At the City's Edge (36 page)

He waited for the next set of headlights to pass, then risked opening his eyes a slit.

No.

It was Cruz. He could just make her out in his peripheral vision. Her eyes were closed, but he didn’t see any obvious wounds.
Whoever had taken him out must have done her just as fast.

Pain had come first. Now anger followed. He
cherished the burn, the black powder heat. Owned it, bank up the fire inside. He was going to tear someone’s head off. He
owed Cruz that much. He could lunge forward, try for the wheel. Or if he could get his arms up and over one of their heads,
he could –

Stop.

The voice in his head was familiar, but it wasn’t his own.

It was Mikey’s.

You aren’t clearing a room, rifle in hand and squad at your back. You’re dizzy. Unarmed. Your hands are bound. Go easy, little
bro. Think. Figure out what you’re fighting. I’m depending on you.

Billy is depending on you.

Jason took as deep a breath as he dared. Closed his eyes to focus, then opened them again, looking forward this time. He remembered
Billy’s description of the men he’d seen murder his father: one big, muscular and balding; one slim and normal-looking, hair
black and gray.

Anthony DiRisio sat on the right. Thinning hair and hard jaw, the casual weight of working muscle. An air of cold menace.
Calm, cracking jokes as he rode shotgun. The driver more nervous, his fingers tapping the wheel, his shoulders tensed. His
hair was black giving way to gray. Galway, Cruz’s old partner. A cop gone to murder and worse, but not used to it yet. Not
comfortable.

So two. And when he opened the car door he’d seen a third guy, the gunman with the scar across his
cheek, the one he’d dumped in the river down by Lower Wacker. He must be in another car.

Through slit eyes he couldn’t see much out the window, just the lanes of a highway, some construction barriers. The rain had
stopped, but drops on the window spun onrushing headlights into stars. Lonely streetlights, and beyond them, trees. They’d
left the city behind. Suburban houses still peeked through, but Jason could only assume they were headed out to some quiet
rural woodland where two shots in the head wouldn’t be heard.

All because of the alderman.

Fucker.
He’d played the good man, the JFK Democrat, smart, dedicated, considerate. Talked with conviction about the flaws in the
system, the worm in the apple, when all the time he’d been describing himself. Christ, the guy had listened as they parroted
his plan back to him.

That was why DiRisio had been there, why he’d been in a tux. It hadn’t been for Jason and Cruz at all. He’d been there because
he worked for the alderman. He was the fixer, the lethal hand of darkness.

‘This is a waste of time,’ DiRisio said. ‘Let’s just clip them and dump them in the river.’

‘He wants to talk to them.’ Galway tapped his fingers on the wheel.

‘A washed-out soldier and a cop wanted for murder. Nobody’d miss them.’ He paused. ‘Though that partner of yours is a peach.
You ever get a taste?’

Galway turned to stare at DiRisio. He had a stern
profile, craggy and unblinking, and he didn’t look nervous anymore. ‘You’re a piece of shit. You know that?’

DiRisio laughed. ‘Pots and kettles, my friend.’

‘I’m a cop. You’re not my friend.’

‘You got that half right.’

Jason tuned them out, hearing Galway’s words again.
He wants to talk to them,
the cop said. The alderman wanted them alive for some reason. Which meant they weren’t on their way to an execution field
after all. So long as they had value, they wouldn’t be killed. Questioned, beaten. But not killed.

And so long as they were alive, there was time. Time to get his bearings, time to seize an opportunity.

Time to make them pay.

It was a thin thread of hope, but Jason clung to it as the car rolled into darkness.

Somehow, someway, he would make them pay. Even if it cost his life.

A rich man’s neighborhood. Garish houses set back from the road, fronted by wide swathes of rain-black lawn. The mansions
were all different styles, English manors to Greek revivals, but they were united in a single characteristic: all were bordered
by fences. Some dressed up their intentions with decorative stone, others played honest with spiked metal, but the message
was universally clear.

Stay away; the world belongs to us.

They’d been heading north on the Edens, that much he’d been able to catch from a highway marker.
He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, and hadn’t been able to see their exit, but he guessed they were in Kenilworth,
maybe Highland Park. Big-money neighborhoods, the kind where you told people you lived there, they whistled soft, wondered
privately what you pulled down.

