"There he is!"
The guy looked up, surprised, then terrified as Miller and Zeklos closed in on him.
"Wait," Zeklos said. "This is not him."
Miller was shaking his head. "Yeah. Too tall."
"Check the driver," Cal said.
Miller yanked open the door and hauled out a confused and frightened-looking black guy babbling in some foreign tongue.
Strike two.
But the tracker said the transponder was here.
Cal checked the rear of the cab, the fenders, the trunk lid, the license—
There. A black disk stuck to the license plate. Cal ripped it off.
The bastard.
"Let them go, guys." He held up the disk. "Looks like we've got a player on our hands." An idea struck. "You!" he said to the passenger, who still had a deer-in-the-headlights expression. "Where'd you catch this cab?"
"C-C-Columbus."
"Where on Columbus?"
"The eighties, I think."
"You think?"
"I wasn't watching. I kept walking as I looked for a cab."
Cal turned back toward the car. "All right. Columbus in the eighties. That's where we're going."
Zeklos moaned. "We will never find him."
"You're probably right. But who knows? We may get lucky."
8
The obvious move would have been to go home and keep his head down. But Jack wanted to know if the suits had been able to triangulate on him. If so, they'd either wait outside Julio's to grab him, or follow him home.
So after sticking the disk on that cab's license plate, he'd returned to the table and kept an eye on the door and front window.
Half an hour passed with nothing. Then an hour. Good. Looked like he'd been lucky. But just to be sure, he'd duck out through the back alley.
He was reaching for his jacket when he saw a familiar face pop into view outside the front window.
Jack ducked his head as alarm dieseled through his gut. What had they called the little guy? Zeklos? Whatever. No mistaking his Freddie Mercury overbite. They'd found him.
Or had they? They hadn't seen much of him, didn't even know his hair color. Maybe…
No, had to assume the worst.
So much for luck.
He rose and strolled to the bar where he motioned Julio over. The muscular little man leaned close. A cloying odor preceded him.
Jack winced. Where did he find these colognes?
Julio frowned. "You don' like my new scent, meng?"
"It exceeds your usual standards. You should buy another bottle and throw them both away." Jack leaned closer. "Might be a little trouble."
Julio glanced around and smoothed his pencil-thin mustache with a thumb and forefinger.
"Yeah? Who?"
Jack had been watching the window from the corner of his eye, and now he saw Miller's face pop up and down.
That nailed it. They'd found him.
"They're outside. Probably three of them. Might come in, might not. But it wouldn't hurt to get folks properly arranged."
"Okay. I spread the word. Where you gon' be?"
Jack looked around. Good question.
"Lend me your zapper."
9
Cal watched Miller dodge a cab as he hurried back from the bar across the street.
"Him all right."
"Did I not tell you?" Zeklos said.
Cal said, "Did he see you? Either of you?"
Miller shook his head. "He was too busy talking to the bartender."
Zeklos stared across the street at the bar. "It is a strange place, yes? All of the plants in the window, they are dead. Why hang plants if one is not going to care for them?"
"Worry about that later," Cal said. "Let's find our vantage points and wait for him to come out."
Miller was still shaking his head. "Uh-uh. We go in in uniform and drag him out."
"Listen to me," Cal said, fighting a burst of anger. "I'm team leader and I say—"
"You were team leader for getting the girl. That's over and done. Now there is no team. We're just three yenigeri out to find out who's screwing with us."
He'd been seeing a steady decline in yenigeri discipline in the last year. Here was further proof.
Cal turned to Zeklos. "What do you say?"
Zeklos shrugged and looked away. "I do not wish for hours to stand in this freezing cold."
Cal found himself speechless for a few heartbeats. Zeklos hated Miller. Cal couldn't believe he'd take his side on anything. But then again, it was pretty damn cold.
Miller clapped his hands. "I guess that's it then. Let's get into uniform."
"Why not just do it now—as we are?"
Miller shook his head. "No way. This is a public appearance and I want it known that this jerk was hauled away by men in black."
Cal sighed. "All right. But one of us should be stationed at that alley over there, just in case there's a back way out."
"Good idea," Miller said. "Zeklos—think you can handle that without screwing up?"
The little man glowered at him. "You are driving the car of obnoxiousness, Miller."
He turned and started across the street.
"You forgot your suit," Miller said.
Without turning, Zeklos raised his right hand and gave the single-digit salute.
"You've been coming down pretty heavy on him. Lighten up."
Miller snarled. "Everybody cuts him too much slack. He's a fuck-up. We trusted him with that simple hit-and-run last November and he blew it. He should be working in Home Depot or something."
They returned to the Suburban where they struggled back into their black suits, ties, hats, and sunglasses.
Back on the sidewalk Cal gave himself the up and down, then Miller. They both looked rumpled.
"Not exactly our usual clean, pressed look."
"It'll do." Miller pulled out his H-K and checked the breech. "What do you think: yes or no to the suppressors?"
"Yes. They're scary."
"Okay. Let's do it."
"Do what, exactly? What's the plan? We need to be synched up before we go in there."
"We'll keep it simple. We go in guns out. You keep everyone down—maybe crease one or two if they start to look restless—while I grab the asshole and haul him out. We jump in the car, blindfold him, then take him Home where we can work on him. Good enough?"
No. It was cowboy stuff. Cal preferred a more finessed approach.
"I'd rather let him come to us. Grab him out here."
Miller turned on him. "Look. I'm going in. Either you're with me or you ain't, but I'm going in."
Discipline… going, going…
Cal sighed. "Okay. Let's go."
He let Miller take the lead, and nodded to Zeklos standing at the mouth of the alley. Then they were through the door and standing just inside it with their pistols waving back and forth.
"This is gonna make you think you're in a bad movie," Miller shouted, "but if everyone sits quiet, no one gets hurt."
Cal scanned the room. To the right nothing but empty tables, a jukebox, and the dead plants. A couple of guys at the bar along the left wall. Another dozen-fifteen guys sat at tables arranged in a semicircle across the middle of the room. No one to either side… everyone in front of them. Something wrong with this picture but he couldn't say just what.
"Which one is he?"
Miller looked around. "Fuck! I don't—"
Cal froze at the unmistakable sound of a hammer being cocked—no, many hammers cocking.
Pistols had appeared all over the room—semiautomatics and revolvers of all shapes and sizes and finishes.
Cal's saliva turned to dust.
Now he knew what had bothered him: The arrangement of chairs and tables allowed for perfect field of fire on the doorway.
"I missed that," someone said. "Who won't get hurt?"