Vigilante (25 page)

I
don’t believe it,” said Nolan, quickly scanning the contents of the article. Justice for two dead cops apparently meant tiny bails set by a crooked judge. Nolan closed his eyes, swallowed, and tasted bile.

He kept his eyes closed until his emotions were buried down deep where they belonged. The way Branford and Arjay were staring at him made him blink. He saw pity on their faces.

“Will you two please stop that?” he said, his temper rising so fast it startled even him. But he felt no desire to apologize just now. He got back to the matter at hand before either of them could reply. “Do we know who paid their bail?”

Branford nodded, and Nolan didn’t really care how they’d managed to come by such information. “The release forms were signed by Marko Ostrovsky.”

Nolan recognized that name but wasn’t sure how. He craned his neck to examine the data map on the wall. Marko Ostrovsky was near the very top of the map, just beneath Vasko’s name. This guy was Vasko’s right-hand man, and in fine print beneath his name were details about how the two of them had been friends since childhood and had escaped equally abusive homes in the Ukraine together as young men. He wasn’t just a close associate of Vasko’s; he was practically a younger sibling.

Nolan’s mind was spinning rapidly, but he paused, returning to his friends. They both looked so very tired. Neither of them complained. They were always ready to help, but he knew that things were wearing on them. Maybe even more than they were wearing on him. Their difficult conditions. Lack of quality sleep. Fear for their lives in this new world order in New York.

Nolan was conditioned for hardship. At times, he even used it as fuel to push himself. Branford was pushing seventy and was many years removed from that sort of thing. Arjay was no more a soldier than he was an opera singer.

Feeling a sudden wave of guilt, he stood. “I’m taking the next shift. You’re both exhausted. I want you to get some rest.”

Branford’s argument was immediate. “You need sleep as much as we do. You won’t be any good out there on the streets in the morning if you don’t get any rest tonight.”

Nolan forced a smile for his friend’s benefit. “I just spent two months resting enough for a lifetime. You sleep.”

———

When Branford was snoring loudly and Arjay was mumbling in his sleep, Nolan took the RV’s wheel and forced the old beast to life. As he drove, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a business card he’d found while searching Vasko’s man that morning in SoHo.

Nearly half an hour later, he parked in a small lot just beneath the northern end of the Brooklyn Bridge, not far from the river’s edge. Bulldozers, earth movers, and other pieces of construction equipment were parked nearby, as well as a pair of motor homes. The RV looked like just another trailer being used during the day as a makeshift office.

Satisfied that his friends were deeply asleep and as safe as possible, hidden under the mammoth steel bridge, he slipped out of the vehicle and set off into the night.

Just two blocks away, he made his way to the roof of a six-story L-shaped hotel facing the river. At the southwest corner of the rooftop was a complex rig comprised of solar panels, ventilation ducts, and four massive air-conditioning units. In the center of all the machinery was an empty space that was completely sealed off from prying eyes. The only access was to tightrope walk across the upper edge of two huge solar panels and then drop down into the four-by-four open spot, which was completely surrounded by metal siding from the air-conditioners.

This was where, three weeks ago, Nolan had gone to great lengths to hide a large green army duffel bag. Its existence and contents—and three other bags just like it, hidden elsewhere across New York—he’d kept secret from his friends. He wasn’t intentionally keeping them in the dark. But he had to protect them.

He couldn’t lose anyone else.

———

Using the grappler, with the duffel bag slung across his back, Nolan worked his way to the Lower East Side. As he entered the neighborhood, most of the buildings became single-story structures, which slowed his progress.

Eventually he located the address written on the business card in his pocket. It led to a small gas station and body shop on a residential road a few blocks south of the Williamsburg Bridge. The building was covered in grime and appeared to have been closed and abandoned for several years. It was a blight upon the quaint surrounding area.

Under cover of night, he swiftly circled the building without a sound until he reached the back door. A tiny diamond-shaped window was inset, and a light glowed from inside. To its right were two huge garage doors, used by the body shop.

Risking a quick peek, he got a glimpse of three men sitting around a small table in the center of the garage. He took note of the building’s layout, including every way in or out. And he saw that lining the walls were small boxes marked “Medical Supplies,” which he suspected were filled with illegal drugs or weapons or maybe even counterfeit money.

With absolute clarity of purpose, he retrieved several items from the duffel bag slung across his back.

Tools in hand, Nolan went to work.

F
ive minutes later, when Nolan had complete control over the environment, he was ready to move.

The three Mafioso sat around a square card table, inspecting or counting small stacks of cash that Nolan suspected to be counterfeit. Nolan knew it was them, even from his vantage point, suspended near the ceiling atop a tall cabinet. The one with the gash across his head from Nolan’s staff had a large gauze pad taped to his forehead. Another wore a small silver brace over his broken nose. The third had a bandage covering one of his ears.

There was no doubt. These were the men who’d escaped justice.

With a silent breath, he held two large black guns—one in each hand—and dropped from his perch. He landed on their table, squashing it with a loud crash and sending the fake money flying.

