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?"
"Say hello to my little fren'," said a voice to his left.
Cal glanced over and found himself looking down the barrels of a sawed-off ten-gauge coach gun. This close they looked like the entrance to the Mid-town Tunnel.
"Okay, easy now," he told the little guy with highly developed muscles and a very low temperature in his eyes. "Eeeeeeasy."
"Be happy my little fren' don't say hello first. She speak double-ought."
Cal didn't know if the guy was putting him on with the accent, but did know a sweat had just broken out all over his body. What kind of place was this? Like an armed camp. It gave him a surreal feeling, like he'd stepped into a saloon in the old West.
He lowered his pistol and raised his empty left hand.
"Our mistake. Sorry." He took a step back. "We'll be going now."
Miller didn't budge, still had his muzzle pointed toward the room. Cal grabbed his arm and squeezed.
"I said we'll be going now."
Miller seemed to come out of a trance. He lowered his pistol and together they backed out the door. Derisive laughter followed them into the night.
"What the fuck?" Miller said through clenched teeth.
Cal's sentiments exactly. "Great plan."
"Hey, how was I to know? You ever been in a place like that? You ever even heard of a place like that?"
"Maybe in Deadwood."
"Fucking humiliating."
Yeah, it was. Cal wondered if his face looked as red as it felt.
"At least we got out with our skins."
"Since when was that ever enough?" Miller raised his pistol. "I've a mind to go back in and—"
"Don't be an idiot. If the bartender's ten-gauge doesn't cut you in half, the rest of them will Swiss you."
"We don't even know those were real guns."
"Oh, they were real all right. But where was our guy? Hiding or ducking out the back? He wouldn't know we left someone stationed outside."
The Miller smile buzzed on and off. "Hey, right. Let's—"
Miller froze as he glanced over Cal's shoulder. Cal turned and realized why: Zeklos lay crumpled across the mouth of the alley.
10
Jack sat in the back of an idling cab upstream from Julio's. He'd flagged it after using Julio's stun baton on the buck-toothed guy.
Good plan to watch the alley. Not good if the guy you were watching for had already slipped out of said alley.
Jack simply could have walked away then, but figured they'd keep looking for him. He wanted to send them packing, so he'd zapped Zeklos. It had been almost too easy. The guy had been so focused on the alley that he hadn't heard Jack come up behind him.
Now he watched as they helped their staggering third member to the Suburban.
Time to go home, guys.
As the Suburban lurched away from the curb, Jack tapped on the plastic screen between him and the cabby.
"Go."
He sat back and wondered again about these guys. They'd worked like a well-oiled team downtown, but up here they looked more like the Three Stooges.
The cabby's license said his name was Ibrahim Something-or-other, and he was good at tailing. He kept two or three cars behind, changed lanes back and forth, letting other cabs slip behind the Suburban. Anyone watching for a tail wouldn't have a chance of making them. Jack wondered if in his pre-immigration life Ibrahim might have been an operative of some sort in Kabul or the like.
The Suburban reached the West Side Highway and took it all the way down to the tip of Manhattan, then entered the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel.
Jack couldn't remember the last time he'd taken the Battery, but he had memories of it being shabbier. Looked like they'd spruced it up—the tiled walls seemed pretty clean and the ceiling looked new. A long tunnel, curving this way and that under lower New York Harbor.
The toll was on the Brooklyn side. The Suburban didn't have E-ZPass but the cab did, which meant Jack was through the toll first.
"Go slow, Ib. Let them pass you."
They did, and led them straight into Red Hook.
Jack had never been to Red Hook; looking around he could see why. Lots of dock but little else. Poor, dirty, unkempt, but old too. So old and ill-maintained that a few streets still had their original cobblestones; Jack's head hit the taxi's ceiling a couple of times as they bounced and jounced along.
Red Hook had a slapped-together look, without a hint of a plan or continuity. As if buildings from all over the city, from all eras of its history, had been teleported here and plopped down willy-nilly.
But the worst part: almost no traffic.
"Be careful here, Ib," he told the driver. "We're going to stick out. Put on your off-duty light and give them a couple-three blocks lead. Try paralleling them."
That proved difficult. Most of the streets were one-way, but a lot T-boned into others, necessitating a quick right or left. But Ibrahim was good. Parallel-ing the Suburban placed Jack two blocks away, which was not a bad thing. He figured he could give them a longer leash here. Red Hook was small and bounded by water on three sides. On their present course they couldn't get too far too fast without landing in the East River.
The Suburban stopped in front of a small, three-story brick warehouse across the street from Red Hook Park. WHOLESALE FURNITURE was printed in faded white letters across its front.
Jack dropped to his knees on the floor.
"Keep moving."
Peeking out the lower edge of the window he saw the three of them—the little guy under his own power now—walking toward the warehouse door. Miller stopped and stared.
Jack ducked lower as they passed. And as he did the skin on the front of his chest began to itch and burn. But the sensation faded almost as quickly as it had come.
He had Ibrahim stop out of sight around the corner.
Decision time: Cab home and check this place out tomorrow, or watch now?
He decided to give it an hour.
He handed Ibrahim a hundred-dollar bill and had him drive around until he found an unlit stretch on the edge of the park with a view of the building. Jack noticed that all the windows—at least all he could see—had been bricked over.
Strange.
"Okay, Ib. Get comfortable."
The headlights went out, the engine and heater stayed on. The Ib-man snored. Jack watched.
11
The Oculus sat up in bed. What had awakened him? He heard faint echoes of the yeniceri arguing on the ground floor, but they argued a lot lately.
Had Diana called to him?
He rose from his bed and padded to her door. He eased it open and saw the thirteen-year-old sleeping peacefully in her bed.
He started back to his own bed.
What had—?
And then he froze as an odd feeling crept over him.
Fear?
No… something else. Something wonderful.
Someone special was nearby. His proximity—his very existence—was momentous.
The Oculus had assumed his existence, but now, to have it confirmed…
A lump formed in this throat. After the terrible events of the past few years, he'd fallen into despair, almost given up hope. But now he knew all was not lost. They still had a chance.
He sat cross-legged on the bed, closed his eyes, and waited.
12
"I want you out!" Miller shouted.
Cal stood with the six yeniceri who'd pulled guard duty tonight, listening to Miller rage at Zeklos.
They'd gathered on the first floor of the warehouse that made up the Northeast Home. It had once been the New York Home, but that was when there had been more Oculi. And more yeniceri.