Part 12 (2/2)
”d.a.m.n!” Cross said, realizing that the complex arrangements he had set in motion with the Corsican had all been for nothing-had he waited another day, he would have been paid anyway. Just like Viktor's crew, he thought to himself.
”Yeah, that's right. Whoever did this, that's who we want. They've got to be locked up right inside that exact same place. That was as up-close-and-personal a kill as I've ever seen.”
”Where were they holding him?”
”I told you, in the high-power tank of the federal holding facility. He had his own cell, of course, but all you need to get yourself locked in high-power is be notorious. It actually makes up a large part of the entire inst.i.tution. Some are in there awaiting trial, others awaiting transfer. So it could be anyone. And there's no reason to think the place was as sealed off as it's claimed, either.”
”What makes you think they're still inside? They did their work, why wouldn't they move on?” Tracker asked.
”There's been two more since,” Wanda answered. ”Inside that same place. Two more killings. Reported as inmate gang violence-stab wounds, lead pipes, like that. But we've seen photos of the bodies. They're in there, all right.”
”If you want to hunt hunters, there's no better place ...” Cross mused aloud.
”Numbers,” Tracker added.
”What's that mean?” Percy demanded.
”You kill a killer, all his kills belong to you.”
”Huh?”
”Remember what that doctor guy told us? About this being a game? That means someone's keeping score.”
”Ah, that was just-”
”How did they manage to get it done? There are cameras everywhere inside that place,” Wanda interrupted.
”And that's how we know there's been an insane race war going on in there for weeks,” the blond man added. ”The body count's already over a dozen.”
”You said three-”
”I know, Percy. But only the last two match the signature. And they were both whites. Rumors are flying that there's a special squad of black hunter-killers running wild in there. Keys to the tiers, everything. That joint is a pure terror zone. Way too many guards calling in sick. And they were understaffed to begin with.
”The Aryan shot-caller is a man named Banner. Triple-lifer, knows he's never going to see the outside world. Only reason he's in there is that he's awaiting another transfer. Been moved a dozen times. Worthless waste of time-he'll link up in an hour, no matter where they put him.
”The blacks are in a single unit. At least the warriors are. Call themselves the Urban Black Guerrillas. An informant told us that this comes out of their conviction that all prisons are 'cities,' and failure to control their own 'neighborhood' would be a mortal sin.
”There's a loose group of Latinos. And I do mean loose. Mexicans and Marielitos aren't ever going to get along, never mind those maniacs from Central America, or local Puerto Ricans. The only good thing is that there's not that many of those. The bad thing is, that's what caused them to band together.
”Even the Asians seem to have called a cease-fire between themselves while all this is going on.
”But we know we're not looking at some convict race war. It's their work, for sure. It's like Tracker just said. With all those great targets just waiting-kill a killer, you take all his kills-I think they're going to be around for a while. No point leaving crops to rot in the field.”
Cross locked eyes with the speaker. The others watched, expressionless.
”So you see,” the blond man finally said.
Cross lit another smoke. ”I get it now. Okay, I'll go with it. But there's things you need to do first. And I need a couple of days to take care of some other stuff.”
”WHAT DO you want for a legend?” Percy asked Cross.
”If I'm gonna hook up fast, I'll need something racial. You got any old Unsolved in there?” Cross asked pointing at the giant computer.
”What do you need an Unsolved for?” the blond man asked. ”Those are all cold-cased. Why not just take an open one? A fresh one where they haven't made an arrest? Until you, of course.”
Cross gave him a look. ”Blondie, you want to go in there, do it any way you like. Only it's not you going in, is it?”
Cross deliberately turned to Wanda, making it clear who he believed was the brains of this outfit.
”If you make it a fresh case, especially a race killing, the shot-caller for the gang I have to connect with, he'll probably already know who did it. So, if I'm going to claim, then I need an old case, and I need one from out of town-the farther away from that joint the better. Let the feds be holding me for extradition, understand? That way, it'll take anyone trying to check out the crime that much longer. And it'll give you an excuse to pull me out if things get ugly.”
Wanda was already at her keyboard. ”I've got half a dozen good possibilities,” she said. Tiger peered over her shoulder, feigning interest. Wanda's body language clearly indicated she resented Tiger's presence. And Tiger clearly indicated she was well aware of that, deliberately pressing her left breast against Wanda's cheek.
”Okay,” the blond man said, confidently. ”We'll have this whole thing set up in another twenty-four hours. Anything else you need?”
”Yeah,” Cross told him. ”A wife.”
”Is that a joke?”
”You ever get held waiting trial? Here's how it works: I can get unlimited visits from a lawyer, but they'd get suspicious if any lawyer I could afford would come see me every other day or so. Only gangsters can afford that level of representation. The White Power boys might have a local guy, but, remember, I'm on the run, from someplace far away, so I wouldn't know about that.
”Besides, lawyers are way too easy to check out. The only other visits I can get regularly are from a spouse or parent, see? So I need a wife. Someone to come in and visit, carry messages, bring me some stuff I might need, like that....”
”We can't let anyone from outside our group in on this, Cross.”
”You won't have to.”
”Forget it!” Tiger and Wanda spoke as one.
The blond man turned to Tiger. ”If you really want these guys as bad as you say ...”
”What's wrong with her?” Tiger wanted to know, jerking her thumb at Wanda.
”I can't spare Wanda” was the blond man's immediate answer. ”I need her with me ... on the machines.”
”And I'm going in as White Power,” Cross added. ”I can't have a non-white wife.”
Tiger mock-sighed. ”They don't have conjugal visits in there, do they?” she asked Cross.
”Close enough.” He smiled thinly. ”Wait'll you check out the Visiting Room.”
CROSS WAS s.h.i.+rtless, reclining in an old barber chair. An ancient j.a.panese man was working on his arm just below the shoulder, using a needle to which a trio of wires was attached.
”How long is this good for?” Cross asked.
”Ninety days. No more.”
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