Vigilante (28 page)

In fact, this maneuver might have even been
too
desperate. . . .

Nolan had a terrible thought. What if Hastings had ordered his people to conduct this entire operation as a means of drawing Nolan out, of getting him engaged in the same battlefield as the OCI? Could he have possibly strategized this as a means of getting The Hand to join forces with the White House?

Then again, Coral had mentioned heavy casualties in her SOS, and Hastings was many things, but he would never be so cavalier about sending his people to die. He had too much respect for human life to do something like that.

Nolan’s senses instantly became alert, his muscles tightening, as he watched Mayor Lewis McCord stride into his office and smile a wicked grin at the prisoners.

Nolan held out his hand and activated the sound amplifier, while continuing to peer through the rifle’s lens.

“What’s happening?” asked Arjay.

Tonight, in another break from standard protocol, Branford and Arjay had insisted on accompanying him into the field. Particularly when they saw the M82 that he planned to take along—the close proximity of which was making Arjay antsy. He hadn’t stopped moving since they’d emerged from the building’s stairs onto the roof.

“McCord just walked in,” said Nolan. “He’s enjoying the moment. He’s mocking them. Wait a minute, wait a minute . . .”

“What?” asked Branford, his gruff voice all business. He knelt next to Nolan at the edge of the roof.

“He just ordered everyone out of the room,” explained Nolan, tightening his grip on the rifle. “Vasko’s men, McCord’s own security. He made them leave.”

“Why?” asked Arjay.

Nolan shook his head. “I can’t hear what he’s saying anymore. . . . He’s whispering something in the ear of Coral’s partner.”

“Who’s Coral?”

Nolan grew impatient. “The woman that called for help.”

“So you know her,” observed Arjay with sudden interest. “On the radio, was she calling for
you
?”

Nolan didn’t answer. In truth, the thought
had
occurred to him. It wasn’t like the OCI to broadcast on an open channel. They had far more high-tech equipment than that.

“I don’t like this,” Nolan said, focused on the scene playing out in the office. “General, am I missing something? He’s got to be armed, right?”

Nolan backed away from the gun so Branford could slide into place and stare through the scope. “I see no weapon on him.”

“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t have one,” replied Nolan, resuming his position behind the scope. “He’s in that room alone with the five of them, and he sent everyone else out. No way is he unarmed.”

“You really willing to risk that?” asked Branford. “After what happened at that nightclub? What if McCord’s trying to help them? Maybe he had a change of heart and he’s whispering so his men out in the hall don’t hear.”

That was wrong. It felt wrong. Nolan knew it without knowing.

His response came without hesitation. “Every second I hesitate, he could pull a gun and shoot them. And they have nothing to defend themselves.”

Arjay’s hand massaged his forehead, and his feet paced a few strides back and forth. “Are we seriously talking about what I think we are?!” he cried. “This isn’t some wartime field op where you’re trying to overrun an enemy stronghold! This is
assassination
! Of the mayor of New York!”

“Please,” said Nolan. “The whole city knows McCord’s dirty. He was part of the mob long before Vasko took over.”

“Oh, so he was on your list already, then?” asked Arjay. “You would have executed him eventually?”

“It’s not an execution,” chided Branford. “It’s a tactical measure to save the lives of the people in that room. The rifle is muffled. If McCord’s out of the picture, Nolan may be able to zip down there and get inside that room before Vasko’s men realize what happened.”

Nolan glanced up at Branford. “Then we’re agreed?”

Branford scowled, but nodded.

Both men looked to Arjay.

“Stuff the military speak!” said Arjay, his volume rising. “What of the moral and ethical concerns? That’s always been your guiding light as The Hand. Where the cops and soldiers fight for justice, your manifesto has always been
morality
. So tell me. Is it moral to knowingly commit murder?”

Nolan pulled back from the scope to look the younger man in the eye. “Is it immoral to let five people die when I know I can prevent it?”

“And what if you’re wrong?”

Nolan never flinched. “I’m not.”

Arjay shook his head and threw his hands up. “You don’t need my vote. Never have. Do your thing.”