Jason remembered the alderman saying how he had to live in his district. There wasn’t a more polar opposite of Crenwood than
the street they rolled down. Owens probably owned some piece-of-shit ranch, had his mail delivered there, put the address
on election forms.

The hum of the tires slowed, then they turned left into a driveway, smooth blacktop leading to a high stone wall. Headlights
splashed across a heavy metal gate. A car pulled in behind them, the light dazzling after the dark. Galway opened his window,
punched a button on an intercom. They sat in silence a moment, then the gate swung ponderously open, revealing a curved driveway
snaking up to a large house, boxy and bright with glass. The driveway was fifty yards of white gravel that cracked and popped
as they rolled. Galway pulled in along the front steps, killed the engine. Jason closed his eyes, lay still. The silence was
loud enough to hear his pulse beat in his ears.

‘How are they?’ It was Galway’s voice.

‘Fine. Palmer’s been awake for awhile.’

‘You’ve got to be –’ Interior lights flashed on, painting Jason’s eyelids pink-orange. He could hear the seat in front of
him creak, Galway turning around. ‘He doesn’t look awake to me.’

‘He is. Right, Jason?’

There didn’t seem to be any point in pretending. He opened his eyes to see Galway’s cowboy face staring at him over the seatback.

‘How did you know?’ Galway glanced over.

‘His breathing changed.’ DiRisio spun, a smile beneath his lopsided nose. His gaze was unreadable as a cobra’s. ‘Why don’t
you go see if he’s ready. I’ll watch them.’ For a moment it looked like Galway was going to argue, but then he opened the
door and stepped out.

The engine ticked softly in the summer heat.

‘So.’ DiRisio said softly. ‘Alone at last, right? Just two soldiers.’ He looked down at Jason’s uniform. ‘The Class A’s are
a nice touch. I always hated the things, but you look good.’

‘You killed my brother.’

‘Yes.’ DiRisio stared back. ‘I did.’

Jason grit his teeth. Fought to master it. He made himself look out the window. He’d been flexing his fingers slowly ever
since he woke up, and the feeling had come back, sharp pins and needles. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. He wormed
his way upright. Cruz slid off his shoulder, her head rolling to one side. The way she flopped like a doll fed the fire within.
Jason flexed his shoulders, feigning stiffness, then brought them down with one elbow resting against the back seat. ‘I figured
a fuck like you would just shoot us, dump us in an alley.’

‘Now see, that hurts. What did I ever do to you?’ DiRisio raised a finger to his temple. ‘Oh, that’s right.
I crushed your brother’s windpipe and watched him flop to death on a dirty bar floor.’

Jason threw himself forward, thrusting off his elbow for leverage, zip-tied hands stabbing forward, fingers out and spread
to spear DiRisio’s eyes. The big man reacted with startling speed, leaning back, left arm coming up in a wave that caught
Jason’s attention, something like a block. He started to adjust for it, keeping his momentum going, only somehow now there
was a pistol in DiRisio’s other hand, the black eye pointing straight at Jason’s forehead. Like it had appeared there by magic.
Jason checked himself, caught his hands on the back of the seat.

‘Easy, Sergeant.’ DiRisio’s finger was inside the trigger guard and gently tensed. ‘The boss wants to talk to you. Which means
I’d just as soon not kill you yet. But you pull something like that again, I might change my mind.’

Jason grimaced, then eased himself back.

‘Here’s something you better understand.’ DiRisio thumbed the safety and made the SIG vanish. ‘You’ve been a pain in the ass.
I respect that. But I haven’t gotten much sleep the last few days chasing you around, and I don’t like fancy parties. So don’t
irritate me. Because when it comes time for you to go, it can happen fast,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘or real damn slow. And
not just for you.’ DiRisio’s eyes flicked over Cruz. ‘We clear?’

Jason turned, looked out the side window. Clenched his jaw. His hands shook, and he concentrated on
willing them to stop. On battling the icy spiders climbing his spine and the crackling rage in his belly. Thinking of Mikey,
laying on the floor of his bar, eyes bugged and hands desperate at his throat.

‘Attaboy. Just sit and hate me real quiet like.’

The house door opened, and Galway walked out. The gunman with the scar had been smoking a cigarette on the porch, and flicked
it away as Galway joined him. The two men spoke briefly, then Galway strode over and opened the door, his sidearm in his right
hand.

‘Come on, Palmer. Man wants to see you alone.’

