And that possibility brought back other things Jack had said, frightening things that had struck home…
12
Hank had kept up a brisk pace on his trek and found himself puffing a little by the time he stopped at the corner across the street from Drexler’s apartment building.
Out of shape. Back in the day before he became a best-selling author, he earned his pay through hard physical labor-and every so often he missed the simplicity of his slaughterhouse job. But, despite all the pain-in-the-ass picayune bullshit it entailed, being the King of Kickerdom was better. He had a purpose now, something he’d lacked before.
As he waited for the light to change he saw a guy in a hoodie come out the front entrance and signal an approaching cab. Hank gave him a casual glance and was turning away when the cab’s headlights caught his face.
He knew that face. Where-?
Him! Shit, it was him!
Tyleski-the guy who stole the Compendium.
A burst of rage pushed Hank off the curb but he reined it in after two steps and stopped. The guy was getting into the cab and Hank would never reach him.
But he couldn’t let him get away again. No fucking way.
He looked upstream and saw a couple of cabs barreling his way. He waved an arm and the one in the lead swerved across three lanes to stop in front of him. Hank jumped in and pointed to Tyleski’s departing taxi across the street.
“Follow that cab!” he said, realizing how the words sounded as they spilled out.
But no wisecrack from the driver. He just hit the gas and followed.
Now what? Think.
Follow the guy home, find out where he lived, then arrange payback.
Wait. Shit happened. What if traffic snarled and he got away? This was a precious opportunity. Couldn’t let chance screw it up. He needed backup. He could call Kewan and No. Szeto-call Szeto. Good chance this was the same guy he was looking for. He’d be more aggressive than Kewan. Tons more. He had a real hard-on for this guy.
He found his number and punched SEND.
“Yes.”
“Hey, it’s me. You know that guy we were talking about today, the guy you’ve been looking for? I’m following him in a cab as we speak, but I’m afraid I might lose him, so-”
“Do not lose him! I will call you right back.”
Szeto was gone.
Hank looked at his phone and said, “‘Do not lose him’? Well, fuck you.”
Ahead, the guy’s cab stopped at a light. Hank’s pulled up right behind it. As they idled, waiting for green, Hank watched the silhouette of the guy’s head. And wondered what the hell Szeto was planning. Had to be up to something. He wanted this guy.
The light changed and they started moving again. Hank drummed his fingers on his leg. Well, so far so good. Maybe he wouldn’t need backup. Maybe His phone rang.
“Where are you?” Szeto said. His voice echoed like he was in hands-free mode or using the speaker on his phone.
Hank gave him the intersection.
“Going uptown?”
“You got it.”
“What side he is seated?”
Wondering why that mattered, Hank double-checked the silhouette ahead.
“He’s on the right.”
“Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Just stay on phone and keep me posted.”
Hank felt his steam rising.
“Hey, look. I brought you in as backup. I don’t need-”
“Just stay with him. I will handle this.”
Hank bit back a remark and let it go. Maybe better to let Szeto call the shots. That way, if they came up empty-handed, he’d have no one to blame but himself.
So he kept Szeto informed of their uptown progress, wondering what the enforcer had in mind, and wishing he’d get to it before A bright yellow Hummer roared through a red light and T-boned the right side of the cab ahead of Hank, knocking it a good half dozen feet sideways. Hank’s own cab screeched to a halt. A second later Szeto, carrying a pistol, jumped out of the Hummer. Hank watched, stunned and slack-jawed, as he ran around to the undamaged side. He pulled open the rear door and looked inside, then shoved the pistol into a shoulder holster and signaled to Hank to come help him.
Hank shook off his paralysis and jumped out. By the time he reached the damaged cab, Szeto was dragging an unconscious guy in a hoodie out the door. A van screeched to a halt beside them and the side door slid open. Hank helped load the guy into the van, then jumped in behind Szeto. They roared off, leaving the cab and the Hummer behind.
13
Every jounce and bounce rammed a spike of pain through Jack’s head. Vaguely familiar voices, one accented, echoed through cottony air…
“… about the Hummer?… Stolen. This is he?… Yeah, that’s him. Think he’s your guy?… We will find out…”
Lying on his back. Where? What happened? He remembered leaving Drexler’s, grabbing a cab, and then… what?
Seemed to be moving. Still in the cab?
No. Hard floor against his back.
God, his head. And his stomach felt ready to hurl.
Tried to open his eyes but the reluctant lids allowed him only a brief glimpse of blurred figures before losing strength and collapsing.
Tried to move but couldn’t. Seemed to be-alarm shot through him as he struggled to move his arms. They’d been tied or taped.
The lump of his Glock was missing against the small of his back.
And then the cab or whatever he was in hit a pothole or a curb and took a big bounce and the world faded away…
14
Kristof stared at the man blinking up at him from the chair. He was securely taped into it. His Glock and backup pistol had been removed.
He turned to Thompson. “You are absolutely sure this is man who rob you?”
“Sure as shit.” He flung the man’s wallet across the room. “All his ID backs that up. John Fucking Tyleski.” He leaned closer to the man, almost nose to nose. “Ain’t that right?”
Tyleski looked up at him. Kristof was quite sure that was not his real name, but it would do for now. They would know his real name before this night was over. He had seemed confused before but his eyes had cleared and he appeared more alert now.
He blinked at Thompson. “Who are you?”
“You know goddamn well who I am.”
“Never saw you before in my life.”
Thompson bared his teeth as he cocked his right fist. Kristof grabbed his arm before he could strike.
“I do not want him knocked out again.”
“I owe this guy, Szeto. So do you.”
“I want him to talk. He cannot talk if he is unconscious.”
“Talk, huh? You want talk? I saw a hardware store down the block. How about I pick us up a few tools to loosen him up?”
Kristof nodded. The Order had owned this top-floor loft and the one below it since the days before the meatpacking district became trendy. Thompson had kept his distance while Dieter and Erich were dragging Tyleski up the stairs from the street. But he’d gained swagger and confidence once the man was secured to the chair.
Just then Dieter and Erich returned from hiding the van.
Dieter stared at Tyleski. His English carried a thick German accent. “Kristof! I thought he looked familiar before, but now in the light, I am sure: This is the man from the park yesterday, the one who killed Claudiu and wounded Filip.”
“Is he now?” Erich said with an equally heavy accent as he pulled out his pistol.
The revelation triggered an explosion of rage within Kristof but he managed to contain it. He raised a hand and stopped Erich.
“No. We have time for that later.”
He pulled his own pistol from its holster and a three-inch suppressor from a side pocket. He made a show of screwing it onto the threaded end of the barrel.
“How much later?” Dieter asked, looking equally itchy to inflict damage on this man.
“After I have learned what I want to know, we shall play Last Shot Loser, the three of us-and Mister Thompson too, if he wishes.”