Blackjack: A Cross Novel Part 6

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The camera moved past a muscular woman at the door, her folded-arms stance saying "bouncer" as clearly as if written across her chest. Orchid Blue turned out to be a high-cla.s.s gay bar, accommodating same-s.e.x and mixed couples both, with nothing outrageously campy allowed. The camera nosed through the place like a patient bloodhound. It ended up in the back, showing a bank of pay phones next to the restroom.

The last phone had a large "Out of Order" sign prominently placed across its face. Closing in, the camera showed that the receiver itself had been severed from the phone-the coiled metal cord dangled, clearly expressing that there was no point even trying to make a call.

"Okay," the blond man said, "back to base. It's time to give this Mr. Cross some idea of who he's dealing with."

INSIDE THE War Room, the blond man could not keep the smirk off his face as he punched in a number on the phone console.

"Orchid Blue ... what kind of name is that for a nightclub?" he asked, slyly. "Any of you guys ever heard of it?"

Everybody shook their heads except Tiger, who gave him a challenging look ... which he promptly ignored.

A phone rang inside Cross's cave. It continued to ring as he took three precisely s.p.a.ced drags on his cigarette.

The blond man did not share his target's calmness. He pounded on the console, muttering, "Pick up the d.a.m.n phone!" at the image on the screen.

Wanda worked the monitor's dials. The image on the round screen sharpened.

Cross reached out a hand, picked up the receiver. Said: "What?"

"Mr. Cross," the blond man said, "I have a proposition for you."

"Yeah, fine. Meet me at ..."

"There's no need for that, Mr. Cross. And no time. You either step outside when we tell you or we'll be coming to pay a visit in person."

"Visit me where?"

"Right where you are, right this minute. We're locked in on you. In fact, we can see what you're doing even as we speak."

"Is that right?"

"Mr. Cross, we are aware of your little phone-forwarding system, but you are not dealing with a pack of maladroits this time. You don't believe me? I'll make it simple. Raise your hand; I'll tell you how many fingers you're holding up. Come on, go ahead...."

The screen flickered. Tiger chuckled.

"Very funny, Mr. Cross. And very mature as well. Have I convinced you yet?"

"What is it you want, buddy?"

"I'm not your buddy. And what I want is for you to step out of your cave long enough for a civilized conversation. You listen to our proposition. That's it. Nothing more."

"How close are you?"

"Forty-five minutes."

"I'll be outside."

AS THE surveillance van picked up speed, homing in on its objective, Cross took inventory, as if considering a number of propositions. He glanced at a round hatch-style door set into his back wall-obviously an emergency escape route. The red pull-down handle made it clear that this was an option which could only be used once.

Finally, he shook his head and started to get dressed.

WHEN THE van rounded the last corner, Cross was standing at the edge of the pier, hands in the pockets of a coat that trailed to his ankles, so voluminous it could almost be a wraparound cape. The coat was a distinctive bright white with a high collar and wide raglan sleeves. At his feet, Cross had a small satchel, roughly the size and shape of a doctor's bag. His back was against a wood pylon.

The van pulled to a stop. Man and machine eyed each other, waiting.

The side of the van opened with a hissing noise-a hydraulic panel, not a hinged door. Tracker jumped lightly to the ground and approached Cross, his hands open at his sides. He bowed slightly.

"I am Tracker. Will you come with us?"

Cross returned the bow, perhaps an inch lower, maintaining eye contact. "You're not the one who talked to me on the phone."

"That one is inside. Where you should be ... so that we can explain our offer to you without observation."

"Down here, you don't have to worry about stuff like that. Looking into another man's business could get you killed."

Tracker s.h.i.+fted his body slightly, checking the area, sweeping with his eyes. "The ... thing we're after, you wouldn't see it coming."

"The thing you're after. Not my problem, then."

"It will be, I promise you. Very soon, too. If we meant you harm, you'd be gone now. I have approached you respectfully, have I not?"

After five seconds of utter stillness, Cross walked toward the van, deliberately allowing the Indian to move in behind him. He walked ponderously, as if his coat was a suit of armor.

Cross climbed inside the van, took the seat gestured by the Indian, and found himself directly across from the blond man.

The blond man smiled his thin smile, asked Cross, "Can I take your coat?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. I a.s.sume you won't be offended if I don't offer to shake hands. Our records indicate considerable expertise in improvised weaponry. I'm told you can kill a man with a sharpened credit card."

