He stared at me. "Hey, do you think I'm a fucking moron, you tin-plated hero?" he flared. "I can't pop myself. Or are you such a stupid fucking military jock you didn't realize that?"
"I realize it," I said. "But you aren't popping me anywhere."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about, I'm not leaving you behind. I've lost three people already. I'm not losing more without a fight."
"You left Damsel quick enough."
"She was gone, Jay." I was surprised how quiet my voice was. I just didn't have the energy to get emotional. "There was nothing we could do for her without getting the rest of us killed. It was a command decision. I made it. I have to live with it."
"I know all about that," Joann said. She had torn her chador into strips and bandaged Ray as best she could with it. Now she moistened a fragment from a canteen and dripped water between the boy's bloody lips. He was breathing with a sound like the A train. I didn't think it was too good a sign.
"How did you do that back there, by the way?" I asked.
"All that energy I store up," she said, color draining from that handsome face, "it has to go somewhere."
She shook her head. "I'm going to see them every time I shut my eyes the whole rest of my life," she said, "those faceless men — "
I squeezed her shoulder. "It goes away after a while," I said. "Or at least, you don't get the dreams so often." She looked up into my eyes.
"I know, child," I said quietly.
I turned away. "Where's Darius?" she asked suddenly. "I haven't seen him since, since — "
"Since they nailed Harvey, back at the apartment," Ackroyd said. "Motherfucker ditched us."
I nodded. "I never did like cops much," I said, "especially secret ones."
Ackroyd frowned. "You mean — he wasn't just a bodyguard, was he?"
"No."
"He was SAVAK. A torturer."
"One of the worst, I suspect."
"When did you know?"
"Not for sure till he told me, up on the roof. But I suspected it the minute I laid eyes on him."
"You son of a bitch," Jay said. "You'd jump in bed with the fucking Devil himself, wouldn't you?"
"If it helped me accomplish my mission." I held up a hand. "Save the denunciations, Ackroyd. It's time to use your magic finger. Billy first."
"Hey — " the kid said, trying to rise. He had come back around at some point. "You can't — get rid of me. I won't go — "
Joann pressed him down with her fingertips. "You have no choice, Billy," Ackroyd said.
I hunkered beside the boy. "If you live, son — and I'm afraid you will, as tough as you are — you're going to need an ace name."
"What's the matter with … Wolverine?"
"Your alma mater might sue. No, I have the name for you. I name thee Carnifex."
"What's — that mean?"
"Latin for 'Executioner.'"
He smiled and gave me the circled thumb-and-forefinger OK sign. And vanished.
Ackroyd pointed his gun at Lady Black. "Ready, Ms. Jefferson?"
"Just a moment." She stepped up, briefly held his face in both gloved hands. Then she did the same to me. I hugged her. I had to keep my head well back — she was taller than I. But I hugged her hard, and she hugged me back.
She stepped backward and was gone.
— I jumped, caught Ackroyd by the wrist, shoved his hand and pointing finger skyward.
"Try that again," I said, "and I'll break both your trigger fingers. Got that?"
A moment, and he nodded. I let him go, but kept a wary eye upon him.
"I didn't send them to Desert One," he said.
I froze in the act of stooping to gather the Kalashnikov magazines I'd made Lady Black and Billy carry, and relieved them of before Ackroyd popped them out. "We've been given the royal shaft," he said. "I don't trust anybody right now, least of all the military. I sure as hell wasn't sending them back to Desert One."
A moment. I nodded. "Smart move. Where'd they go?"
"The scoreboard in Yankee Stadium." He shrugged. "It's kind of a catch-all target for me."
I laughed. "You must be seriously suspicious, if you'd trust them to Steinbrenner instead of our own people. I wonder if the Yankees are playing at home tonight?"
I held out Joann's Kalashnikov. "Take this."
"No way. I don't have a clue how to use it." An ugly smile twisted his lips. "The recoil would probably throw my aim off so I'd shoot you."
"We don't want that, now, do we?" I drew my Tokagypt, reversed it, offered that.
"No." He held his extended forefinger up. "This is all the gun I need."
"If we get in the middle of it you and I might not be able to take everybody out, me shooting and you popping," I explained, choking down my impatience. "You have to know that by now, after what happened in the alley. We need to make them put their heads down. Pointing your finger at them just won't cut it."
"All right." He snatched the pistol away.
I let him lead off down the stairs, not my favorite tactical move, but I still didn't trust him behind me with the fickle finger of fate.
Halfway down the block a pickup truck with cracked and faded blue paint was parked. I smiled, tapped Ackroyd's shoulder, headed us toward it. "Pray it has fuel," I said.
"What, did you happen to bring a key?" I shook my head. "I suppose you re going to hotwire it, then?"
"Better. Got a penknife?"
He stuck the Tokagypt down the front of his pants and dug into a pocket. I winced. I wanted to remind him where the expression going off half-cocked came from, but this was no time to start teaching him to handle firearms with respect.
He looked past me then, and his eyes got wide. He grabbed the Tokagypt out of his waistband and aimed it at a doorway behind me. He had somehow gotten the safety off; the pistol barked as it came online.
I fell against the door of the truck, momentarily half-blinded and deafened. I smelled burning hair — mine — singed by the muzzle flash.
Panic sent a spasm into Ackroyd's finger. He pumped the trigger, spraying bullets wildly all over the front of the building until the last round went and the slide locked back.
I grabbed the gun out of his hands. "Jesus Christ, you idiot, what the hell do you think you're doing?"
He pointed. "Someone in that door. Pointing a gun at you. I — oh, dear God, no!"
He raced past me to the door, knelt down. When I came up with him, AKM at the ready, he was sobbing convulsively and stroking the cheek of the person he'd shot.
A boy of about eight, lying sprawled in the doorway. Curly dark hair, black eyes wide open to stars they'd never see again. One of those toy wooden Kalashnikovs lay on the steps beside him.
I took Ackroyd by the shoulder and pulled him away. He sat down on the curb by the truck, dropped his face to his hands, and bawled like a baby.
I laid my left forefinger on the curb and chopped the tip off with Ackroyd's knife. Blood spurted. I held the stump up.
"Our keys," I said.
Ackroyd stared horror-struck between his fingers. "Oh, God, you're sick, you're really sick."
I pressed the stump over the lock, felt my soul flow, become one with mechanism. I opened the lock unto us, then pulled my finger away. It came free with a soft sucking sound.
I slid my AKM in, climbed in after it. I shut my door, leaned across to open the passenger door. "Get in," I said, and put command into my voice.
Dully Ackroyd rose and walked around the truck. As he slid in and shut the door I pressed my severed finger against the ignition. The truck coughed once and started.
"Quarter tank," I said — I felt it, the way you have a rough idea how hungry you are. "Slovenly drivers here. Don't keep topped off."
"It was the gun," Ackroyd said in a voice of lead. "If I didn't have the gun, he wouldn't be dead."