Undertow (The UnderCity Chronicles) (24 page)

They worked their way through a maze of ancient tunnels until they came to a featureless metal door set at the end of one of the passages. A small electric light and security camera were set above it, as well as an intercom installed to one side.

“This is new,” Reggie said. “Looks like hiring the Tecos isn’t the only thing they’ve done to upgrade security.”

Jack glanced over his shoulder. The feeling from The Gallery had returned, and this time he wasn’t going to ignore it. They were being watched, and by more than the camera.

“Time to say hello.” He stepped to the door and pressed the intercom button.

There was a long silence. C’mon, c’mon. He was about to try again when a gravelly Hispanic voice came over the speaker. “Who are you?”

Jack looked up at the camera. “My name is Jack Cole, and I’m here with my woman and Reggie from Grand Central. We’ve come to speak with the Tecoacualli. Najib sent us.”

Another drawn-out silence before the voice returned. “Place your weapons and shit by the door and get up against the wall.”

Jack nodded, then turned to Reggie and muttered, “I sure hope Najib knows what he’s talking about.”

They did as instructed while the security camera swiveled back and forth to verify their compliance. Only then did the heavy door unlock, and from out of the brilliant light beyond came a group of five men, all armed with heavy automatics and clad in black army-style clothing.

They fanned out—two watched the tunnel, one snagged the sub-machine guns and packs, and two frisked their visitors, running a small metal detector over them for good measure. Inspection complete, the contingent escorted them inside.

Jack squinted under the glare of harsh fluorescent lighting, his eyes watering as they were led down a short corridor and through a barred security door. It opened into a large bunker-like chamber decorated with a collage of psychedelic posters and hardcore pornography, furnished with ratty furniture and reeking of what smelt like ammonia. A small boom box in the corner played Spanish rap music, and the room featured a grimy kitchenette, a bathroom and a row of monitors displaying Seneca’s primitive laboratories. None of it would have looked at all impressive to an average New Yorker, but the very fact that Seneca enjoyed water, sewage and electricity testified to the prosperity of this outlaw community.

One of the men, the left side of his face disfigured by burns, disappeared down an adjoining hall, while another sat Jack and Reggie, Lindsay between them, down on an old couch to wait. Lindsay shook free her hair and unzipped her jacket. The eyes of the three guards were immediately riveted to her. Sexual interest animated their deadpan expressions. Apparently Nazi conspiracy theories didn’t reach this far.

“Najib told us that there’s a man here named Tocat,” Reggie said. “He around?”

One grizzled fighter dragged his eyes sideways to Reggie.“He’ll be here soon, man. Relax.”

After a quarter of an hour passed, the guards took up the surrounding chairs, keeping their pistols in hand. By now Lindsay had completely undone her jacket and she was about to wiggle out of it when he tugged it back over her shoulders and shook his head. She shrugged and complied. She’d be glad of a jacket if, as he was beginning to worry, they had to make a run for it.

The guards all looked to be in their mid-thirties, though rough living had left the lot of them scarred, calloused and tougher than old boards. All of them were sporting a variety of gang tattoos, including an Aztec-styled one of a snake that ran around each man’s left wrist. Their clothing looked as dark and dirty as the tunnels; their guns were all clean and polished. Without a doubt these were the Tecos—brutal renegades of New York’s most feared Hispanic gangs. Marked men from topsider gangs like El Esquadron, La Raza and the Mexican Mafia. They were all outcasts to begin with, when they formed their own gang in the Burbs. The lot of them had relocated to Seneca shortly before the cops came, otherwise the carnage would have been even worse.

The military marching of heavy boots came down the hallway, and into the room arrived a short and extremely muscular man with the same uniform and wrist tattoo as his companions. Unlike his dead-eyed men, however, his gaze shone with a fierce intelligence, and by his confident stride, he was the undisputed leader of the group.

He waved his hand and a seat was vacated. He sat and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, as if about to engage in a friendly chat.

“So, Najib sent you, huh? Been a long time since I heard his name.”

As in the old days, Jack let Reggie do the talking. The big black man had developed his own effective brand of people skills. “Najib said you owed him a favor or two. Told me I could call them in.”

The man leaned back in his chair, easing into a near-smile. “Najib’s a smart man. Now you’ll owe him. What do you want?”

“There’s a topsider that got taken by the Moles. We need help going down to The Pits to rescue her.”

The hardened men exchanged nervous glances, and even Tocat’s composed expression tightened. “That’s some favor.”

“We can pay,” Reggie continued. “I’m talking five grand for the each of you. Najib told me you Tecos are the most dangerous men in the underground, so that’s why we’ve come here. We need the best.”

Tocat gave a slow, calculating nod. Greed versus fear, Jack supposed. Which would win out? “It’s a big job, man, going after the Moles where they live. Five grand isn’t going to—”

His words were cut off by the slam of a door down the hallway, followed by a string of harsh obscenities. Jack and Reggie exchanged looks and, as one, turned to Lindsay between them. She seemed more pissed than scared. “Just when we were getting somewhere,” she said through thinned lips.

Heavy footfalls bore down on them, and there emerged a huge, fat, greasy man, all of his chins quivering with rage. He gestured to the couch and snarled, “What the fuck is this shit? When did I say you motherfuckers could let anyone in?”

Tocat didn’t even glance up. “Chill out, King. They’re here to see me.”

“Oh, that’s nice. So who the fuck are they? Fucking cops?”

“Cops never come this deep.”

