Crown's Vengeance, The (21 page)

One foot against the door, Parker grabbed the arm and wrenched it backward. A painful shriek, and the gun clattered on the bamboo just as the door burst open, Parker’s weight no longer keeping their attacker at bay.

Into the apartment came a total stranger. As he fell, Parker was struck by how
gaunt
the man appeared. Tall, but not exceedingly so, facial skin stretched tightly across his skull. Shocked at the raw power this skinny apparition of death could generate, Parker tumbled to the ground, the attacker’s wrist still firmly grasped in two hands.

The man’s free arm came down on Parker’s throat as they landed. He never would have thought a skinny guy could hit with so much force. Parker twisted to dodge the blow. Flat on his back, he had no leverage to shatter the bony wrist in his grasp.

Everything happened in seconds, and as Parker pushed desperately against the ground, struggling to gain the upper hand, his attacker’s eerily calm face never changed. What the man did was pull a knife from inside his windbreaker, arm flashing so quickly that Parker barely saw his hand move. One moment it wasn’t there, the next it was streaking toward his chest.

As he struck, the man’s head jerked, and the gleaming blade whispered past Parker’s chest to stick in the bamboo floor. Warm blood spurted from a gash on the man’s cheek, courtesy of the, and he almost laughed, the
frying pan
in Erika’s hand.

Before he could thank her, the guy bounced up from the ground and stood back, his black, dead eyes searching for an opening.

Parker had just gained his feet when the man, expression never changing, spotted his lost gun behind where Parker stood. He darted toward Erika, knife outstretched.

Parker grabbed for the gun in his waistband, only to realize it was unloaded. With no time to fix that problem, he took the more direct route. Parker launched himself into the slender man with practiced ferocity.

Head up, lead with the shoulder, just like he’d been taught, Parker nailed the guy square in his chest, the skinny body wrapped in both arms.

The pair crashed to the ground, and Parker spread his legs wide, searching for balance to keep their assailant pinned. Parker sensed movement as Erika ran to his side, the shiny metal skillet raised overhead. She searched for an opening to strike, but Parker had the man completely covered.

Just as Parker looked back down, a flailing knee found his crotch, and lightning bolts of pain shot through his body. Parker reacted without thinking, releasing the man as he shriveled up in pain.

Like a snake, the man slithered free, and Erika’s pan slammed to the ground where his head had been a moment ago. He was going for his gun.

Parker lashed a kick at the pistol, his toe connecting to send it skidding across the floor and under Erika’s couch. The man slid over, his belly on the floor as he reached underneath her furniture.

“Come on,” Erika shouted as she dropped the pan and grasped his arm, “let’s go.”

He didn’t need to be told again. Parker hopped gingerly to his feet and followed her out the door while their attacker dug under the couch.

They flew down the stairs, footsteps pounding.

“Who was that?”

Erika’s hair streamed in her face as they raced out of her building and onto the sidewalk.

“I have no idea, but let’s go. Watch where you’re walking.”

She turned just in time to avoid plowing into a stop sign.

Behind them, the building door slammed open. Parker risked a glance and saw two muzzle flashes.

The car windshield next to him exploded in a spider’s web of broken glass. Across the street, an old woman sporting a head full of curlers screamed and ducked for cover.

“Follow me. Keep your head down.” Parker darted to the right, down a side street that put a building between them and the gunman. Every block in this neighborhood consisted of uninterrupted row homes, essentially rendering them rats in a maze.

Momentarily in the clear, he reached into his waistband, where Erika’s pistol was still stashed. It had to be, because his back ached like an anvil had struck it where he’d landed on the unforgiving steel.

Unfortunately, the gun wasn’t loaded.

“Get onto Christian Street. There might be cops out.”

She overtook him as he fumbled for the magazine in his front pocket. “You can’t shoot out here. There are people every—” Her words were cut off as two more shots peppered the brickwork beside them. The gunman was gaining.

“Screw it. Shoot back.”

Amazing how a few bullets could change your mind.

