Выбрать главу

The streets of the towns of Iraq had been dangerous for a soldier, more dangerous than this street in the Bronx.

The buildings on the street were mostly two- and three-story brick apartments built in the 1920s. Between some of them were debris-filled lots where buildings had been torn down.

Kyle had a plan. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all he could come up with. He had slept in the pickup the night before for about two hours. He was tired. He half closed his eyes and was aware of children somewhere in the distance laughing and arguing. What he wasn't aware of until he heard the voice was the three young men standing on the crumbling stone steps of one of the old three-flat buildings Kyle was about to pass.

"You lost?" asked the voice.

Kyle looked up. The speaker was maybe eighteen or nineteen, black, hair cut short, clean yellow T-shirt and brown jeans. Flanking the speaker were two other young black men wearing identical T-shirts and brown jeans.

Kyle didn't answer. He pulled the brim of his baseball cap down, shifted the weight of his backpack and kept walking.

"Asked you a question, brother," said the young man, who was obviously the leader. There was irritation in his voice now.

Kyle stopped, tilted back his cap and looked at the young men who had taken a step toward him. He had been through situations like this, on the streets of Fallujah, at Riker's.

"Bo asked you a question," said the young man to the right of the leader.

" 'Life is not a spectacle or a feast. It's a predicament,' " said Kyle, reaching over his shoulder into his backpack.

"Say what?" asked Bo.

"George Santayana," said Kyle. "A philosopher."

"He's high," said one of the others.

"Hand over the backpack," said Bo, holding out his hand.

The three took another step toward Kyle, who shook his head "no."

" 'I believe in the brotherhood of all men, but I don't believe in wasting brotherhood on anyone who doesn't want to practice it with me. Brotherhood is a two-way street,' " said Kyle. "You know who said that?"

"Don't give a shit," said the young man.

The young man on the right pulled a small gun from his pocket after looking up and down the street to be sure no one was watching.

Kyle didn't seem to notice.

"Malcolm X," said Kyle. "He said it. You know who he was."

"I ain't simple," said the leader. "Saw the movie."

Kyle's right hand came out of the backpack holding a.45 caliber army pistol, which he aimed at the leader. The trio stopped.

"You gonna shoot all three of us?" Bo said.

"Looks that way," said Kyle. "Unless he puts that gun away and you all back up and sit down on the steps and talk about the heat and listen to the radio or some CDs."

The one called Bo scratched the side of his head, smiled and looked at Kyle.

"I like you," said Bo.

"That makes me very happy," said Kyle. "Adds to my new philosophy."

"What's that?" the leader said, still smiling.

" 'I'm only going to dread one day at a time,' " said Kyle.

"Who said that?" asked the leader.

"Charles Schulz," said Kyle.

"Who?" asked Bo.

"Peanuts," said Kyle.

"Crazy fool. Get out of here," said the leader, waving his hand.

Kyle nodded, put the gun back in his pack, and walked the rest of the way to the subway without looking back. He had things to do.

5

THE FIRST TIME, with Glick, he had made mistakes. There was no point in deluding himself. He had thought he was prepared, but he had let emotion take over, something he had been taught never to do. No, it wasn't really emotion moving him to the kill, making him take chances. It was the high of running along the edge when he could take a safe path. It was the rush he got from pulling it off, and so he had made it difficult for himself and those who would be looking for him. He had something to prove to himself. His plan had been weak. It was unprofessional. It could get him caught. It could get him killed. He could, as he had almost done, lose control of the situation. He had been out of the game too long.

Yes, that was it. He comforted himself by saying that it had been a long time since he had called on his training, his skill. He hadn't really forgotten. He had put it aside for a new life.

It was early afternoon. His armpits were sweating and even he was aware of the odor. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt with a tie. The shirt was soaked through. The radio had said the temperature was about to top 100 degrees and the humidity wasn't far behind. He walked slowly, steadily.

No one paid attention to him or each other unless they were traveling together. He pulled the extra-long brim of his brown fedora farther down his forehead. The hat definitely did not go with the white shirt. Most people, if asked later, would only remember the hat that shaded the man's eyes. By the time the first witness mentioned the hat, it would be gone, burned to nothingness.

The well-worn briefcase in his hand was hefty but not really heavy. He had kept the contents minimal. He passed the storefront of the Jewish Light of Christ, glancing through the window without moving his head. His peripheral vision was excellent and well honed. He hadn't lost that and he knew from how he had handled the Glick killing that his hand was still steady and his aim nearly perfect.

He entered the narrow news shop, moved past the ATM, the counter behind which the cigarettes and cigars were neatly stacked, the refrigerator with glass windows behind which were lined-up soft drinks and prepackaged tuna salad, egg salad and chicken salad sandwiches. A machine on his right featured a Ferris wheel ride of skewered hot dogs and Polish sausages.

A short, lean man, about fifty, wearing an ugly, colorful shirt with dozens of different-colored stripes, stood behind the counter at the front of the shop. The man had glanced up at him, decided he was respectable, and returned to a newspaper in some foreign language.

He had been here before. Twice, making sure that on this, his third visit, the person behind the counter was different from the others, probably all members of the same Korean family. All Asians did not look alike to the man. He had spent years in Asia, Japan, both Koreas, Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, Thailand.

The steel back door was closed. The last time he was here he had oiled the hinges to keep them quiet.

He went through the door, closing it behind him gently. He was in a narrow alleyway, garbage cans already overflowing, hearing the scurry of rats, the sound of horns and moving vehicles on the street muffled by the buildings.

He moved slowly to the door he had already checked. They had left it unlocked. They always did. They had nothing to steal but their faith.

He slipped on a pair of surgical gloves, stepped through the door, closing it behind him, and stood in the semidarkness of the small storage room, listening. He knew their routine. In a few minutes, they would all go out together to the park, kosher sandwiches in brown bags. They'd be gone a little less than an hour, eating, talking, listening to Joshua.

They always left someone behind. Someone to remain in the storefront synagogue, to be ready in case someone appeared to ask questions, to show interest.

He opened the door slightly, hoping it would not be a woman who was left behind. Yes, a woman would confuse the police, but it would also slightly change the pattern he wanted to establish. Luckily, it wasn't a woman. It was a thin, young man with a beard, dark slacks, a clean, neatly pressed short-sleeved off-white shirt. The young man's back was to the storage closet. He was absorbed in what he was reading. He had no sense of the person in the rubber-soled shoes who, leaning low, silently crept up behind him.

When he was no more than two feet behind the young man, he pressed the palm-sized.22 caliber semiautomatic Walther in his hand against the man's head and fired two hollow-point bullets, knowing the sounds of the street and the dying man's thick hair and skull would muffle the shot. The young man slumped forward, clinging to the book. The man pushed the body to the floor and looked out the window. He picked up the brass bullet casings and pocketed them.