He rose to his full height as the three men fell backward onto their backs and struggled to get their bearings. But when Nolan commanded them to stop, they froze in place, noticing the two guns he was pointing at them. Nolan watched them carefully for any sign of movement.

When he was sure he had their attention, he stunned them by pulling the triggers on both guns without another word uttered.

Instead of bullets, liquid sprayed out of the two water guns and he took a few seconds to fully drench all three of them. He watched with satisfaction as they realized he hadn’t squirted them with water. Their noses were upturned, there were grimaces etched on their faces, and their eyes burned red.

Nolan dropped the two plastic weapons on the ground and pulled out a cigarette lighter, flicking it on.

The men drew perfectly still once again, this time out of sharp fear. They were soaked in gasoline, and Nolan was holding a flame. He toyed with the lighter, playfully passing it back and forth between his fingers and waving it dangerously close to the puddle on the ground where the gasoline that dripped from their hair, skin, and clothes was pooling.

“I drop this,” he intoned with a low voice, “and the flames will cover your bodies faster than the human brain is capable of processing the pain from the nerve endings in your skin. Less than one second later, white-hot fire will coat every inch of your bodies. Your hair will be burned away. Your chance of survival with burns so severe is extremely small, and I promise you, gentlemen, should you manage to live through the experience, you’ll spend every last second wishing you hadn’t.”

The three men exchanged nervous glances but didn’t dare stir a single inch. They watched as Nolan knelt to address them on eye level, bringing the cigarette lighter’s flame that much closer to them.

“The three of you,” he went on with what he hoped was an intense, maddening calm, “should consider yourselves in my custody. Since the judicial system failed to bring you to justice, I’ve made my own arrangements. In two hours, you’ll be passengers onboard the freighter
Calcutta
when it casts off from Port Jersey bound for Sierra Leone. Your trip is one way, and if you don’t stay put when you get there . . . I’ll finish what I started. Understand?”

The smallest of the three men was the first to respond. Rather than using his voice, he nodded nervously.

“Up,” Nolan said.

When the mobsters got to their feet and started filing out through the back door by Nolan’s command, they stepped across a wide puddle just outside the door. A puddle so wide, in fact, that it stretched around the building and was being fed by a liquid that was dripping from the outside walls. Gasoline.

When they were clear, Nolan knelt on one knee next to the building and touched the gasoline with his lighter. Pulling up beside his prisoners, he said, “Closed for demolition,” and led them away.

The small gas station burned for the next four hours, until it and everything inside was completely consumed.

———

Judge Herbert Jacobs’ eyes snapped open when he felt a warm hand cover his mouth. His head was slumped toward his bedside table and the clock glowed green. It was 4:19.

A shadowy figure loomed over him in the dark, the silhouette of a pistol pointed straight at him.

“I know Yuri Vasko coerced you into setting bail for his three men this afternoon,” said a gruff voice. “Don’t waste time denying it. Whatever he offered you in exchange, you’re going to return it. You’re going to tell him that you’ll never do what he asks of you again. From now on, you work solely for the good of the people of New York.”

He felt the gun’s muzzle bury itself against his left temple. The hand moved from his mouth.

“He’ll kill me!” the judge whispered, in a panic. “He’ll kill my whole family!”

The shadow shook its head. “It’s a matter of public record that you presided over that bail hearing this afternoon. If you turn up dead or missing, Vasko will be the first, most obvious suspect. And that’s not the kind of publicity he wants.”

The judge considered this. He couldn’t keep his twitchy eyes from repeatedly falling on the gun.

“If I still refuse?” he asked. “Will
you
kill me?”

“There are things worse than death,” said the voice. “I’m familiar with every one of them.”

T
hornton Hastings felt more hopeless than he had in a long time.

Yuri Vasko’s power and holdings were expanding every day. Hastings’ Organized Crime Intelligence agency had grown as well, but gained no ground on the front lines of this war—New York City. There had been some minor progress in other branches of the OCI, thanks to agents stationed in New Orleans, Detroit, and Pittsburgh. But in New York, nothing they hurled at Vasko made a dent in his armor.

Two nights ago, his top OCI agents had made a raid on a restaurant owned by Vasko, which they believed housed an armory of weapons far too powerful to be available to the public.

But like so many times before, the intel was proven false. Not only was the raid a waste of time, it nearly caused an international incident. The Czech ambassador to the United Nations was dining there along with half a dozen friends, and he seemed to think that the raid was a political move directed at him. The restaurant was a personal favorite of his, and he made a statement to the media about the “careless and dangerous manner in which the OCI operates.”

Today, Marcus Bailey showed up for their morning briefing alone. Director Pryce, he said, was still trying to deal with the Czech government’s embarrassment over their ambassador being “harassed in public by the fascist American gestapo.”

As if all this wasn’t enough, Hastings was dealing with a nasty case of the flu. His body ached all over and longed for rest, but he insisted on working—over his doctor’s strong objections.