Christian Street was much more heavily trafficked than Carpenter Street, on which Erika lived. Parker decided to head left, toward a massive generation plant that occupied over a square block of real estate. No reason to endanger any more innocent people than necessary.

The magazine locked into place and Parker racked the slide. He turned and squeezed off two shots at the man, who was gaining on them. Without a suppressor on his gun, the effect was instantaneous.

Anyone within fifty feet, and there were plenty of people on the sidewalk, began to run. Once they started moving, each person the crowd passed joined them in terror, and Parker found himself sliding between screaming mothers and crying children. He kept his gun hidden as they moved, not wanting to risk any heroes taking him down.

“Cross the street.” Erika nodded, and they cut between two parked cars, running blind in front of moving traffic. A taxi whizzed past in front of them, horn blaring. A moment later, its rear windshield exploded.

They’d been spotted again. Two more bullets slammed into the parked car beside Erika. Like scared rabbits, they each tore down the rapidly emptying sidewalk toward the ominous towers of the electrical generation plant.

Parker had always referred to the engineering monstrosity as Gotham City, and right now he could have used an appearance from the Caped Crusader. He and Erika darted back and forth, moving erratically, offering as small a target as possible. Even still, several shots pinged off the sidewalk and buildings around them as they ran, their mysterious attacker in hot pursuit.

Two excruciating blocks later, Parker ducked onto a street that encircled the generation plant. Next to him ran a steel wire fence meant to keep trespassers away from the massive generators that hummed inside.

When he visited Erika, he liked to jog around this area, and it was during one of these midday runs that Parker found a hole in the fence. Barely large enough to crawl through, it was nearly invisible until you were right on top of it, the light gray metal of the fence blending with a turbine of the same color that sat a foot inside the wire loops.

Erika followed him through, and as they moved around the circular turbine, Parker spotted the skinny attacker poke his head around the street corner, wary.

“Don’t say anything,” he whispered, the sound of their feet moving over the loose rock concealed by the deep hum of the generators. “He won’t expect us to be in here.”

She nodded once, determination outweighing the fear in her eyes.

The slender man’s head whipped back and forth as he crept down the short alley. With all the movement, he looked like a paranoid Ichabod Crane. Parker waited patiently as the man moved past the broken fence, his gaze flowing right over the hole, never stopping.

He was so focused on their attacker that Parker never saw the white-striped skunk appear from behind the adjacent generator. Erika did, however, and let out a clipped, piercing shriek.

Before Parker knew what had happened, the black-haired gunman twisted around and he fired. The bullet nicked Parker’s right shoulder, a white-hot streak of pain when he dove away from cover. As Parker fell, his gun never left the man, firing twice to send a pair of slugs hurtling through the fence toward their assailant.

Parker slammed into the rocky surface, cutting his arms and face. His sight blurred on impact, and he blinked rapidly, knowing it was too late. Erika screamed again, once, then stopped.

She’s been hit.

Murderous rage filled his body. Parker jumped up and ran blindly at the shooter, who must have dropped to the sidewalk, offering no target at all.

As his finger tightened on the trigger, Erika screamed again. She was alive.

In front of him, Parker saw why.

On the hot sidewalk, blood leaked from Ichabod Crane’s head. Parker had shot him squarely between the eyes.

Without a word, he ran back inside the fence, grabbed Erika’s hand, and pulled her onto the sidewalk after him. Sirens sounded in the distance.

“Don’t scream and keep your head down.”

Parker rapidly frisked the corpse. All he found was a slip of paper in one pocket on which several strings of numbers had been written. Parker pocketed it, hoping that it might reveal who this guy had been.

Parker’s and Erika’s footsteps faded down the sidewalk as approaching sirens filled the air.

Chapter 34

Boston, Massachusetts

The lead story on the evening news brought a smile to Spencer Drake’s lips. On the screen, a perfectly coiffed male anchor stared at the camera.