“They will if we open the fucking doors for them. I pay you motherfuckers to guard this place, not have your fucking friends over for some pizza fucking party. You think I’m going to let anyone wander the fuck through Seneca on your say-so?”

Tocat rose, his controlled stance hardening into hostility. Jack double-checked the exit, scrambled to think of a deal to make. The Teco leader strolled over until the fat man, who was a good half-foot taller, had to sink his chins into his chest.

“So what you want us to do?” asked Tocat, his tone calm, dangerous.

King didn’t budge an inch. “For starters I want to be told when people show up, but seeing as how you’ve already rolled out the red fucking carpet for them I’d like to know a few other things. Like who the fuck they are, why they’re fucking here and why I shouldn’t cap the fucking lot of them in the head.”

Tocat jerked a thumb at Jack. “That man’s name is Jack Cole. You heard of him?”

King turned piggy eyes to Jack, then fixed them back on Tocat, raising a pudgy finger to the Teco leader’s face.

“I want them frisked, cuffed and brought to my fucking office. And don’t you
ever
let anyone through that fucking door without my permission again, or—” King stopped.

“Or what?” Tocat’s voice was a chilling taunt.

King’s already red face turned almost purple with anger. “Just bring them to my fucking office.” He stalked out of the room. From down the hallway came a loud “Fuck!”

Jack knew now who their real enemy was. He took a risk. “Who the fuck does that fat fuck think he fucking is?”

It worked. Tocat broke into a broad grin. “Fuck man, he’s the fucking mayor of fucking Seneca.”

Seneca wasn’t pleasant, but it was large. With several poorly ventilated labs, a small warehouse for chemical and drug storage, and long rows of bunk beds for its workers, the place was a full-fledged narcotics factory. This Lindsay learned as she was led handcuffed along with Jack and Reggie through the corridors, past room after room where empty-eyed, emaciated people ate, slept and slaved under the watchful eye of Teco guards.

“Place is a lot bigger than when I was last here,” Reggie said, out of the side of his mouth.

“Profits must be up,” Jack noted. “Let’s hope they’re not recruiting.”

King’s office was at the far end of the complex, a grubby room filled with cheap furniture where the smell of cigarette smoke barely overlaid the more noxious fumes of the labs. He sat behind his desk like a poisonous toad, his pale skin a sickly green hue in the fluorescent lighting. He had them cuffed to three weighty metal chairs, then dismissed the Teco guards.

The sentries exchanged looks, hesitating, slowly complying after King yelled at them to get the fuck out. The fat man turned to his guests, his lips still curled into a feral snarl. “Did you see that? Only orders those fucking bastards take is to go on a fucking coffee break. Which,” he added, as if it needed clarifying, “I don’t fucking give.”

He looked at each of them in turn, his eyes settling on Lindsay for a long full draw of his cigarette. His free hand disappeared under the desk, and adjusted his crotch area, and then stayed down there. Lindsay balled her hands into fists and glancing to the side, saw that both Jack and Reggie had done the same, their knuckles white.

King’s gaze drifted to Jack. “So, I hear you’re one serious badass. A fucking Mole-killer. That right?”

Only Jack’s mouth moved. “I did escape them. That much is true.”

King rubbed his chins. "So you want to rescue some poor bastard from those freaks, huh?"

Jack nodded. “That’s right.”

“Who?”

“A topsider.”

“Why?”

“Friend of a friend.”

“Must be quite the fucking friend,” King said. "I wouldn’t go down there to save my own mother.”

“I believe you.”

The greaseball gave a genuine laugh. “I’d be thrilled to help the esteemed Jack-fucking-Cole, only I got fucking headaches of my own right now. Built this place up with my own two hands, and now those Aztec motherfuckers think they’re my fucking partners.”

“Um…Mr. King,” Reggie said. “We only came by to see if we could hire some backup here. We don’t want to be getting in your way or nothing.”

King trained his beady eyes on Reggie. “And who exactly the fuck are you?”

“Name’s Reggie Watkins. I got the gate at Grand Central.”

“Right. I remember you. I paid you protection way back, didn’t I? How the mighty have fucking fallen.”

Lindsay saw the muscles in Reggie’s face convulse, even as he gave an indifferent shrug.

“So who’s she?” King continued, addressing his question to Jack. Lindsay hardly blinked at the chauvinism. On King’s long list of character flaws, being a sexist pig was probably the least serious.

“Lindsay,” Jack replied.

King stared, obviously expecting more. Jack looked impassively back.

The man dropped his cigarette butt into his cup of coffee where it hissed and died, and took in Lindsay again. More adjustments were made under the desk. “She yours?”

Jack’s expression was closed, unreadable. “Yes.”

“Well then, I think we can come to a fucking arrangement.”

Jack remained silent so long that King was forced to carry on unprompted. “I’ll send Tocat and a few of his men down to The Pits with you, while your woman stays here as my guest. Wouldn’t want her getting hurt down there, would you?”

Lindsay shot Jack her “Don’t-you-even-think-about-it” glare. He didn’t look at her. “What do you want in return?”

“It’s not what I want, Cole. It’s what I don’t want. And what I don’t fucking want is the people I give you making it back alive.”

“You’re asking us to kill your own men?” Reggie’s voice was hard with disbelief.

“I don’t care if it’s you or the fucking Moles. I don’t want to see them again.”

Lindsay watched Jack’s white-knuckled fists convulse. “How do you propose we do that? There’ll only be two of us against at least five or six of them. And their guns look well cared for.”