Authors: John Shirley
This wasn’t good. They were going to clean out the safehouse if he didn’t stop them.
“Okay,” Wolfe said. He shrugged. “Crappy little room, pirated electricity, old used PC.”
“What kinda PC?”
“Dell.”
“Piece of crap. But we got to look the place over. And we got to kick your ass for good measure. And if you don’t like it, we paint the walls with your brains.”
“Place isn’t worth walking up all those floors to look at,” Wolfe said, meeting Shuggie’s eyes. “Just a squat.”
“We got to look at it,” said the Viceroy on Shuggie’s right. “See what’s there. This is Viceroy’s territory. Everything here belong to us.”
Wolfe shook his head. There were secrets up there. He owed Pearce. He had to cover for him. “Nope. You got to kill me. You can do that. But...be boring.”
Shuggie looked at him with his eyebrows raised. “Boring?”
“Sure. A fight’s more interesting. Two of your guys. You let me pass if I take them down.”
Shuggie snorted.
“Two?”
“Three if you want. Unarmed. No guns. No knives. I don’t have any blades on me...”
Shuggie laughed. “Motherfucker’s out of his mind.”
“I take him down my own self,” said the one on Shuggie’s left.
“When I tell you, Renfo,” Shuggie said. He turned to the one on his right. “Lordy?”
“Lord Washington always do it,” the man said. One of those “talk about himself in the third person” guys, Wolfe figured.
“I can do both at once,” Wolfe said, putting his backpack on the ground, out of the way. “But...” He buttoned up his coat. “No guns.”
“Then give your gun here,” Renfo said, sticking out his hand demandingly.
Wolfe shook his head. “Shuggie can cover me with his niner. But I’m not giving up my gun.”
“Never mind that shit,” Shuggie said. “He wants two, give ‘em two. Go on then, Renfo, since you gotta open your yap about it.”
Without wasting another split second, Renfo stepped in a little before Lordy and swung a long looping right at Wolfe’s face.
Wolfe ducked his head back, let the blow pass, grabbed Renfo’s arm, twisted—and flipped the Viceroy over his hip so that Renfo fell heavily onto his back.
Lordy sunk a fist into Wolfe’s gut—Wolfe tightened his abdominal muscles, took the punch grunting, but managed to keep his breath from being knocked out of him. Then he set himself and a split second later straight armed Lordy in the chin with the heel of his hand, using a classic martial arts move. As Lordy went over, Wolfe spun and clipped Renfo on the side of the head just as the Viceroy was trying to get back to his feet. Renfo went down again, Wolfe turned, reset his stance and brought a knee up to catch Lordy in the nose as the man tried to straighten up...
“Okay, enough of those dumbjacks,” Shuggie said, stepping in.
Shuggie set himself into a stance almost identical to Wolfe’s, then neatly blocked Wolfe’s left jab. Wolfe danced back, but not without getting a ringing crack against the right side of his head from the chopping edge of Shuggie’s left hand.
Uh-oh.
Wolfe and Shuggie circled one another, then Shuggie flashed his right hand, Wolfe took the bait and raised an arm to block—but it was a feint, and Shuggie stepped in under Wolfe’s block with his other fist, and only a snaking move to the right kept Wolfe from getting knocked off his feet. As it was, he caught a good clip on the edge of his jaw.
Wolfe rocked back from the blow, turned his recoil into a spin, came around in a kick-fighting move. Shuggie seemed ready for that—he grabbed Wolfe’s kicking boot and twisted.
Wolfe went down, rolling, pulling his leg free. The sound of the gathered Viceroys cheering was loud in his ears.
“You’re right,” Shuggie said. “This isn’t as boring as shooting you. But it’s not that much fun either. Too ea—”
He didn’t finish saying “easy” because Wolfe had scissored his legs around Shuggie’s ankles, pulled him off balance.
Wolfe was up in under a second, leaping onto Shuggie.
The two men rolled, struggling for control, each trying to get in a punch.
Shuggie rolled on top, and Wolfe tucked his right knee, managed to flip Shuggie off—but Shuggie, as he went, clutched at Wolfe, got a hold of his shirt at the top of his coat, and Wolfe felt it rip. Buttons went with it, popped off his old Army coat.
Wolfe wrenched free, rolled, got to his feet. He prepared to make a move...
Wolfe’s coat was partway open, his shirt ripped...
