Thin Line (2 page)

The search concluded with a quick tour of the fourth and fifth floors. These were big hollow spaces void of furnishings. After passing through the fourth
floor, I expected the top level to be full of computers or weapons or an army, even. None of that. And no signs anyone had been up there in some time. A
fine layer of dust coated the hardwood floors, and cobwebs lined the walls, though not to the extent of the third floor apartment. Perhaps my intel was
wrong. Maybe these spaces were used regularly. That, or someone must regularly be cleaning the space on the upper levels.

The narrow hallway on the top floor had roof access. An old rusted ladder mounted to the rear wall. I climbed it and popped the hatch to the roof. Strong
gusts of wind passed by. A steady stream pelted down on me. The cold wormed its way into my clothing. I performed a quick recon of the roof's perimeter and
determined there was no way off unless one was willing to risk a drop of seventy feet or so to the concrete below by attempting a ten-foot jump to the next
building.

I double-checked every room on the way down. All except Taylor's. I wasn't looking for signs of life. Instead, I wanted to root out any possible escape
routes. Iron bars on the upper level windows made any attempt from there impossible. The fire escapes on the second and third floors had been removed.
Heavy bolts stuck out of the wall as a reminder they had once been attached. An alley around the length and width of the Brownstone, but there was no
outlet. It formed a U that originated and terminated on 4th Street.

So that left one way in and out of the building: the front door. And once we saw Brett Taylor enter through it, that spelled game over.

I SAT AT a wrought-iron bistro table, across from Bear, on the frigid and desolate terrace of a small Brooklyn café, a block east of the brownstone
and two blocks west of Prospect Park. Dead leaves skated along the herringbone brick pavers, the first traffic we'd seen pass by.

Gray clouds raced overhead. Along with them came the promise of a winter storm. The temperature had already dropped ten degrees since the high of
thirty-one at 8:00 that morning. Wouldn't be long until the storm hit. I had to wonder if Bear and I would manage to get out of the city today.

I pinched the handle of a mug that had once been hot between my thumb and forefinger. The dark roast emitted a bitter odor. Inches from my mouth, the
rising steam mingled with my chilled breath. A smoky veil lifted into the air between Bear and me. I stared through it past the big man and scanned the
street and sidewalk that stretched beyond the empty terrace. I took a sip. I'd waited four and a half minutes too long to do so. Might as well have been
sucking on unbrewed grounds.

Bear stared at a newspaper pinned to the table by his large hands. His laughter broke the monotony of distant traffic. I glanced down and saw him reading
an op-ed piece about our involvement in Iraq.

I decided it was a good a time as any to kill a few minutes with mind-numbing conversation, so with the mug covering my mouth, I said, "Good and evil."

Bear's forehead wrinkled as he shifted his gaze from the paper to me without moving his head. "What about it?"

"That's the wrong question."

"Then what's the right question?"

"What's the difference?"

Bear shrugged, said nothing, redirected his focus to the op-ed piece.

"The difference," I said, "is that both halves sit on a line so thin I don't believe it exists."

Without looking up, Bear offered a half-hearted chuckle as he hiked his thumb over his shoulder toward the cop who was leaning against a light post on the
opposite side of the intersection. The officer wore a ski mask with a full oval cutout for his face. This resulted in the man's nose and cheeks turning
bright red. The cop brought his hands to his face, lifted the elastic bands on his gloves, and blew into them. I doubted the effect would last long.

"Why don't you go tell Johnny Law over there about your theory?" Bear said.

I wasn't sure how he'd spotted the cop; the man had arrived after we sat down. I resisted the urge to check the glass behind me.

"He'd agree with me," I said. "Think about everything he's seen working in Brooklyn. It ain't Iraq, but it sure as hell isn't a theme park either."

"Nonsense." Bear leaned forward and dropped a thick forearm on the table. Its legs creaked as my side rose up an inch or two. "Just like you learned in
Sunday school as a kid, there's right and wrong and laws and consequences that most people abide by. You can say they do it blindly, or willingly, or
unwillingly but out of fear of retribution. Doesn't matter. Without those laws, chaos would ensue." He tapped on the table with two fingers and added, "To
me, that's a pretty thick line."

