"I don't know. I can't tell. But I'll know when he's close. And then you must follow him. Find him and bring him to me."
7
The itching and burning had faded to next to nothing by the time Jack turned a corner two blocks from the warehouse. He pulled over and unbuttoned his shirt. No rash, but the usually pink scars on his chest, a matched troika of ten-inch ridges running diagonally from up near his left shoulder down and across his right pectoral, looked red and swollen now.
He ran his fingers over them. Hot.
His chest muscles tightened. Considering the nature of the creature that had left these souvenirs, this was not good.
Had to be related to that warehouse. The scars seemed to react whenever he got near it.
He leaned back and thought about how he'd landed here. Anyone else would see it as a string of coincidences.
Timmy's niece is kidnapped. Timmy—just like Jack—happens to be a regular at Julio's. Jack just happens to be present when the dudes in black appear. A little cat-and-mouse action leads him here, to a place that causes an angry reaction in his scars.
Coincidences? Not likely. Especially since he had it on good authority that there would be no more coincidences in his life.
Which meant he'd been led here.
But by whom? And for good or ill? Check that: Whose good or ill?
Part of Jack—the more primitive brain centers devoted to self-preservation—urged him to slam the car into gear and get the hell out of here.
Good idea. Smart idea.
But let's think about that.
No one knew he was here. No one was aware he even knew about the place. Driving by too many times might raise a flag if they had security cameras aimed at the street.
But he could walk by.
Once. Just once.
He'd worn a midweight Jets hoodie under his bomber. Pull a knit cap down to his eyebrows, wrap a scarf around his neck and lower face, pull up the hood, add a pair of sunglasses, and he'd be unrecognizable. Wouldn't work in warmer weather, but here in January he was just another guy shielding himself from the cold.
So that was what he did. When he finished the wrap-up he checked himself in the rearview mirror.
Call me Griffin.
He adjusted the Glock in the nylon holster in the small of his back, then stepped out and walked to the corner. After a quick survey, he put his head down and into the breeze, then started toward the warehouse. Figured he might as well go for broke and walk right past the front door.
With each step the discomfort in the scars increased but he kept moving, determined to see how bad it would get. By the time he came even with the door he felt as if his chest were on fire.
And then the door flew open and half a dozen men jumped out, swarming around him with drawn pistols—all suppressor-equipped H-Ks. Miller's massive presence was unmistakable among them.
Shock slowed him. How had they known? How could they possibly have known it was him?
He went for his Glock but a muzzle jammed against ribs.
"Don't even think about it."
So he lashed out with fists and feet. Got in a few good kicks and punches, caused some pain, picked up some for himself. Desperation added extra strength and speed—if they got him inside he'd be cooked—but despite his efforts they soon had him down. He felt his Glock pulled from its holster. Then they lifted him, one man to each limb, and carried him kicking and twisting through the door.
The farther inside they took him, the worse the burning across his chest. But questions about how he'd screwed up took over. They'd been waiting for him. No way they could have recognized him… unless one of them had seen him changing in the car.
His scarf had slipped up over his eyes during the melee so he saw very little of his surroundings as he was carried to a chair and slammed into it. His backup was yanked from its ankle holster, then his legs were released, but his arms remained stretched and pinned behind him.
"Hey-hey," said a voice. "He's got a Kel-Tec backup… a P-eleven. That's a keeper."
"Let's have a look at you," said another voice, this one vaguely familiar. Probably Miller's.
The scarf was pulled away, taking the shades with it, and Jack found himself gazing up at Miller—out of uniform, but as mean looking as ever. And big. Jack hadn't appreciated his size before. He didn't quite qualify for a Stone-henge upright, but he looked like he could sub for a lintel. His eyes held all the warmth of photovoltaic cells, and they flashed when he saw Jack's face.
"Fuck! Look who it is!"
Look who it is? Miller's surprise didn't make sense. Hadn't they known who they were snatching?
Miller's smile undulated like a worm, allowing glimpses of mottled, steel-gray teeth as he looked behind Jack.
"Hey, Davis. You won't believe this."
A guy with short blond hair, a receding hairline, full lips, and bright blue eyes—he'd been driving the SUV last night—stepped into view. He too did a double take.
"I'll be damned."
Jack didn't get this. They hadn't known it was him.
He glanced around. They'd seated him in a dingy, wide-open space. No natural light through the bricked-over windows. One of his attackers limped back and forth, rubbing his knee. Another had a swollen lip.
"We'll all be damned if we don't figure how he found us." Miller leaned close to Jack and bared his teeth. "But not as damned as this piece of shit."
Jack locked eyes with him. "Ooh, my midi-chlorians are all atwitter."
After the few seconds it took for that to register, Miller made a fist the size of a softball and cocked his arm. Jack steeled himself for the blow. This was going to hurt.
But Davis grabbed his arm.
"The 0 didn't say anything about working him over."
Thank you, 0, whoever you are.
"But he didn't say not to."
He shook off Davis's hand and completed his swing. Jack was ready by then. At the last second he ducked and angled his head toward Miller. The punch landed on the crown of his skull, rattling his brain and vibrating down his spine. Lights flashed in his vision but quickly cleared. Hurt like hell, but Miller hurt worse.
"God damn't"
Jack looked up and saw the big jerk clutching his hand against his chest. Fury lit his eyes as he reared back his leg.
"You lousy son of a—"
"Stop this immediately!"
A new voice. Jack turned and saw a middle-aged man in a long robe gliding toward him. He sported long silvery locks and his face glowed with a beatific expression. Looked like somebody who could have been right at home in the Heaven's Gate pilot seat.
Oh, hell. A cult.
Were any comets due?
"He must not be harmed."
A little late for that. Jack was already hurting—big time. Fire, hotter that ever, blotted out his headache as it raked across his chest. He felt as if he were being branded.
"He's the one we told you about," Davis said. "The guy who interfered with last night's mission."
The guru or whatever he was—the "0" Davis had mentioned?—smiled as if he'd known this all along.
"From what you told me, I don't think 'interfered' is a fair assessment. He did not interfere with the purpose of your mission, which went as planned, did it not? I'm sure he involved himself only out of concern for the child's well-being." He focused his smile on Jack. "Is that not right?"
Jack couldn't have answered if he'd wanted to. This was his first close-up, straight-on look at the guru, and what he saw locked his tongue.
His eyes… all black… not a trace of white… like holes into interstellar space.
He'd seen eyes just like that—or at least thought he had—last year.
What the hell had he got himself into?
"It's all right if you don't answer," the guru said. "I understand that you didn't expect to be hauled in here like a side of beef. I apologize for that, but I saw no other way."