Shuggie was staring at Wolfe’s chest. There was a tattoo there most people didn’t see...
Wolfe used Shuggie’s hesitation to kick at his adversary’s knees. But Shuggie had whip-fast reflexes—and he slipped to one side, twisted his body, grabbed Wolfe’s leg, flipped Wolfe onto his back.
Mick Wolfe lay there gasping, the wind knocked out of him.
The Viceroys were laughing, hooting mockingly.
Shuggie stepped in close, almost standing over Wolfe—then reached down and put his hand out to Wolfe.
The other Viceroys went silent in astonishment.
Wolfe hesitated—then reached up and took Shuggie’s hand.
Shuggie pulled Wolfe to his feet, kept the handclasp for a moment. Then he let go.
Wolfe looked at him, wondering what was up.
Slowly, Shuggie rolled up his right arm. There was a tattoo up there, near the elbow. It was identical to the one on Wolfe’s chest.
The tattoo showed a black bayonet within a red arrowhead shape. It was the symbol of Delta Force: Special Forces Operational Detachment.
“Anybody can have a tattoo,” Shuggie said, rolling his sleeve down. “But you have Delta moves, too. I thought I recognized a couple of those. ‘Course—my moves were better.”
Wolfe nodded, ruefully rubbing his jaw. “Hand to hand wasn’t a specialty of mine.”
“Technical?” Shuggie nodded toward the backpack.
“Yeah. I was in the field for a while.”
“Where?”
“Afghanistan, Mali, Somalia.”
Shuggie looked at him. “What name?”
Wolfe hesitated, then decided he was outnumbered, out fought, and outgunned—so he’d better be honest with this man. “Wolfe. Mick Wolfe.”
Shuggie frowned. “Heard something from a guy just outta North Africa. Something about a Wolfe getting in trouble with General Van Ness.”
“That’d be me.”
“That’s how you ended up in prison?”
“Military prison. Disciplinary barracks.”
Shuggie sniffed, looked at the sky as if he were wondering about the weather. “I had my own run in with Van Ness. One of the reasons I left the Army. Guy’s a shitbag. Once he’s got it in for you...”
“Yeah. I heard he started his command in Iraq. You were under him there?”
“That’s where it was. I was working out of Baghdad almost four years. And Van Ness doesn’t like blacks being in Special Forces at all.”
“I trusted the motherfucker. Tried to report something...he didn’t want reported.”
Shuggie nodded slowly. “Mick Wolfe. Lot of decorations, I heard? Silver Star?”
Wolfe shrugged. “For what it’s worth.”
“Not worth a penny to most people. But it’s worth something to me anyway.”
“Shuggie,” Renfo said, “this sombitch lost the fight! We get him to open that door upstairs. I heard there’s a place on the seventh floor, hard to get into. Gotta be his.”
“We don’t go up there, today,” Shuggie said.
“Aw, Shuggie, come on! There’s a lot of guys in the Army around, don’t mean—”
Shuggie spun around, his niner suddenly in his hand. He shut Renfo up by shoving the nine millimeter pistol in the Viceroy’s mouth. “Say one more thing like that, I blow your head right up, Renfo. This man ain’t just Army. He’s
Delta Force.”
He shoved with the gun and Renfo staggered back, choking.
Lordy cleared his throat and, stepping cautiously back, he said, “Is one thing you ought to know, Shuggie. There’s word out about Mick Wolfe. The Club wants him. They got two hundred grand on his head. He’s the one shot up their casino the other night.”
Shuggie looked at Wolfe with renewed appreciation. “No shit! Two hundred thou!”
Wolfe slowly lifted his right hand, preparing to grab his .38. He doubted he could shoot his way out, but he had to try.
Shuggie shook his head at Wolfe. “You don’t need to go for that gun. I wouldn’t take two hundred thou, or a million damn dollars from those pricks in the Club—not for any fucking reason. Not even as a pretty present tied in a bow.”
Lordy groaned. “Two hundred K is a lot of fucking money, bro.”
Shuggie nodded. “Yeah, kind of. But the Club’s our enemy. So now we got another reason to watch this man’s back. Two reasons now. He’s my friend...and he’s our enemy’s enemy.”
He turned to the five other Viceroys there, and swung a pointing finger to encompass them all. “This man is under my protection! You all got that?
My. Fucking. Protection!
