Part 8 (2/2)
”Yes, sir.”
Cross held the case in both hands, swung it back and forth to build momentum, and released his hold on his last forward swing. Condor caught it in both hands and took off, running through the darkness as if he had infra-red eyesight.
The Shark Car pulled away.
THE OLD man's white hair flowed down to his shoulders. He was sitting in a lotus position, smoking a pipe that looked to have been carved from bone.
”You were not expected,” he said.
”I didn't want to say anything on the phone. And I knew I'd be recognized.”
”You have something for me, then?” the old man said, smiling a murderer's grin. His gray teeth turned the gesture into an even more deadly grimace.
”I have Chang.”
”You are holding him?”
”No. n.o.body will ever hold him. I have his life. He's gone.”
”I heard nothing-”
”You will.”
”We did not retain such a service.”
”Consider it a gift. A gift from a friend.”
The old man immediately handed his pipe to Cross, who took a deep drag without hesitation before returning it.
THE NEXT day, Unit 3 a.s.sembled in the War Room. It was obvious that they had been discussing something for a long time: the place was littered with coffee cups and food wrappers. They all looked various degrees of disheveled, except for Tracker.
”You really think he's worth it?” The blond man's question was directed at the room, not at anyone in particular.
”I believe he ... understands them,” Tracker said thoughtfully.
”He doesn't care,” Wanda said. ”He will regard it as any bounty hunter would. Only, this time, the 'dead or alive' is limited to 'alive.' ”
”Look,” the blond man snapped, ”we don't have time to keep arguing with each other. We're still 'Unit 3' to the spooks, but the reality is, we've stepped over the line too many times already....”
”You stepped over the line, Blondie,” Percy fired back. ”And you took me and Wanda right along with you. One more mess like over in Indiana ...”
As Percy spoke, everyone else in the room had a mental picture of him standing spread-legged on a ghetto rooftop, a surface-to-air missile launcher braced on one thick shoulder. He staggered slightly under the kick of the weapon. They saw the vapor trail of the rocket as it unexpectedly veered off-course, its heat-seeker attracted by a closer target. That turned out to be a small private jet, which disintegrated immediately on impact.
They also saw a newspaper headline: TERRORIST ATTACK AT GARY AIRPORT!.
”Things happen,” the blond man said, unruffled. ”We know they use some kind of heat-seeker themselves. It only made sense to turn the tables.”
”I didn't sign on to waste civilians,” Tiger said.
”Civilians? That plane was carrying a load of dope dealers, on their way back from Vegas. And if you don't like us bringing Cross in, you can split. Take the Indian with you, too,” the blond man told her. ”We're on our own now. And we don't have a h.e.l.l of a lot of time, right, Wanda?”
Wanda checked her computer, nodded. ”No. TRAP will figure out that we've been mobile-accessing its closed-level data. In fact,” she hypothesized, ”it probably could have found us already, had we been Priority One.”
”And we're not,” the blond said, ”so what does that tell you?”
”What it always tells us,” Percy threw in. ”We pull this off, the bra.s.s says all is forgiven. We don't-we get erased.”
The blond got to his feet and started pacing. He turned to Wanda, apparently the one person with whom he had any sort of affinity. ”Could we make it happen, what that man wants? Immunity for a future crime?”
Wanda worked over her keyboard. ”Some places, yes. Detroit, Cleveland, too. And New York for sure. As for Chicago ... you know how it works here.”
”That'll have to do,” the blond said, to no one in particular. He had adopted this habit many years ago, relieving himself of the unwanted feeling that no one was listening.
”I MAKE it three-to-one it blows up,” Buddha said to the crew watching him manipulate a robot originally intended for disarming bombs. ”Be just like that rodent to pay us off in plastique.”
Cross said nothing.
”Credit cards?” a thick-necked Hispanic youth mused aloud.
”Not plastic, fool,” a small, slender black youth wearing a pair of gla.s.ses with one orange lens snapped. ”Plastique. Like dynamite, only you can shape it any way you want, like it was a piece of clay.”
”All of you, shut up, okay?” Condor hissed. ”You know the rules: we get to watch so long as we watch quiet.”
All the watchers immediately fell silent. Theirs was a gang with no name. None was needed. No rival crew was going to claim the Badlands-the Cross crew was only a whispered rumor to most outlaws, but none wanted to test it.
The gang's members came in all sizes and shapes, all colors and creeds. All they shared were survival skills so finely honed that they were able to permanently reside in an area n.o.body in his right mind would even enter.
Years ago, a daredevil graffiti artist had accepted a challenge to plant his tag on a semi-trailer that had been stripped of its axles. Now completely coated with a solid layer of rust, the trailer stood only about a hundred feet past the twin piles of crookedly stacked junkyard cars that marked the border to the Badlands.
The tagger knew if he managed to pull off that stunt he'd immediately be crowned as the King of Graffiti throughout the city-a stake worth playing for.
The tagger picked broad daylight for his move, knowing that the darkness which usually cloaked his work would not be his friend on this mission. Besides, maybe only some of the rumors were true-whoever heard of a gang that got up before noon?
It was just before ten in the morning when the tagger stepped behind the pillars of junked cars and advanced on the semi. He carried only two cans of spray paint: one for lettering, the other for outlining. He had no need of any of his usual equipment-there would be no climbing involved in this exploit. He didn't even carry his prized notebook-he could spray his personal tag with his eyes closed.
The a.s.sembled watchers on the other side of the border never agreed on what happened next-a cloud of metallic rusty dirt rose like a curtain between their eyes and the doomed tagger. But there was no argument that the body of the tagger came flying at them in a long, high arc, as if it had been launched from a catapult.
The rule was as simple as the skull-and-crossbones on a bottle of poison: you didn't enter the Badlands unless you planned to stay. You might join the gang-provided you proved in according to whatever requirements were current-or you might just have created your own gravestone.
THE NO-NAME gang watched as Buddha deftly moved the controls of the robot, sending it across obstacle after obstacle.
”You picked a good spot,” Cross said to Condor. The young man visibly swelled with pride at the praise. He deftly s.n.a.t.c.hed the rubber-banded roll of bills Cross tossed in his direction, and immediately threw it over his shoulder to a Samoan youth whose bulk belied his speed.
The robot reached the silver case. Its long arms tapped their way to the single latch, and popped it open.
Silence descended.
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