12.
I wanted to keep improvisation to a minimum. I’m good at thinking on my feet, but knowing somebody out there wanted me dead put a chill on my adventurous spirit.
I wasn’t sure why it should matter. Lots of people wanted me dead. All the same, it wasn’t every night that I willingly walked into a trap orchestrated by a necromancer who planned to kill me for a job promotion.
“I want coverage at all high points,” I said to Jennifer. “My worst nightmare is this guy turning out to be a sniper. If he jumps me, I can roll with that. A shot from a few hundred yards away, not so much.”
Her voice crackled over the phone. Tired, and I could hear a strain as she scribbled frantic notes.
“Done and done. I’ll see if I can round up some of those Triad boys who helped us out at the Cobalt Lounge. Nobody spots a sniper like another sniper. They won’t be able to carry long arms, though, not without starting a stampede. Best you’re gonna get is a heads-up.”
“Long as my head stays intact, I’ll take what I can get.”
“I’m not sure what we can get, not until I make a dozen last-minute phone calls. You know we’re cuttin’ this down to the wire, right?”
I glanced to the dashboard clock. I was back in Todd’s van, latex gloves gripping the dusty wheel as I muscled through nighttime traffic. I kept to the side streets, staying away from the congestion on the Strip as I hunted for a good place to dump the ride, but taking the long way around wasn’t helping my time-crunch problem. The clock read 10:14, which gave us just over forty-five minutes to round up as many guns as we could, set up a counter-ambush, and plan for every contingency.
Like Caitlin said, it felt like a game of speed chess.
I almost called the whole thing off. The opposition couldn’t make their next move if we didn’t show up to play. But this was our best shot yet at digging up some serious intel on the Network and their so-called “kings,” and I couldn’t let it go to waste. If I blew this, there was no telling when we’d get another chance.
The King of Worms expected me to kill his protégé before he killed me. Forget that. I planned on taking him alive. Then, once we got him locked down someplace nice and far off the grid, we could have a chat.
My next call bounced through two other extensions before I finally landed on Mayor Seabrook’s desk phone. She was burning the midnight oil again, just like I hoped she would be.
“I’m listening,” she said. Not exactly a warm hello. We weren’t there yet.
“Need you to use your leverage with Commissioner Harding,” I told her. “We’ve got a thing. Kind of thing where it would be good to keep Metro clear of the area until we’re finished.”
“When and where?”
“Container Park,” I said. “Forty-five minutes. We’ll need…maybe half an hour of clear sailing and closed eyes. Call it an hour to be safe.”
“Park’s open to the public until midnight,” she said, cagey now.
I read between her lines. The place would be crowded with civilians, and I’d just asked her to pull the cops away.
“No rough stuff,” I said. “Nothing in public, nothing that breaks our agreement. We need to have a word with some people about the ink epidemic in our fair city. If the fine members of law enforcement saw us politely escorting them from the park, they might get the wrong idea. We wouldn’t want to make a scene.”
The line went dead quiet. I could hear her gears turning.
“I’ll make the call. One thing.”
“Yeah?” I said.
“If anything happens that makes the papers tomorrow, in any way, shape, or form, I’ll be making a second call to the commissioner.”
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “The papers never print good news.”
* * *
Container Park was an open-air mall on the end of Fremont Street. The architecture coined its name; the three-level walls ringing the rectangular park, lined with shops and cafes, were all built from recycled shipping containers. A riot of colors adorned the ridged steel, ivory and hornet yellow and Halloween orange, giving the place a funky, art-hipster vibe. Like a wasteland settlement from a Mad Max movie, but more boutiques and Frappuccinos than leather and spikes.
A geodesic dome out front lit up like a giant glowing beach ball, next to a towering metal sculpture of a praying mantis. As I walked past, blending in with the evening crowds, twin gouts of flame erupted from the mantis’s antennae.
A soundstage stood at the far end of the park, where throngs of people packed an artificial lawn. Raw, grinding guitar chords drifted through the chilly night air. It took a second, picking up the lead singer’s warbly, underwater voice, before I realized it was an Aerosmith cover band. Not a good one, though the audience was too raucous and too drunk to care. I found a spot to stand out of the way of foot traffic, ducking under a steel awning. Caitlin sidled up a moment later, her gaze tracking faces in the crowd.
“Well, now I know everything’s going to be all right.”
“How’s that?” she asked me.
“Because I have too much self-respect to die to an Aerosmith tune. I just won’t do it. How’s Emma?”
“Eager,” Caitlin said. “I called up everyone I could reach; she’s surrounded by some of our finest, who are all under orders to be very obvious while pretending to be discreet. They’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”
Good. If I was somehow wrong, if I’d overthought this entire plan or given the Network too much credit for being clever, that should stave off any would-be kidnappers.
Her kidnappers, anyway. If I was right about all this, I still didn’t know if my mysterious adversary was going to try to grab me off the street or just kill me right here in the park. I scouted the tiers, looking up at the container-built shops, trying to spot Jennifer’s people. They were doing a good job of blending in. Or they were late. I wouldn’t know until I needed them. I flexed my wrist. Howard Canton’s wand—my wand now—dropped from its concealed sheath and into my outstretched hand. I palmed it and passed it to Caitlin.
“Hang on to it,” I told her. “We know the Enemy is hot to get his hands on this thing; the Network might want it, too. Can’t risk losing it if they grab me.”
“I don’t like you going unarmed.”