He is an honorary Viceroy, far as I’m concerned. I owe my life three times to men like this. Anybody don’t like it better see me in person. You spread the word! No motherfucker touches this man—and nobody says
shit
to the Club about where he is! Or I’ll put your damn stupid heads on spikes!”
#
“Wolfe? Any luck with that imaging?”
It was Pearce’s voice, coming from the TV. It almost made Wolfe fall out of his chair.
“Jesus, Pearce, I wish you’d give me some warning.”
“I specialize in not giving warnings. What happened to your shirt?”
“Black Viceroys. Little run in.”
“I heard they were tracking you. But—you didn’t kill any of ‘em, did you?”
“No. Found a friend. Close enough to a friend. Their neighborhood boss, name of Shuggie.”
“Shuggie. There’s worse than him around. How’d you friend up with him? Military connections?”
“Something like that.”
“Better put on a new shirt, clean up that jacket.”
“I plan to. You don’t need to micromanage, Pearce.”
Pearce chuckled. “So how about that image enhancement?”
“Yeah. I got it. Can you pick it up out of this PC?”
“I can.”
The PC wasn’t hooked up to anything. But there was something concealed in it, Wolfe figured, some tech that responded to a signal, and when exactly signaled it transmitted on a discrete wifi frequency...to some local hub that sent it to another, and so on, till Pearce got it through the almost legendary black market apps on his smartphone.
“It’s up on the desktop,” Wolfe said. “Do you need me to—”
“No, no, I got it. So that’s the son of a bitch who tried to splash my brains on the sidewalk...”
“Yeah. I think it is.” The image of the shooter, at the train station Pearce had traced him to, was now fully enhanced. Wolfe knew that enhancement programs could distort too—he’d seen it happen with those “face on Mars” photos—but he knew how to do it without distortion and anyway, he recognized the face that had emerged from the process. It was the guy he’d seen shooting at Pearce. He hadn’t seen him with much clarity out there on the street, but he was pretty sure this was the shooter.
“Okay, I’m gonna run this through ctOS facial recognition. They’ve got access to an international database. Hold tight.”
The wait wasn’t more than ten seconds.
“Uh huh,” Pearce said. “Here he is. Stan Grampus is the prick’s name. Says he’s rumored to be an assassin used by fixers. Works out of Chicago and St. Louis mostly. I hope he’s still in Chicago. I don’t want to go to St. Louis to find him.”
“What else they got on him?”
“Ambidextrous, it says. Amphetamine habit. Caught with half an ounce of amphetamines about six months ago. Charges dropped because they couldn’t find the evidence...Oh and look who arrested him. Detective Tranter, CPD. He’s the dirty gold shield I saw you with in that parking lot. The one who tried to warn you off. I figure this Tranter ‘lost’ the evidence in exchange for Grampus doing work for him.”
“And maybe some cash thrown in?”
“Maybe. Good chance Tranter hired Grampus to hit me. Doesn’t seem likely to have been Tranter’s personal priority to have me killed. He did it for someone else..”
“So whose priority was it?”
“That’s what we gotta find out. From Tranter—or maybe Grampus. Maybe Tranter told him...”
“That system say where to find Grampus?”
“No. It doesn’t. Last known address is now a confirmed ‘no longer resides’. But if he works for
fixers
...I just might have a lead for you. First thing you need to do, though, is meet Blank tomorrow. He’ll wire you in—and then you can be a serious player.”
“Pearce—” Wolfe turned in the desk chair just in time...to see Pearce’s image vanish from the screen of the TV.
#
Noon, under the Dwight D. Eisenhower Expressway, near West Van Buren.
The homeless encampment beneath the freeway ramp overpass was like a great overcrowded bird’s nest to Wolfe’s eye. Spilling out from under the concrete and steel overpass were broad, moldy pieces of cardboard, rusty sheet metal, large plastic black bags and old paint stained blue tarps were spread out in a rough circle, like the outline of a nest around the edges of the camp. Tents, some of them homemade, were propped up here and there; at almost regular intervals were shopping carts, some of them piled high by hoarding. A couple of people had made their own flags on scrappy wooden poles, rags with hand painted symbols snapping in the cold wind: one peace symbol, one obscene gesture. The indigent tried to grab some sleep, fully dressed against the cold as they lay in sleeping bags and under transparent plastic sheets.