It was his custom to glance over several news sites first thing in the morning. Marcus was used to this and knew his boss well enough to know that he was capable of multitasking. So he began going over the latest happenings in the war on crime while Hastings’ eyes remained glued to the crime blotter of the
New York Gazette.

Two minutes later Hastings started and involuntarily leapt to his feet.

Reading the reports was a ritual he’d started to remind himself of how bad the problem was in New York. Listing after listing of assault, robbery, and worse filled the pages of the blotter. Today, though, deep in the listings was a small note about an abandoned gas station that had been burned down just last night. The article mentioned that this particular gas station was long suspected to be a secret organized crime facility where counterfeit money was printed. An accelerant was used and the fire department suspected arson.

Only these days, that formula didn’t add up. Nobody targeted known mob houses. Everything was Vasko’s. And yet here, someone had burned one of the man’s buildings to the ground.

It was Nolan. It had to be. He was alive! He was back.

Whatever the reason for his disappearance, it no longer mattered. The Hand was back on the job. Knowing Nolan, he’d probably been trying to get the city’s attention for days, maybe even weeks, but it wasn’t easy to stand in front of gathered crowds as a symbol of hope when there
were
no crowds.

Hastings actually smiled. Maybe hope hadn’t abandoned him just yet.

“Mr. President?”

Hastings had almost forgotten Marcus was in the room with him. Seated across the desk, his chief of staff was staring at him with alarm, watching carefully as the president grinned.

Hastings hesitated, his thoughts spinning fast. His cheeks burned and his muscles felt weak.

“Sir?” Marcus said. “Are you feeling all right?”

He wasn’t sure at first if he’d just had a brilliant idea or if the flu meds he was on were messing with his judgment. Either way, he made a radical decision on the spot. There were few people in this world he trusted more than Marcus Bailey. He returned to his seat.

“It’s Nolan Gray,” said Hastings softly, as if they might be overheard outside the office. “He’s not dead. I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. Nolan is The Hand. And I think he’s back in the game.”

Marcus leaned back in his seat and examined the ceiling with the color draining from his face. “And you know this how?”

“Right now, a hunch. But trust me, it’s him.”

Marcus closed his eyes and uttered a word under his breath that was most disrespectful to the Oval Office.

Hastings immediately felt guilty. “I didn’t know he was alive when we held his funeral, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Marcus watched his boss carefully, his lips pressed into a thin line. Hastings watched as his chief of staff’s decorum was restored in mere seconds. He straightened his tie and let out a very long breath.

“I understand how difficult this secret must have been to keep. And I appreciate your confiding in me, Mr. President,” said Marcus. “Rest assured it will not leave this office. If people found out that you eulogized a man who wasn’t dead . . .”

Hastings paused, feeling his temperature spike, and cold chills quickly gave way to cold sweats. He hugged himself and rubbed his own arms, trying not to shiver. “No. That’s just it, Marcus. That’s why I’m telling you this now. I
want
you to leak this.”

Marcus’s restraint vanished. He looked as if the president had just grown a rhinoceros horn on his forehead. And then just as quickly, his expression relaxed a little. “You think people will rally around him if they know who he really is.”

“The Hand is a vigilante,” replied Hastings, his decision feeling more and more right with every second that passed. “But Nolan Gray is a national treasure. He was a hero before he was The Hand. The people of New York deserve to know who’s out there fighting for them.”

Marcus nodded, but then his expression turned somber. “Sir, I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that this is political suicide. Your adversaries on the Hill have been looking for something just like this to undermine your moral authority.”

Hastings smiled despite his sadness. “The lives of the people of New York are more important than my political career. If sacrificing my second term will save them . . . so be it. We’re losing this war, Marcus. I don’t think we can win without The Hand, and Nolan’s work is meaningless without popular support.”

“He’s just one man,” Marcus said. “Is it realistic to think that he can succeed where many have failed? How can this one man turn the tide?”

“Nolan’s more than a man,” Hastings replied, suddenly feeling fatigued. “We need to remind people that this is the land of the free and the home of the brave. It’s not owned by thugs and criminals like Yuri Vasko. If anyone can turn things around, it’s Nolan.”

“Very well, then,” Marcus said, rising to his feet. “I’ll see to it right away.”

“And Marcus, don’t let the trail for this lead back to the White House. Make something up. Who was that reporter that was always trying to figure out The Hand’s identity?”

“Ellerbee. At the
Gazette
. We could say that . . . I don’t know, maybe a backup of her files was found . . . on an anonymous server by a computer hacker.”

Hastings nodded. “Yeah, yeah. That’s good. Go with that.”

Marcus hesitated before exiting the room. “What are you going to do?”

“Nolan is going to know that this came from us. From
me
. In doing this, I’m sending him a message—one I should have sent a lot sooner. I just hope that he understands it.”

“What message?”

Hastings looked Marcus in the eye. “I’ve got his back. Whatever support or assistance he needs . . . he has it.”