Blackjack: A Cross Novel Part 23

"I gotta talk to him first."

"Talk to who?"

"My man. The one you got."

"I told you-"

"I don't care what you told me," Cross said. "We're in the end-game now. You want to talk to your man, I can do that. You want to play games, you're going to force us to do the same."

"Call back in thirty minutes," Munoz said. "And have Lopez with you."

"YOU WANT to speak to your man?" Cross spoke into the phone.

"Si. Put him on."

"Yes, I am here, jefe," Lopez said, calmly. "Everything was as it should be." He said "Si, si," rapidly and handed the phone to Cross.

"Your turn," Cross said into the mouthpiece.

"Moment.i.to."

Another minute pa.s.sed; then Cross heard the unmistakable voice of Princess. "I'm good," the armor-muscled man-child said. "These little punks got me trussed up like a turkey, but they haven't done nothing to me."

"They feeding you?"

"Just garbage. I'm probably down to three fifteen with all the c.r.a.p they serve here. They don't even have any of my special supplements. And-"

"Okay, Princess, just calm down, all right? They'll be cutting you loose soon."

"Are you satisfied?" Munoz's voice cut in. "Are you ready to release our bird?"

"Tomorrow," Cross said. "Tomorrow at first light."

"Why not now, hombre? Our bird can fly at night."

"I need a few hours. There's some things I have to do to make sure you guys are playing it straight. First light. When Princess shows up, we'll let your man go."

"Adios," Munoz said, and hung up.

"HE'S OKAY?" Rhino asked, anxiety making his voice even squeakier than usual.

"He said 'supplements,' " Cross replied. "You know what that means. He's all right, but he doesn't see a way out of there. If he'd said 'vitamins,' he'd have an exit spotted. If he didn't say either word, it would be a trap. So I don't think they messed with him."

"You think they'll actually let him go?" Buddha asked.

"Would you?" Cross answered.

THE NEXT morning, dawn was slowly breaking through a blue-black night sky as Lopez stood on the roof of Red 71, the pigeon in his hands.

"Do it," Buddha told him.

"Volar!" Lopez commanded, tossing the pigeon into the air. The bird climbed, then banked, wings working smoothly.

A few seconds later, a tiny bird blasted out of Cross's leather-gloved hand, its blue-gray wings a blur in the sky, a distinctive killy-killy-killy trilling from its beak. The bird soared like an F-16, a blur in the vision of the watchers on the roof who were tracking the bird through binoculars. Cross picked up his phone.

"Airborne."

Cross closed his phone, said, "Let's go," to Buddha. As Buddha turned to follow Cross downstairs, Rhino's murderous hand curled around the back of Lopez's neck.

"I DON'T get it, boss," Buddha said. "I know we got a transmitter on that mini-hawk of yours, but I've seen that thing in action-no way their pigeon's gonna make it back home."

"East," Cross said into his cell phone, watching a small round blue screen set into an electronic box he held between his legs. "Holding steady. You on it?"

"Total," Rhino's voice.

"It's not a hawk," Cross absently said to Buddha. "It's a kestrel. A falcon, okay? I got a mated pair up there. The female's sitting on some eggs. The male brings food. I haven't fed them for days-wouldn't let them loose to get food for themselves, either. They usually hit small birds, like sparrows. But I've got the male trained to hit pigeons-he really loves them."

"Yeah, but ..."

"But what?"

"You got your bird all stoked up, I get that. But that's only gonna make him knock that pigeon right out of the sky. Then how in h.e.l.l are we gonna-?"

"Kestrels only take prey near the ground," Cross explained. "Munoz will wait until his pigeon touches down. By the time he gets close enough to look in its pouch, it's Kaddish for his little 'sky dancer.' "

Urban scenery flew past the windows of the Shark Car as Cross continued to give directions to Buddha in person and to Rhino over the phone.

"What's his name?" Buddha asked.

"Who?"

"The bird, Chief. The ... kestrel or whatever you call it."

"Name?" Cross said, clearly puzzled. "It's a bird."

Buddha shrugged, and went back to work, handling the big car expertly, as always.

"HE'S HEADING for the flats," Cross said into the phone. "No place else he could be going. You got visual?"

"Locked on," Rhino replied. "He's sitting right above the pigeon. Just hovering. Ready to dive."

"The second that pigeon starts his drop, we move," Cross said. "Stay tight."

"GOT 'EM," Rhino's voice squeaked. "It's a three-story. Clubhouse on the first floor. Says Los Amigos on the door. Right on the waterfront, at the end of Pine Street."

"You sure?"

"Dead sure. The pigeon's dropping down, heading for home. And your bird, he's still just ... hovering."

"Cars in front?"

"Only one. A white ... Lincoln, it looks like. I can see ... Wait! I got it! There's a coop on the roof. Whole bunch of birds up there. It has to be-"

"Go!" Cross barked, breaking the connection.

The Shark Car's front tires lifted slightly off the ground from the sudden blast of acceleration as Buddha tapped the first nitrous switch. The target building came into view just as they spotted Rhino's recently stolen Montero heading toward the back.

"Here he comes!" Rhino squeaked as the kestrel went into a power dive. The pigeon may have seen the kestrel's shadow, or it may have been alerted by its primitive sensors. Its wings fluttered desperately, seeking the shelter of the coop.