‘No.’ He slid his feet under the seat in front of him, tensed his muscles. He could do this much, at least.

‘I sound like I was asking?’

‘I’m not leaving her with this psycho.’ He kept his voice calm. ‘You want to waste me, waste me. But I’m not leaving her alone
with him.’

Galway sighed. ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Relax, tough guy.’ DiRisio smiled. ‘I’ll take Palmer in, you see to her.’

Galway looked at Jason, who nodded reluctantly. He didn’t think Galway would mess with Cruz. Besides, he didn’t have much
choice. DiRisio opened his door and got out, the car rising on its shocks as his weight left. He opened the rear door, jerked
his SIG, and gestured with it.

Jason climbed out of the car, his muscles stiff and screaming. Took a moment to stretch his arms upward. Putting his thoughts
in rigid order. Strength
and discipline. What ever lay inside the house for himself, he could take it. Maybe he’d even earned it, mistakes he’d made:
Martinez, the Worm, Michael. But Cruz hadn’t, and neither had Billy. If the last thing Jason did was save their lives, well,
he could die with that.

That was what soldiers did.

‘Move.’

Jason started up the path. Scarface leered at him, then fell in with DiRisio. The front door to the house was open, framing
an inviting foyer painted in creams and tans. Silver-framed mirrors and colorful rugs, a staircase winding up. As he stepped
in, Jason risked a glance over his shoulder. The men stood four steps back; out of reach, but too close to miss a shot. Professionals.
Jason glared, then continued, the foyer giving way to a high-ceilinged living room. Supple leather chairs, low-slung coffee
table, abstract art reflected in pale hardwood floors. A faded red door decorated with Asian characters was set in the far
wall, and DiRisio told him to knock.

‘Yes.’ The voice was muffled.

Jason reached for the door handle, willing his body ready, welcoming the old familiar tingle in his fingers. This was as good
a spot as any. He visualized the move: open the door, hurl himself through, use the momentum to slam it behind him. It would
only hold off DiRisio for a fraction of a second, but that should be enough for Jason to make a play.

Maybe the last of his life.

She swam in some deep fuzzy place, the surface of consciousness rippling above. There were sounds, and someone touching her,
but she didn’t want to open her eyes. Wanted only to sleep, to plunge back into the abyss.

‘Wake up, Elena.’ A man’s voice, close. Jason? The voice was correct, she realized. She should wake up. There were important
reasons.

‘Come on, wake up.’

Things to do. They were in trouble. They had to tell –

She gasped, and her eyes flew open. She was in a car, the backseat, side door open, humid air thick as soup, a shape leaning
in the door, a man, one hand propped on the seat, the other reaching. Her purse. The gun was in her purse. She tried to check
the seat next to her, found that her hands were bound. The man touched her arm, and she moved without thinking, caught his
wrist and twisted, bent it back, spinning her body for leverage.

The man yelped, dropped to his knees. Fumbled at his belt.

Came up with a gun.

‘God
damm
it, Cruz!’

She recognized the voice now. ‘Galway.’ She stared down the barrel of his gun, let go of his hand. Looked around. She was
in the back of the Towncar. Last thing she remembered was hearing footsteps coming fast, turning, seeing a shape colliding
with her skull. They’d walked into a trap. ‘Motherfucker.’

Galway snorted. ‘Sure.’ He held the gun steady, his finger outside the trigger guard. Good form, prevented accidents but wouldn’t
slow him down.

‘Where’s Jason?’

‘Inside. Let’s go.’

‘Inside?’ Her head was clearing enough for her to know what that meant. The alderman. ‘He wants to talk to us? Why?’

‘You’ll need to ask him. Come on, now.’ His voice was firm but not harsh. ‘Slide out of the car. Slow.’

She didn’t want to, but didn’t see a choice. She moved gently, taking the opportunity to scan for her purse on the floor.
Praying they’d just tossed it after her, not checked it out. But there was no sign of it.

Cruz spun her legs out of the car, awkward and overdressed in the formal attire. Her heels spiked the gravel. Galway backed
up a step or two, the pistol out, watching her carefully. She stood up, then suddenly went swimmy, black spots dancing in
front of her eyes. Scrabbled at the car roof, found it wet, her bound hands sliding, thighs trembly, the spots multiplying,
the world dark, then shit, she was falling.