“I’m armed just fine.” I patted my breast pocket, feeling the hard edges of a fresh packet of playing cards. A .22 automatic rode on my hip for backup, just the right size for close-up work. “I can replace my cards and my gun. I can’t replace the wand. Besides, it only works when I’m protecting someone from danger. Someone who isn’t me.”
“It’s a stubborn wand,” she said.
“Stupid jerk wand.” I cast a baleful look at the stick as she slipped it into her purse. “Yeah, you heard me, jerk wand.”
A little forced levity made me feel better. For a few seconds, anyway. My watch said 10:58, time to go to work.
“We’d better split up,” I said to Caitlin. “If they know me, they know you. They won’t make a move if you’re close enough to save me.”
She took my hand and gave it a squeeze.
“I’m always close enough,” she told me.
Then she let go and cast me out like a worm on a hook.
Walking alone, I angled my way toward the benches near the soundstage where the meet between Todd and Santiago was supposed to take place. I kept to the shadows, but not too deep. Away from the crowds, but not too far. I had to walk the fine line between making myself look like an easy target and making sure my own people didn’t lose sight of me.
I counted my breaths and listened to the cover band butcher another vintage track. I wanted a drink. I worked hard at keeping my moves slow and easy. Couldn’t give away the game. I watched over Emma from a distance, trailing her shadow while she prowled near the benches, pretending I was her guardian angel.
Something was wrong.
My watch said it was thirty-six minutes past the hour, and nobody had made a move yet. I could only figure that we’d been made, that I’d given something away with my body language, and the Network had decided to fight another day. I didn’t want to go home empty-handed, and I tried to figure out where we’d gone wrong. Where had—
A hard electronic squawk jarred my thoughts. The music from the soundstage sputtered and died, leaving the fist-pumping audience milling in sudden confusion. Then a voice boomed from the loudspeakers perched throughout the park.
“By order of the Metropolitan Police Department, Container Park is closed for the evening. Please make your way directly to the exit at this time in a calm and orderly manner. Thank you.”
Deflated tourists joined a mob shuffling to the front archway, clutching their beer cups like trophies of war. I jogged up, getting closer, and saw a wall of colored lights lining Fremont Street. And a wall of beige uniforms at the park’s exit. A sergeant with a walkie-talkie was coordinating, pointing, and I watched a couple of cops snatch people from the front of the crowd when they tried to leave.
I walked backward, repelled like a flipped-over magnet, and speed-dialed Jennifer’s number while I hunted for a wastebasket.
“Sugar? I got five guys all shouting in my ear at once. What’s—”
“Harding,” I said. “He fucked us. He was supposed to keep his guys clear. Apparently he decided to go for a big bust instead. I bet he’s feeling the pressure after that house party; getting a few ink dealers off the street would make for good press.”
“He doesn’t even know who he’s looking for.”
I saw the cops grab a lanky guy from the pack and put him up against a cruiser’s hood, patting him down.
“I think they’re just grabbing anybody who doesn’t fit the tourist profile and hoping to catch them carrying. Idiot. He just blew this entire operation on a fishing expedition. Forget it. Jen, get your guys out of here, tell ’em to keep their heads down and we’ll bail out anybody who gets nabbed. You and me, let’s meet up at the Tiger’s Garden later. We need to have a long hard think about our relationship with Commissioner Harding.”
I could worry about that later. Right now, I needed to get out of here without ending up in handcuffs. Daniel Faust was legally dead, but my fingerprints were still in the national ViCAP database. One background check and I’d be back on the law’s radar for good.
I glanced over my shoulder. There were more uniforms taking up the rear now—they must have circled the edge of the park—and herding everybody toward the exit in a slow, firm march. I wasn’t worried about Caitlin and Emma. Caitlin could go over the side of the park if she had to—I’d seen her take a three-story drop and land with the kind of grace a cat would envy—and Emma could talk or buy her way out of most trouble. As for me, my concealed .22 had just transformed from a backup plan to a deadly liability. I had to lose it, fast.
I joined the crowd’s listless march, another lemming in the pack, and angled my stride toward a trash can up ahead. A deputy was standing five feet away, hands clasped at parade rest as he scanned every passing face. My fingers slipped under my jacket and brushed against steel. I’d have to pull the gun to toss it.
I watched the slow sway of his head, holding my breath, and timed my approach like a plane trying to land on a ten-foot runway. Five steps from the can, four, three, his gaze swung left as I turned my hip and plucked the pistol loose and—
—it disappeared, plastic lid swinging in its wake, as he locked eyes with me. I gave him a friendly nod in passing.
“Evening, officer.”
He didn’t respond. I didn’t care. There was nothing on me now but a deck of cards. Even if the cops on watch singled me out for a search, I was free and clear.
I took a deep breath and congratulated myself on a move well done. That’s when they pulled me out of the crowd, five feet past the exit archway.
A pair of uniforms grabbed me by the elbows and marched me over to a squad car. I gave them a genial laugh, playing up the “slightly drunk and confused” act. “Hey, fellas, I know the band sucked, but that’s no reason to break up the party. What gives?”
Neither of them said a word. One bent me over their squad car while the other gave me a brisk pat-down. He plucked the cardboard pack from my breast pocket, shook it a few times like he was expecting to hear something besides cards inside, then tossed it onto the hood.
“Careful,” I said, “that pack is loaded.”
They weren’t in a chatty mood. The cop finished searching me, running his hands along both legs from my inseam down to my ankles. I waited, patient, figuring they’d cut me loose with an apology.
Handcuffs clinched tight around my wrists. I barely got a word out before they shoved me into the back of their car.