Just before the pigeon touched down, the kestrel struck, its tiny talons balled into fists, stunning its prey. The pigeon staggered away, its damaged wing barring any escape.

Munoz ran onto the roof. He sprinted toward the pigeon, waving his arms to scare off the intruder, but the kestrel calmly mounted its prey, tearing at the flesh of the pigeon's chest.

Munoz slashed at the kestrel with a machete, but the tiny falcon danced away, its baleful unblinking eyes now trained on its new enemy.

Munoz thrust his body between the pigeon and the kestrel, frantically clawing at the pigeon's courier pouch.

A series of explosions sounded below-flash-bang grenades thrown through the gla.s.s windows of the bar. Munoz heard machine-gun fire. A thin smile played across his lips. With one mighty swipe of his machete, he chopped the pigeon in half, then scrambled on his hands and knees to recover the courier pouch. The kestrel watched calmly, continuing to tear apart the other half of the pigeon Munoz left behind.

The rooftop now held a pair of predators, each absorbed in its own work, totally unconcerned with the other's.

Downstairs, Rhino swept the ground floor with a long blast from his M-4, screaming "Princess!" at the top of his lungs.

Two men charged down the stairs, and were immediately cut down by a blast from Ace's shotgun. Cross pointed at Buddha, who was working his way along the wall, his modified Sig out and ready.

At Buddha's nod, Cross pointed to an open door. As soon as Buddha started to move, Ace began to climb the stairs, chest flat against the wall, gun arm extended as a probe.

Buddha stepped carefully down the darkened stairway. Suddenly, he spotted Princess in a far corner, the bodybuilder's chest crossed with heavy chains like bandoliers.

Princess's head lolled against his chest-Buddha could see only the top of his shaven skull. He holstered his pistol, eyes sweeping the room for any sign of a key to unlock the chains.

A shot rang out, catching Buddha in the left shoulder. The pudgy man went down and rolled, whipping out his pistol and returning fire in the same smooth motion.

A m.u.f.fled grunt of pain from the deep recesses of the bas.e.m.e.nt told Buddha his shot had hit home. He changed direction, crawling until he was next to Princess. Then he popped straight up, firing a short, sweeping burst from his pistol at the same time.

With all his remaining strength, Buddha braced one foot against the chair Princess was strapped into and shoved, toppling the bodybuilder to the floor. More shots peppered the wall behind him.

Buddha scrambled so that his own body was covering most of the fallen Princess, calmly ejecting the magazine from his pistol and snapping in another. Then he called out Vamos! as a challenge to anyone who wanted to come closer.

MUnOZ POCKETED the microchip and started down the stairs, a machete in one hand. On the third-floor landing, he cat-footed his way toward the rearmost room. He stepped inside, then satisfied himself that his escape rope was still anch.o.r.ed to the floor.

The drug lord had a car waiting below. If his luck held, he could be on his way to safety in seconds. As he gathered the rope to himself, Cross walked into the room, an Army-issue .45 in his hand.

Munoz turned to face his sworn enemy. He stood with his legs spread apart, the machete now held in both his hands.

Cross held his weapon in both hands as well, aimed at the chest of the kidnapper.

For a few seconds, there was nothing but silence. Neither man noticed a thin black splotch at the edge of the room.

"So, hombre," Munoz said. "It must always come to this, no?" Suddenly, he flung his machete point-first at the floor, where it stuck, quivering from the sheer force of its entry.

The black splotch quivered, too, as if in harmony with the machete.

The tiny blue brand on Cross's face began to burn.

Munoz moved slowly toward Cross, hands curled into claws. "You always wanted to know, didn't you, Cross? Quien es mas hombre? Any coward can fight with weapons. A real man fights with nothing more than his own hands.

"Now we see, yes?" Munoz snarled, as his entire body flowed into a hand-combat crouch.

"No," Cross answered, pulling the trigger of his .45. The heavy slug took Munoz in the stomach, knocking him to his knees.

Standing over Munoz, who was writhing on the floor in horrific pain but still clawing with his hands, Cross carefully emptied the magazine of his .45 into the dying man's skull. Cross released the magazine of his pistol, slammed in a fresh one, and turned to the door. He never noticed the ace of spades and the jack of clubs floating toward the ceiling. Nor the still-burning blue scar on his cheek.

IN THE bas.e.m.e.nt of Red 71, Buddha reclined on a cot, an IV running into his arm. He blinked his eyes rapidly a few times, finally recognizing Cross.

"Everybody come home?" the pudgy man asked.

"They weren't fighters," Cross said, "just punks with guns. You were the only one who took a hit."

"Munoz?"

"Same place as Humberto. It's all done."

"You're a real man, Buddha!" Rhino squeaked. "I'm sorry for everything I ever said bad about you. That was so brave, the way you covered Princess...."

"I still don't see why that crazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d should get a share," Buddha mumbled as he drifted back to sleep.

BUDDHA DREAMED he was sitting at a blackjack table in a lush casino. So Long was standing behind him, her jewel-lacquered nails over his right shoulder. He looked down at his two cards. Both aces: hearts and spades.

"Double down," the pudgy man said, just before he left his dream-state and dropped down to recovery-depth.

ALSO BY ANDREW VACHSS.

THE BURKE SERIES.

Flood.

Strega.

Blue Belle