Vigilante Run

Trogg knew he was lucky to be alive. His head felt as if it were going to split open. The bullet had creased his forehead but left his skull intact, leaving him with what was going to be an impressive scar when the stitches came out. He was doped to the gills on codeine from his private stash of painkillers. Jacker had bad burns and a busted arm, but he’d recover, too. He wasn’t going to be very pretty, what with the skin all screwed up on his arm and face and neck, but then, he hadn’t been that pretty to start with.

“He’s gonna pay, man,” Trogg said out loud, not so much to Jacker as to the Universe itself. “We’re gonna find him and we’re going to make him scream and beg to die.”

B OLAN SAT AT THE interrogation room table with the rookie, Officer Paglia, opposite him, both of them shuffling through files. The impromptu work space had that entrenched locker-room tang that so many rooms like it never lost—sweat, mostly, mixed with stale air, peeling paint, and the stink of bodies long neglected and abused by their owners. Bolan’s credentials had gotten him the space and enough cooperation to get the young officer assigned to him for support, but Syracuse’s chief of police and his federal counterparts had made it clear they weren’t happy to have him butting in. Bolan didn’t care what they thought as long as they stayed out of his way.

“This is everything you have on the Purists and any killings involving them?” Bolan asked.

“Everything—murders we believe or that we know they’ve committed, and all of the killings of Purist members in the area,” Paglia confirmed. He shrugged. “To be honest, a lot of guys on the force seem to think the folks upstairs don’t want to try real hard to solve those.” He pointed to several crime-scene photos depicting what could only be dead bikers.

Bolan nodded. The Purists were scum and their deaths were no big loss. But innocent victims were getting caught in the cross fire. A vigilante war had been launched, and the killer apparently saw everyone who got in his way as legitimate targets, even if they had nothing to do with the gang or its members.

“What are you looking for?” Paglia asked. Bolan looked up at the young man. There was real intuition there—and Paglia could obviously see that Bolan was no by-the-book, procedural investigator or forensics analyst. The soldier decided to be honest with the cop.

“I need some way to predict where the killer will go next,” he admitted. “I can’t stay one step behind him. I’ve got to anticipate his moves so I can cut him off.”

Paglia considered the photographs and manila files, then started hunting through them. “I think I know,” he said.

Bolan watched, curious.

“Here.” Paglia presented him with a file. “As far as I know, there’s been no hit there, but the location is central to Purist operations. I’ve heard rumors through the force that we’ve tried a couple of times to get undercover agents in the gang, specifically to get a look at this place. The word is that this is where the bodies are buried.”

“And?” Bolan pressed.

“Can’t get in.” Paglia shrugged. “They’re too suspicious or just too smart. They won’t accept someone they don’t know. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

Bolan considered that. While relatively new to the force, Paglia was typical of police officers everywhere—hooked into gossip that was more true than false, though never completely accurate. The thin blue line was shot through with grapevines. You could drop a pen in the break room of a station house at three in the morning and, by five past three, every cop on duty within ten miles would know about it.

In the file photo, an innocuous building sat on a street corner in a vaguely industrial-commercial district. A large, fading sign on the front of the facade proclaimed it Zippers Arcade.

“You want to find the Purists,” Paglia told him, “go to Zippers. If you don’t find them first, they’ll find you. ”

Bolan nodded. It was time to make a move.

T HE SEEDY BAR AT THE corner of East Fayette Street and Columbus Avenue bore a cracked but still-bright sign proclaiming it Club Lightning. A stylized lightning bolt striking the silhouette of a man and woman adorned the sign and, Rook presumed, invoked its name. Across the street from the bar—which bore several No Loitering notices and boasted a metal sign forbidding the possession of guns, knives and drugs on the premises—was an equally seedy barbershop. Close examination of both buildings would reveal several old bullet holes. The corner of East Fayette and Columbus was notorious in Syracuse. Shootings occurred there regularly, thanks to violence in and around the club. Several attempts to shut down the bar under public safety ordinances had failed.

Rook pulled his pickup truck to a stop in the barbershop’s parking lot, blocking the exit. An African-American man in his late teens or early twenties immediately exited the shop and challenged him.

“Hey, man,” he said. “You can’t park that there. Move your ass.”

Without hesitation, Rook shot him.

The .45ACP round from Rook’s four-inch Smith & Wesson 625 Mountain Gun punched through the young man’s chest and turned his white shirt a bloody red. Without pausing, Rook walked calmly across the street, drawing his second Smith & Wesson 625 with his left hand. The Hogue grips on both weapons felt warm in his palms. He did not break stride as he kicked in the door, planting his foot in the center of the metal warning sign.

The Whiteshirts were strange bedfellows to the CNY Purists but, as Rook had discovered, drugs and drug money often forged alliances between otherwise bitter enemies. An inner-city gang composed primarily of young black men, the Whiteshirts’ uniform was simple: plain cotton T-shirts, usually worn many sizes too large, sometimes with white bandannas. They were among the city’s more brutal gangs.

Rook had known for some time that the CNY Purists used the Whiteshirts to distribute drugs throughout Whiteshirt territory. The white supremacist philosophy of the Purists did not seem to get in the way of using an allegedly inferior race to extend their reach and their profits. The fact that most of the customers were of the same race as their subcontractor pushers was probably something the Purists thought greatly amusing.