“You ready, General?” Nolan asked. He didn’t elaborate, because he didn’t have to. He knew Branford understood that he was asking the general to take over the sniper rifle after he made the shot, and cover him as he fired the grappler and got inside that office as fast as possible.

“Yeah,” replied Branford. “And for what it’s worth . . . I still trust you.”

Nolan lined up the shot and pulled the trigger.

W
ind whipped by Nolan’s ears as he retracted the grappler and flew toward the mayor’s office. The hook was fastened to the big white building’s cupola. Making a fast calculation, he let up on the trigger in time to swing down and run across the building’s lawn. When he neared the front wall, he squeezed the trigger again and let the retracting line pull him up the side of the building.

With a mighty windup, Nolan flew, fist first, through the glass window. It shattered on impact with a huge clamor, and Nolan swung through, retracted the grappler from the roof, and rolled across the floor, using the momentum to quickly rise to his feet. He hated that the glass had made a noise loud enough to alert Vasko’s men, but he didn’t have time to do this clean.

McCord’s office was a spacious room with endless symbols of American democracy—flags, blue carpeting adorned with stars, chairs with bright red upholstery—and an ancient cherry desk with a burgundy wingback behind it.

The survivors had untied one another, and Coral’s partner—Jonah something?—had a Smith and Wesson .45 in his hand already trained on Nolan. The mayor’s body lay by the desk, his blazer flipped open revealing a hidden holster.

Nolan knew he’d been right. Mayor McCord had a gun and was about to kill the five OCI agents. Because now Jonah was pointing that same weapon straight at Nolan’s head.

The thunder of pounding feet came rushing toward them from the hall. They’d definitely heard the glass shatter.

Nolan looked over Jonah’s shoulder at the door that McCord had entered through. “That door locked?” he asked, cutting his eyes across to Coral.

“First thing we did, after . . .” She nodded at McCord’s body.

Nolan nodded toward the broken window. Jonah was still pointing the .45 at him. “That’s your way out,” he said. “There are ledges and handholds. You should be able to climb down.”

Coral stepped forward and put her hand on the .45, gently pushing Jonah’s arms down. She took the pistol from his hands and let it hang by her side.

The thugs outside started pounding on the thick wooden door.

“Go, I’ll deal with them,” said Nolan, lowering his voice.

Jonah still stared Nolan down with aggressive dislike. When he spoke, he never broke eye contact. “You heard the man. We’re withdrawing.”

The big agent never offered any sort of gratitude for Nolan’s saving their lives. Nolan didn’t care; if
he
was escaping with his tail tucked between his legs, he probably wouldn’t be feeling too charitable either.

One by one, the OCI agents quickly filed out of the window. The pounding on the office door became much louder. Nolan decided they were either beating it with something large, like a fire extinguisher, or they were trying to kick it down.

When only Coral and Jonah remained, Jonah motioned for her to go first.

“Go on, I’ll be right behind you,” said Coral.

Jonah turned to eye Nolan warily one last time before looking back at Coral. “You better be,” he said, and then leapt through the window.

Once he was gone, Coral turned back to face the door and stood at Nolan’s side. She popped the magazine out of the .45 to check how many rounds it had.

“What are you doing?” Nolan hissed. “Get out of here!”

“Yeah, okay,” she said absently, not budging an inch. Beside Nolan, she watched as the door started to splinter and break.

When the door was breached with its first tiny hole in the wood, a soft whoosh passed their ears. Branford had just pulled the sniper rifle’s trigger for the first time, and from the sound of it, the bullet had met its target.

But this merely enraged the men outside the door all the more, and apparently they teamed up to kick the door in once and for all.

Branford worked hard to pick off as many as he could, while Nolan stepped forward with his staff to take care of the rest. Coral emptied her gun into Vasko’s beefy suit-and-tie-clad soldiers. The door made for an effective bottleneck, and after twenty or so had poured into the room, their bodies started to pile up in front of the door, making further entry impossible.

“That’s it, let’s go,” said Nolan. He turned and made for the exit, with Coral at his side. She tossed the empty .45 on the floor and climbed out the window, with Nolan trailing close.

