t that what the dinks called him?”

“Goddamn right. Deke made too many mistakes, became too sloppy, allowed himself to get swept into the shadows.”

Cain’s Law: the shadows are mine.

Trespassers will be punished with extreme prejudice.

No exceptions.

Seneca, I am coming for you
.