“Thank you for joining us this evening. Tonight, the question that has exploded across the nation. Why is the price of oil skyrocketing? In the past week, the price of a barrel has risen eighty percent, to a high of one hundred thirty-five dollars. Only last week oil was trading at around seventy dollars per barrel. Almost overnight the price has nearly doubled, and there’s no relief in sight. With us tonight is Dr. Horace Nance, Professor of Economics at Boston University.”

Across from the square-jawed anchor sat a lunatic. He had to be, with his untamed shock of wild white hair, moth-eaten plaid jacket, and bright red bow tie. Thick, Coke bottle glasses were perched on his enormous nose, his eyes reminiscent of a monstrous bug.

The professor looked surprised. “Yes, why, of course I am. What we’ve seen in the recent weeks may appear to be complicated, but in reality is likely quite simple.”

Spencer smirked at the bumbling educator. If this goon could unravel his plans, he didn’t deserve to succeed.

“There has been a notable uptick in the price of oil as a direct result of several occurrences. One”-Nance held up a finger-“the volume of oil traded on the stock market has increased markedly. Why this has happened, I have no idea. Possibly some trader got the idea in his greedy head that oil was going to go up, told a few friends, and they bought all the oil futures. Or maybe not. The commodities market is a funny mistress. Her whims are known to no man.”

Not bad.
The professor was on the right track.

“Second, the amount of oil available for consumption has remained stagnant. This is somewhat unusual, as the oil-producing nations must be aware their product is becoming expensive, almost prohibitively so. Gasoline is becoming more expensive. If the average consumer has to think twice before filling their tank, they won’t drive as much, and the people who produce oil lose potential profits.”

“How long until Americans can expect relief from this crisis?”

The news anchor was deathly serious, which seemed to amuse the old codger.

“Well, I wouldn’t call it a crisis just yet. You see”-and here the thick spectacles slipped down his nose, hanging precariously-“the men who produce the oil may decide to increase production tomorrow. If there is more oil being produced, the price of oil will soon return to normal, as one would expect. Supply and demand and all that good stuff.”

The professor’s host was tenacious, pressing the issue.

“What if the oil-rich nations do not increase production? Would we, as Americans who are dependent on their exports, be able to lead normal lives?”

The host’s gelled hair nearly poked Dr. Nance as he leaned over the table.

“Ignoring the implications of our oil dependency, the answer is maybe.” His obtuse nose finally lost the struggle, and Professor Nance’s glasses dipped off his face.

“Oh dear. I must really get a string for these. Anyway, as I was saying, it all depends on what happens to production. If more oil is exported, we can expect things to return to normal. If production remains stagnant, then we may have a problem. It all depends on what the producers decide. We are truly at their mercy.”

As the anchor spun that comment into a worrisome tirade of rhetorical questions, Drake flicked off the television. The old geezer had been completely on point, except for one thing. America wasn’t at the mercy of the sheiks. They were at the mercy of Spencer Drake.

And his was not a benevolent soul.

The desk phone buzzed. “Yes?”

“Nigel Stirling calling for you.”

Probably checking up on the status of their latest contract. The man had no patience.

“Nigel, how are you?”

“There is a problem in Philadelphia.”

“What do you mean?”

Drake jumped from his chair. How did Stirling know about a problem? He was in England, for goodness sake.

“A man was shot to death two hours ago within blocks of where Dr. Carr lives. No mention was made of any female victims, and there is amateur footage on YouTube that shows the decedent.”

Drake’s stomach sank.

“Let me guess. He doesn’t resemble Parker Chase.”

“No, Mr. Drake, he most definitely does not. In fact, I’ve been told that police are having a hard time putting a name with their corpse.”

“You don’t think Chase was able to get the best of him, do you?”

“It bloody well looks like it. Get our man on the phone-if he’s not lying in a morgue.”

The connection severed, and Drake fumbled through his desk for the assassin’s phone number. It went straight to voice mail. The room was suddenly a bit warmer.

No need to worry, old boy. He’s probably finishing them off as you sit here. The man was a trained killer. A banker and a teacher wouldn’t stand a chance.

It made for a convincing argument. Too bad Drake didn’t believe it.

Chapter 35

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania