Part 7 (2/2)
”Why me?” he finally asked.
”Believe it or not,” the blond man told him, ”what we want is your mind, not your combat skills. You have unique ... experiences that our superiors believe would be invaluable.”
”Two choices: either actually say something, or drive me home, pal.”
”Look around you, Mr. Cross. Tracker got his name from his work. Percy's been in more wars than I've had birthdays. And Tiger ... well, she's earned her name. Between our financial resources and the commitment of our volunteers, we have more than enough manpower.”
Tiger raised an eyebrow at this last word, but didn't deign to speak.
”Okay, you'll pay the freight, but only COD. Fair enough. But it's not only money I work for. How high do you guys reach?”
The blond man made a gesture which instantly translated to: ”All the way to the top.”
”Yeah? Can you fix me up with a Get Out of Jail Free card?”
”What's that?”
”Just what it sounds like: immunity from prosecution. The feds do it all the time. They do it for rats; why not for ... contract employees?”
The blond man exchanged a look with Wanda. ”We could probably handle that. Give us the details.”
”Details?”
”When the crime was committed, who was involved, that kind of thing.”
”It hasn't been committed yet.”
”What? That doesn't make any-”
”My crew are all tightrope-walkers. You can't make too many pa.s.ses without taking a fall. Sooner or later, that happens-maybe to one of us; maybe to us all. So that's what I want: the next fall, on the house.”
Another look between the blond man and Wanda. Finally, the blond said, ”We'll have to check on that.”
”I can wait,” Cross told him. He slid a slip of paper across the table. ”These people'll know how to reach me. Or you can track me down yourselves, in case you want to show off your toys again.”
”Tiger and Tracker will take you back,” the blond man said as the Indian slid behind Cross, a black blindfold in his hands.
ALMOST DAWN. A limo-sized four-door sedan made its way through the city. It moved purposefully, a shark attracted by the electrical pulses of potential prey.
The comparison is valid. This is the infamous ”Shark Car,” known and feared throughout the Badlands. A three-ton armored beast, all-wheel drive with adjustable power distribution, independent suspension all around, air bags under each wheel. The power plant was a totally reworked mega-monster engine: a thirteen-plus-liter Hemi, with two separate shots of nitrous oxide always available. Its city-camo paint was a shaded, blotched gray-black, rarely noticed except by those who knew what they were actually viewing.
The high-tech van was on the move as well. Tiger was behind the wheel, Cross next to her in the front seat, the blindfold still over his eyes. Tracker was riding behind them, a short-barreled, night-scoped rifle across his lap.
The van moved placidly through constantly changing neighborhoods. Multi-levels yielded sharp contrasts as antiseptically wealthy sections became festering-sore slums. The lines of demarcation weren't always so clearly marked, especially in newly gentrified areas. Desolate poverty ran through the near-deserted night streets as randomly as the broken veins in a wino's nose.
”What you said before. About tribalism. Was that just playing games with that government stooge?” Tracker asked.
Smoking a cigarette with the black blindfold still in place, Cross looked like a man facing the firing squad. He answered without turning around.
”You tell me. Doesn't this feel like one tribe's doing all the killings? They got their own way of doing things, their own G.o.ds to wors.h.i.+p....”
”But how could one tribe ...?”
”You wouldn't have said what you did about Seminoles unless you've got Cherokee blood yourself,” Cross answered.
”I do.”
”But you're not exactly a Cherokee, right?”
”I just said-”
”You're a Chickasaw,” Cross interrupted, speaking as if simply stating a fact. ”Which means your ancestors didn't sow crops. Didn't do a lot of hunting, either. So they had to keep on the move.”
”Speak clearly,” Tracker said, his voice just a shade off threat.
”Okay. How's this? Your ancestors got what they needed from other tribes. And not by trading. They took what they needed.”
”That was the truth,” Tracker finished. ”Yes. I see what you speak of now. The Simbas-”
”Tribes wander,” Tiger interrupted, speaking aloud what she had been thinking ever since Cross used the word ”Simbas.”
Cross nodded a silent affirmative.
”Some tribes don't even have a homeland,” Tiger rolled on. ”Nomads. They just pitch their tents wherever they are. Like the Mongols. Or those Chickasaws.”
”Yeah, there's no racial piece in this,” Cross agreed. ”Look at the Gypsies. Like the ones they tried to drive out of France. Had them standing in line for Hitler's ovens, too.”
Tiger's ”uh-huh” was more growl than speech.
”And you don't have to be Roma to be a gypsy, do you?” Cross finished.
As Tracker silently nodded agreement, Tiger looked over at Cross, thoughtfully. ”Right,” she agreed, her voice so soft it was almost a purr.
”ARE YOU guys the whole team?” Cross asked.
”What team?” Tiger responded warily.
”Whatever Blondie's in charge of. There's five of you that I met. All I'm asking: are there any more?”
Tracker and Tiger exchanged looks. Tracker shrugged his shoulders in a ”Why not?” gesture.
”The op is multi-national,” Tiger told Cross. ”We're Unit 3. I don't know how many teams are working this, but I can tell you this much for sure: there's no place where the killers we're looking for haven't made an appearance.”
In her mind's eye, Tiger reviewed footage she'd been shown of other units. Some seemed racially h.o.m.ogenous, others were overtly mixed, but it would take an expert eye to discern between the j.a.panese, Korean, Thai, Laos, Vietnamese, and Chinese that formed one group. a.s.sembling a team from those nationalities had never been accomplished-their traditional posture toward one another has historically ranged from simmering hostility to outright warfare.
It was the same for a black crew. A closer look would reveal members ranging from Africa to the West Indies. A Latino unit had Mexican, Cuban, and Central and South American members-the latter still another example that flew in the face of any att.i.tudes known to the authorities. Or the underworld.
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