“Neither has Trench.”
“Your turn,” Harry said simply.
Bane told him how COBRA seemed to fit into everything that was going on, and had been, since Flight 22 had been delayed out of San Diego.
“So you figure COBRA sent the tall bastard out here to ice Jake,” the Bat said bitterly.
Bane nodded. “And now he’s after a fifteen-year-old kid.”
“Seems a bit low for him.”
“The kid was on the plane.”
“So were sixty-six other people.”
“The boy must be different,” Bane said. “COBRA seems to want him awfully bad.”
“Sounds to me like you do too.”
“Once we’ve got him, the rest will fall into place. I’ve got this feeling he’s the key to the whole thing.”
The Bat regarded him with a knowing grin. “There’s more, Josh, I know there is. What is it with this kid and you?” When Bane stayed silent, Harry continued. “Got a plan to find him?”
Bane told him about the phone tap he had arranged through Lou Dirkin.
“Sounds promising, Josh. Except if you figured it out, it’s a cinch Trench did too.”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
The Bat started to wheel himself past Bane, to the wall bar dominated by mirror-backed shelves. “Sounds like you’re goin’ hunting tonight, Josh, so I figure you could use some artillery. Hands are fine but not against Trench and his army.”
“Any suggestions?”
“Let’s see …” Harry hit a switch concealed under the counter. The mirror backing rotated, the shelves disappeared, and Bane found himself looking at a wide assortment of every handgun imaginable. “I keep the rifles in my bedroom closet. You can’t be too careful these days.”
“So I see.”
Harry was fingering a sleek automatic resting on the first row. “How about a Walther PPK? You’ve already got James Bond’s initials. You might as well take his gun.”
“I’d prefer something with more stopping power.”
The Bat winked at him. “Got just what ya need.” He pulled a somewhat larger, but just as sleek, pistol from the row above the Walther, stretching his fingers to reach it. “The latest from Browning. An FN highpower, self-loading, semiautomatic with a thirteen shot clip. And, as a special added extra, a couple clips packed with silver bullets, just like the Lone Ranger used to use. Bet you never heard Tonto say that getting shot with one of these bastards is like swallowing a grenade. Tear your head off at sixty yards.”
“Hollow points?”
“Standard equipment.”
Bane reached out and Harry handed the Browning over. “I’ll take it on approval.”
“Happy hunting, kemosabe.”
Chapter Fourteen
Davey Phelps huddled in a corner of the couch, arms wrapped around his knees. He didn’t know what time it was, though he guessed ten o’clock had already come and gone. He hadn’t turned the lights on because he knew the Men were close and might discount a dark apartment.
He had almost gone home; in fact, he was on his way there when The Vibes warned him not to. Maybe the Men were watching his house. Maybe going home would mean danger for his foster family. In any case, he ended up in Queens halfway between the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and the East River, just off Nassau Avenue and near a renovated apartment building named the Ferdinand. He pushed hard for The Chill with the doorman and ended up in a seventh floor apartment vacated by a tenant on a month-long vacation.
Davey’s head pounded the whole time the doorman led him up to the seventh floor and opened the apartment for him. He felt The Chill slip a few times and had to fight to get it back. It didn’t seem to be working right anymore. Since that morning, when he’d escaped from the hotel, his head had been filled with an awful thumping that threatened to split it apart. Once inside the apartment, he had pressed both temples hard for twenty minutes to block the pain but it came back every time he pulled his fingers away.
He was lonely and scared. He couldn’t go home but at least he could call, talk for a while, tell his foster parents he was okay — even though he wasn’t he owed them that much.
An hour before he had dialed the number.
“Hello,” said his foster mother on the other end. “Hello?”
Davey couldn’t speak. What could he tell her? Talking would only make things worse. He hung up, only to call twice more in the next twenty minutes, always with the same results.
His head hurt worse than ever.
His nose suddenly felt stuffy and he realized he was sobbing. He swiped at the tears with a sleeve of his jacket.
The Men were coming for him; he knew that now. Somehow they had found out where he was and they were coming. He couldn’t run anymore. His head hurt too much and he didn’t have the strength.
He relaxed a bit, almost fell asleep, until a succession of car doors slamming on the street below told him it was over.
“Hey, Josh,” said Lou Dirkin, “glad you called.”
“Got anything for me?”
“Yeah, the bag of shit the captain gave me for running an unauthorized tap. He made me pull it.”
“Shit…”
“Don’t fret, buddy boy, that bagel you bought me was still a good investment. I ran down all the calls that came in since this afternoon. One series stands out: three calls in maybe a twenty-minute period ending fifteen minutes ago, all from the same location, all thirty seconds in duration with, get this, no dialogue exchanged. Weird, huh? Think that’s what you’re looking for?”
“Give me the address,” Bane told him.
Trench addressed himself to the five COBRA operations men in charge, respectively, of seven men each. “I want this building surrounded. Front and back. Three men minimum on each exit. No slip-ups this time.” He felt the sweat forming inside his gloves in spite of the cold. The temperature had dipped below the freezing mark, and his breath made clouds of mist in the air. “My men and I will bring the subject out personally. None of you makes a move unless I authorize it. Understood?”
The five men nodded and moved away to relay the instructions to their specific groups. Trench started back toward the Twin Bears. Chilgers had tapped directly into the local telephone system to get a fix on all calls terminating at the Martinis’ residence. Trench cared only about those originating within a twenty-mile radius. The boy was still close; he knew it. It was just a question of getting a break, and that came with those three strange phone calls which had come less than an hour before, all originating from a seventh-floor apartment in the Ferdinand.
Davey Phelps undoubtedly.
There would be no escape for the boy this time. Trench had thought everything out, up to having one of his men atop a nearby utility pole cut off all juice to the street in the event the boy tried a repeat of that morning’s performance. It would end for him here and now.
His confidence in the red-headed Twin Bears, Pugh and Soam, was total. He would leave one on the first floor as insurance against one of COBRA’s soldiers interfering or the boy escaping him on the floors above. Trench would go upstairs with the second Twin Bear and would enter the boy’s apartment after Soam, only when he was sure it was safe. That way, if the boy turned his unusual powers on the giant, Trench would be free to burst in and empty an entire clip into him, though he fully expected the giant to take the boy without a struggle, after which Trench would follow them to the cellar, execute Davey Phelps, and report that he had escaped once again.
Trench nodded at the Twin Bears and the three of them started across the street toward the building.
Bane was approaching the apartment building by car when he saw the tall man in the beige overcoat. The man turned enough for him to realize it was Trench flanked by two of the biggest brutes he had ever seen. The killer seemed to be speaking to them, issuing instructions. That was all Bane could pick up before his car passed out of range; enough, though, for him to realize there was no way he could gain access to the building from the outside — Trench would have all entrances covered. That the killer was here surprised Bane not at all. The important thing was that it appeared Trench was about to enter the building for the first time, which meant there was still a chance to save the boy. But how to get inside?