Cross gave him a contemptuous look. "There's women who can do that with a dull one."

Percy laughed.

Tiger crossed her arms under her heavy b.r.e.a.s.t.s, arched her back, and spit out: "Maybe you should try a woman you don't have to pay for. Provided you can find one, that is."

Cross turned to her. "I apologize. I didn't mean to offend you. There's something about this guy I don't like, and I let it make me say something stupid. That's not professional. I was wrong."

Tiger's expression changed, but she watched closely to see if she was being played with. And finally decided she was not. She uncrossed her arms, leaned a bit forward.

"That's okay," she smiled, "I don't like him, either."

The blond man remained profoundly uninterested in all this-he was well accustomed to people not finding him likable.

"Sorry for the demonstration," he told Cross, "but we didn't have time to approach you through the usual channels."

"You want to hire me, then?"

"That's exactly what we want."

"What's the job?"

"If it's all right with you, I'd like to show you rather than tell you. That means a drive to our HQ, but it'll be easier that way. Quicker, too."

Cross shrugged, flas.h.i.+ng back to the cold truth of what Tracker had told him: if these people wanted him dead, he'd have stopped breathing some time ago.

But that possibility cut both ways. Now that he had the satchel he carried inside a closed s.p.a.ce, he knew his crew was safe, no matter how this ended. If things went wrong, he wouldn't be leaving even a sc.r.a.p of DNA behind.

"Call it up," the blond said into the microphone.

BACK IN the War Room. Everybody was there, including Percy. He doesn't get out much, unless there's something requiring combat skills. Or kills.

The blond man made the introductions. n.o.body shook hands.

"Why him?" Cross asked Tracker, jerking his thumb at the blond man.

"Why not?"

"Because it's personal for you," Cross said. "Not for him."

Wanda didn't speak, just threw a couple of keystrokes at her type pad.

Tracker tapped his heart as the large monitor flashed on an Indian hunting party returning to camp, finding those they left behind hanging upside down, bleeding out, stripped of bone matter.

Cross nodded his understanding.

"Why not ask me, too?" Tiger half-snarled. As if in compliance, Wanda hit more keys.

"They took out three of my sisters," Tiger whispered as the monitor showed three women, all armed to the teeth, standing in a back-to-back-to-back triangle in some sort of tunnel. Their faces reflected both calmness and rage-warriors facing certain death, determined not to go easily. Or alone.

Cross lit a cigarette. Wanda's face showed disapproval. Cross didn't look nervous, didn't look bored, didn't look impatient.

Finally, the blond man broke the silence. "We know what you are, Mr. Cross. And we have a job for you."

"You don't have a clue about what I am, pal. All you know is what I do."

"Meaning ...?"

"I don't know what you do, and I don't give a d.a.m.n. But I know what you are."

A grin flashed across Tiger's face. Even Percy nodded his head in agreement.

"We didn't bring you here to play word games," the blond said.

"You don't know me. Maybe you know some of the things I've done. Or I'm supposed to have done. Whatever, you don't know much more than rumors. You don't want to play word games, you can stop talking in code anytime you want. Just get down to it. What do you want done?"

"The job-"

"Not the job, the price. Say the figure for me to get something done. Or the threats if I don't, whatever you deal in."

"Neither. How about you just tell us whether you've ever seen anything like this before?" The blond tossed some photographs on the table in front of Cross.

A number of corpses, hanging upside down as one might hang a slaughtered steer to drain its fluids. The blurred background was a thatched hut of some kind, suggesting only an equatorial climate.

"Yeah," Cross said, bringing a look of surprise to the blond's face.

"Where?" he asked.

"Africa. We came back from patrol, found the whole sweeper team hung up, exactly like that."

"What did you think it was?"

"What did I think it was? We all knew what it was. A message from the Simbas. That's the way they did things over there: kill your enemy and leave his head on a stake. Discourages anyone else from hanging around."

"Did it work on you?"

"Sure," Cross replied, surprising the blond once again.

"Then look at these...." The blond tossed more pictures on top of the originals. All same-signature corpses, but the settings were vastly different. A penthouse apartment, a hunting lodge, an abandoned warehouse. No individual bodies, all multiple kills.

"They all look alike," Cross said, neglecting to mention that he had viewed an exactly similar scene only a short while ago.

"Those scenes are not-"

"Not the scenes."

"What, then?"