"Yet at times, the two of us are given a pass to break those laws if it's good for the government and the welfare of those law-abiding citizens who went to
Sunday school and do everything they're told. Besides, I didn't say 'right and wrong.' I said 'good and evil.' The difference between them might as well be
as wide as the Grand Canyon - at that spot a half-inch or less before the two sides finally meet. According to some, and I'm talking people high up the
black ops food chain, if we take out a target on a hit they sanctioned, then we did something right. Makes us good guys for doing our job. But there are
others, most likely our targets' loved ones, and presumably
our
targets, who'd say we are the face of evil in its purest form."

"Face of evil." Bear waved me off. "You know who that is."

"And yet, if you didn't know what they'd done, you wouldn't be able to tell them apart from anyone else."

"A thin line, eh?"

"So thin your vision would blur trying to focus on it."

Bear worked his hands against each other. "Hurry up with that coffee, Jack. I don't feel like sitting out here anymore."

"Got somewhere you have to be?"

"We both do. Or did you forget that, while you were philosophizing over your now-chilled java?"

I tilted the mug to my mouth and drained the remainder, now cooled to a temperature just above freezing.

"This stuff hasn't changed in thousands of years, Bear. My stance in 250 B.C. would be no different than it is now in 2007."

Bear stared at me without speaking for a few moments, then turned away, stared down the street toward the brownstone.

I said, "Does this make you uncomfortable?"

The big man shrugged and said nothing.

"You brought me into this line of work. Remember?"

Slowly, Bear swung his head around and nodded. "Yeah, I remember, Jack. And, like I've said a hundred times, I don't like thinking about what we do outside
of the times we're actually doing it. Right up until that moment, it's like a game to me. And then I can block out those few minutes where we neutralize our
targets. In the end, it's just a way to make a living. Hell, you wanna talk about a line? I'm straddling that line every day. Besides, you know the stories
on most of the dudes we take out. It ain't like they're heroes or Roy Rogers wannabees. These bastards deserve what they get. Every last one of them."

I'd managed to get him worked up. But I couldn't relish the moment for too long. The cop across the street was talking into his shoulder-mounted radio.
Dark sunglasses now hid his eyes, and he had repositioned himself to face us.

I brought the empty mug up and hid my lips with it. "Don't look, but that cop seems awfully interested in us. You didn't do anything to get your ugly mug
painted on a wanted sign, did you?"

Bear looked past me - at the window, I presumed. He pushed back from the table and rose. "If I did, then so did you. Just go easy if he tries, man. We'll
be out in an hour."

"And we'll lose our guy. Think about the sacrifice you've made for this. Been up for over twenty-four hours. Haven't showered. Changed your clothes. I've
been trying to figure out if that's the sewer or you I've been smelling."

"Not now, Jack."

"We get hauled in, and the clock on Taylor resets to zero. For us, at least. We'll be off the job and out of the time we spent on this."

Bear said, "I'll go over the fence. You go through the cafe, then head down to the park, come back down 5th. You know where to meet from there."

I nodded, rose, dropped a twenty on the table, and set the mug on top to keep the bill from blowing away in the gusts. By the time I looked up, Bear had
cleared the fence and was on his way toward the brownstone. I tossed a quick glance at the cop, who remained in the same place, but was obviously watching
me as I turned and pushed past the door leading inside the café.

A blonde-haired woman in her early twenties looked up from her crossword puzzle as I entered. She started to get up. I gestured for her to remain seated.

"There's a cop out there," I said. "What's he doing?"

Again, she leaned forward to stand.

"Just turn your head toward the door and cough," I said.

She lowered her eyebrows and then did as instructed. Looking back toward me, she said, "He's bouncing from one foot to the other."

"Where?"

"On the sidewalk."

"This side of the street, or the other?"

"The other."

"Thanks." I scanned the small dining room. "Got a back way out of here?"