Rook didn’t care about most of that. He didn’t care about the politics, he didn’t care about the socioeconomic impact of crime in the city, and he didn’t care who was selling what to whom. That was a job for the police—a job they’d been failing at for some time. For years city leaders had resolutely denied that there were gangs operating in Syracuse, despite what everyone knew to be true. Rook could never understand how they thought pretending the problem didn’t exist would change reality.

All that mattered to Rook was that hurting the Whiteshirts would hurt the Purists. The more Rook kept up the pressure, the more he hurt them, the easier it would be to hurt them again. He would go on hurting them, too, until he’d gotten them all or until he was dead.

Jennifer deserved no less.

The heavy metal door gave under Rook’s booted foot, swinging inward on rusted hinges. The interior of the club was dark and smoke filled, some of it cigar and cigarette, some of it pot, all of it illegal in a state that outlawed smoking in all public buildings. Rook almost laughed out loud as he considered administering the death penalty for this particular violation.

He shot the first man he saw. In the darkness, with his pupils contracted from the outside light, he could barely see at all. He targeted shadows and movement, emptying both revolvers in an ear-stinging fusillade. He shot the bartender. He shot a waitress running for the back, where he presumed an exit through the rudimentary kitchen offered faint hope of safety. The revolvers clicked empty and he holstered them. Switching to his 1911s, he hammered slugs through furniture and people. There was no resistance and no shots were fired at him.

It had been a slaughter.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Rook counted a pair of Whiteshirts near the door and three more sprawled on the floor by the bar. The other bodies were collateral damage. Rook dismissed them. Anyone in the club was up to no good, regardless of their connection—or lack of it—to the Purists.

Rook spun on his heel and made for the door. He knew he’d have to move fast. The cops were never far from this part of town. He needed to be a long way away before they arrived on the scene. In the meantime, another message—and another declaration of war—had been left for the Purists, courtesy of their hired help.

P ICK M C W ILLIAMS , dressed in a gold shirt and khaki pants in an attempt to blend with the crowd, sat in the airport bar nursing a beer. He glanced around nervously and checked his watch again. He’d checked the boards. The man Trogg had called “Kohler’s guest” was late because his flight had been delayed. McWilliams had been waiting for almost two hours and was getting stiff and sore.

McWilliams was trying in vain to signal the bartender from his booth for another beer when he saw the man enter the lounge. McWilliams had no physical description to go by, but this newcomer had to be the right guy. His eyes never stopped moving. He watched every corner of the bar almost at once as he stalked through it like he wanted to kill everyone. If what Trogg had said about Kohler’s brief phone call was true, the guy could kill everyone there, McWilliams thought.

The newcomer zeroed in on McWilliams almost immediately, his eyes narrowing as he took in the biker’s out-of-date clothing. He made his way to the booth and sat without invitation, his hands hidden beneath the table.

“Well. Aren’t you a piece of work,” he said. His voice was smooth, deep and quiet. It was the voice of a man who didn’t shout, who didn’t repeat himself. It was the voice of a man who was used to getting what he wanted the first time he asked.

“Pick,” McWilliams said, extending a hand. The man’s gaze flickered to it disdainfully before centering on his face. McWilliams withdrew his hand, feeling like a sucker, and swallowed his pride. Getting angry with this dangerous bastard would only get his ticket punched.

“Carleton,” the man said.

McWilliams didn’t know if it was a first name or a last name. He did not ask. Carleton was maybe five-nine, five-ten, and nearly two hundred pounds. His hair was cropped close; his face was outlined by a severely trimmed mustache and beard. He was wearing a black button-down silk shirt, a subdued black-and-gray tie and black slacks under an expensive looking trench coat that might have been Armani. McWilliams didn’t know if Armani made coats, but he knew money when he saw it. This Carleton did well for himself and had a big Rolex watch on his wrist to show for it.

“I was told someone would meet me,” Carleton said.

McWilliams said nothing. He produced a large manila envelope and slid it across the table.

“Next time,” Carleton said with a sigh, “slide it under the table.” He opened the folder while holding it out of sight between his body and the wall against which the booth was set. Looking up at McWilliams from behind small, round, wire-frame glasses, his gaze flickered left and right before coming to rest on the biker again. He said nothing.

“What?” McWilliams finally asked.

“I was just thinking that Kohler strikes me as a lot more professional than, well, you,” he said. “What’s a worm like you doing in his employ?”

“I don’t work for him,” McWilliams said. “I’m with the Purists.”

“I’m sure you are,” Carleton said, waving one black-gloved hand. His tone was clear. He didn’t know or care who or what the Purists might be. “Regardless, when Kohler contacted me he said he had a serious problem. If I had a serious problem, I would hardly send the likes of you to convey it.”

“Now just wait a minute,” McWilliams began, finding his nerve. “Just who the hell do you—”

Something jabbed him.

“Ow!” McWilliams jumped in his seat. “What did you just do?”

“Mr. Pick,” Carleton said, cutting off the biker before McWilliams could protest, “have you heard the expression ‘shoot the messenger’?”