Once Nolan was out, he fired the grappler at the roof. Grabbing Coral with one arm and holding tight to the grappler with the other, he lowered the two of them quickly to the ground.

“That was an impressive kill shot,” Coral noted as they started to run. They steered toward Park Row and the safety they might find beyond the park’s trees.

She was talking about his sniper shot at Mayor McCord.

“You think I crossed a line?” he asked, and was surprised to find that he wanted to hear her answer.

“McCord stopped being the mayor years ago. He was a thug on a power trip, and he more than had it coming. Would’ve done him myself if I could’ve.”

Nolan made no response. He didn’t know what to say, though he was glad to know at least one person who wasn’t judging him tonight.

“Vasko’s declared war on us,” said Coral, huffing hard as they rounded the corner onto the sidewalk outside the park. “On the OCI, even on the president. Vasko will be livid over this. It’s not just you he hates, you know.”

“It’s me he’s obsessed with,” replied Nolan. “All the same, you might want to think about a safer line of work.”

“You should consider laying low awhile yourself. Things will get a lot worse now.”

She was right about that much, Nolan had to agree.

“Or contact the president,” she suggested. “He seems to genuinely want to help you.”

Nolan ignored this. He had no use for a politician like Hastings, old friend or not.

They crossed the street and Nolan started running toward his waiting friends at the Potter Building, but Coral abruptly stopped and grabbed him by the arm. He slowed only reluctantly.

“You really are Nolan Gray, aren’t you.” For a fleeting instant, her eyes danced, awestruck. She wasn’t quite smiling, but nearly.

“You should go,” he replied, nodding to her fellow agents, who had gathered on a street corner a few blocks away. “Take care of yourself, Agent Lively.”

D
ays turned to weeks, and Vasko canceled all public appearances. He continued working in his glass building, putting on a good show for the people of New York who looked up at his office from the streets below, in search of hope. But he kept to himself and spent most of his time trying to predict Nolan Gray’s next move.

He’d greatly enjoyed toying with this man that killed his family, but now that the world knew Nolan was alive, and now that Nolan had made it clear he was attempting to systematically take down Vasko’s operation, Vasko found the game a lot less enjoyable. Nolan was no longer playing by the old rules, and therefore Vasko found it much harder to predict his actions.

As much as he wanted to look into Nolan’s eyes as he wrapped his fingers around Nolan’s throat and squeezed the life from him, he had begun to wonder of late if his actions had awakened a predator. Vasko had been so cavalier about threatening Nolan, playing with him, even outmaneuvering him. But with every stronghold of Vasko’s that Nolan took down, Vasko became increasingly withdrawn and unwilling to see or talk to anyone. He puttered about in his office, often sleeping at night on a couch in the office—what little time he was able to sleep.

Vasko made an exception to his seclusion on Christmas Eve, scheduling a meeting in his office with a new group of mercenaries. He’d personally conducted hours and hours of research, interviewing the toughest, meanest, most skilled, and most ruthless guns for hire that money could buy. New Year’s Eve was just days away, and he was committed to overseeing the festivities himself—even pulling the overly elaborate lever that would trigger the ball drop at midnight.

It was late in the evening on Christmas Eve when a group of five hardened mercenaries walked into his office and seated themselves without offering salutations or waiting for an invitation to sit. If you wanted someone dead, there was no one better at the job. Hardcore mercs who never let things like morals or conscience get in their way.

Their leader was a man who called himself Speck. That was all, just Speck.

Vasko rarely felt frightened or intimidated by anyone anymore, but this Speck character gave him pause. At five foot nine, he had arms the size of baked hams, both of which were covered in scars and tattoos up to his neck. This was easy to see because he wore a black muscle shirt that bore an obscene phrase about his extracurricular hobbies. He wore black pants and black leather boots that laced up almost to his knees. Speck had multiple piercings in his ears, nose, and eyebrows, and a skull tattooed on his forehead. Atop his head, his black hair was displayed in a severe crew cut.

His four friends dressed and appeared similar to their leader, though each showed off some unique properties. One had hair dyed an odd color of green, while another had two tiny horns implanted under the skin of his forehead.