"Are you in trouble?"

"Would it make a difference if I were?"

She smiled and tilted her head to the side. Blonde ringlets with pink highlights splayed over her right shoulder. She reached up and twirled a tendril.
"Maybe."

I glanced at the colored tattoos that lined the exposed skin of her forearms and neck. She'd be more inclined to help me, I figured, if the cop wanted
something with me.

"You got a back door or not?"

She gestured with her head toward the counter. "That door leads to the storeroom. Just head to the back and through the emergency door. Don't worry, it
won't trigger the alarm. Been dead as long as I've worked here. You'll end up in an alley that runs between 4th and 5th. It meets up with the cross
streets."

I nodded, turned and headed for the storeroom.

"Hey," she called out.

I glanced back. "Yeah?"

"What'd you do?"

"If I told you I killed someone, would you believe me?"

The curious grin on her face spread. "No."

I TOSSED ONE final glance past the café's windows and saw an empty street. The cop was no longer positioned outside. Had he followed Bear? Perhaps
he'd crossed the street and stood against the brick exterior of the building, out of view, waiting for me to exit.

It didn't matter. I raced through the storeroom, past the non-emergency exit, and into the brick-lined walled canyon behind the café. One side of the
asphalt was slick with runoff. Overflowing dumpsters butted up to the buildings. I caught hints of grease and fish and rotting meat.

No one hung out back there, except for a half-dozen feral cats. They lay out on any spot that gave them respite from the winds that barreled through the
narrow alley. I remained cautious as I passed each door, each crevice that led from the street to my position. Gusts continued to pummel me as I walked.
Might as well have been inside a wind tunnel in an underground government testing facility.

If they existed, of course.

I flipped my collar up and shoved my hands in my pockets. Didn't help. The cold air had made a home there already. My hand brushed against the handle of my
Beretta, holstered securely in my waistband.

The worst thing the cop could do would be to show up here and now.

Though targets were limited to those identified by the government, I had the autonomy to do whatever I deemed necessary to remain alive. Surprisingly to
some, I'd never discharged a round at a cop. And I didn't want my first time to be today, either. It was a moot point. If taken into custody, a single call
would get me out, no matter what I did. But it was looked down upon, and might result in me losing a fair amount of work. Too much paperwork. Too much
cover-up. Employers didn't want to have to deal with that. Best thing to do was not get caught.

At 8th Avenue, I traveled a half-block south, then continued east on 5th. A few minutes later, I stood on the pitted curb of Prospect Park West.

The scene was ordinary for a freezing day, if not a little more congested than the view from the café terrace. A few people scurried along the
sidewalk, wrapped in heavy coats and scarves and wool hats, under the skeletal branches that hung overhead. None of them were a threat. The cop from the
café was nowhere to be seen, and it didn't appear that he had called in back-up. The thought that the officer had followed Bear lingered in the back
of my mind. I shoved it aside on grounds of paranoia.

I reached into my jeans pocket and retrieved my cell phone, then used it to call Bear. The big man didn't answer. A second call yielded the same results. I
closed the phone and stuffed it inside my coat pocket for quicker access should Bear call me back. I resumed my trek, heading one block south before
turning west on 6th Street.

Ten minutes later, I was a block from the brownstone. I'd called Bear twice during the walk and received no answer each time. Concern grew that the cop had
picked him up. Could have been for any number of reasons, none of which would sound pretty at booking.

I took a chance on the front door of an apartment building situated on the opposite side of the street. The door was locked, but had been left open a
crack. Maybe the wind had kept it from shutting. Or the cold air had bent the frame, making it hard to shut. Whatever, didn't matter.

Warm air welcomed me as I stepped in from the cold. Light traveled through a rectangular window covered with a film of grime. Disturbed dust kicked up into
the air and reflected the filtered light as it settled back toward the floor. A few feet past the entryway, a stairwell cut through the middle of the hall.
I took the stairs two at a time to the third floor. There, I took position at a window overlooking the road below and the brownstone's entrance.