The Frenzy War (21 page)

Rhonda stood erect, naked and proud. “My people don't worship any gods but our ancestors. You can threaten me all you want … torture me … kill me. But I promise you, nothing you do to me will compare to what's going to happen to you.” She glanced at the woman.
“All
of you.”

The woman swallowed, and Rhonda smelled her fear.

“My people do worship a god,” the leader said. “The one true God. My companions and I will gladly lay our lives down for Him. You're descended from demons, not gods. The grandchildren of jackals are still jackals. There are all kinds of torture: physical, psychological, emotional, spiritual. The pain you feel in your arm now is nothing compared to what you'll experience when your parents are dead.”

With rage blinding her judgment, Rhonda charged at the man, the chains snapping her back.
“You leave my parents alone!”

The leader offered her a sympathetic smile. “I'm afraid it's too late for that.”

Changing, Rhonda howled in anguish.

M
arshal Wilson exited the upstairs bathroom of his Bensonhurst home and joined his wife in their bedroom. They had both lived in Brooklyn their entire lives, and he felt comfortable living near the Eighteenth Avenue elevated train tracks. He closed the door, cutting off the muted sounds of the television downstairs. The last day and a half had been the worst he had ever endured.

From the bed, Deidre looked at him with tired eyes. She seemed to have aged years since their ordeal had started. i”When are they going to leave?”

I Marshal sat on the edge of the bed. “I don't know. They said they'd have to reduce their numbers after the first forty-eight hours, but after what happened to Rodney and Jennifer …”

“I want them to leave. We're prisoners in our own home. I want to help with the grid search. They're wasting
our time. There isn't going to be any ransom call.”

“You know what Gabriel said. We have to maintain appearances.”

“I don't give a damn about appearances. I don't give a damn about what these police think we should be doing, and I don't give a damn about the pack's need for secrecy. My daughter's missing, and I want to be involved in the search for her.”

Looking at her, he tried not to sound angry.
“Our
daughter.”

Tears filled her eyes. “I feel so helpless …”

Marshal took her into his arms, and she wilted against him. “I know. I feel the same way.”

“Five Wolves down, plus Jason. Six in all. Do you think she's all right?”

He stroked the back of her head. “I do. She has to be. We're going to bring her home. And the people who took her are going to pay.”

“Why her? She's never done anything to anyone.”

Marshal had asked himself the same thing over and over. “She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. They knew about the store.”

“She was so happy working there. Poor Jason …”

He felt her convulsing against him, and he wanted to offer her more convincing reassurance. They had nothing to cling to but fading hope.

“When she's home and this is all over, I want us to leave the city. Let's get a house somewhere in the country in another state.”

He knew that even if Rhonda did come home, she would never leave New York City. She loved Manhattan and hoped to move there one day. “Whatever you say.”

They held on to each other, their desperate need for contact interrupted by shouts from below.

Soares threw his cards on the table. “I'm hungry.”

“You just ate a sandwich,” Cato said.

“I'm bored. I get hungry when I'm bored.” Standing, he stretched his arms.

Cato glanced at his phone. “It's 11:40. Our relief will be here in twenty minutes. Let's go someplace decent to eat after we get off.”

Yawning, Soares covered his mouth. “Sounds good. I gotta take a leak.”

Soares went down the hall to the narrow bathroom and closed the door. In his four years with Missing Persons, he had spent a lot of time in the homes of distraught families, waiting for the phone to ring. He had a few happy endings to tell his own kids but not many. Considering the Lourdes kid had been decapitated, he wasn't holding his breath for a good outcome regarding Rhonda Wilson. Her parents spent most of their time upstairs, and he preferred it that way. He felt bad for them but had learned not to grow close to the family members of case subjects.

After relieving himself, he washed his hands and returned to the living room, where he saw Cato setting his phone down, a perplexed expression on his face. “‘Sup, yo?”

“That was Liaguno. From now on, we're to notify a new task force of any developments in this case.”

Soares sat across the table from his partner. “What task force?”

“I dunno. Something connected to Homicide. Tony Mace is heading it.”

“Where'd they dig that guy up?”

“Last I heard, he was running the motor pool or something.”

“A van just parked out front,” said PO Lewis, the uniform stationed at the front window.

Soares looked for a reaction in Cato's eyes. They both rose from their seats and headed over to the window.

Before they reached it, Lewis spun in their direction. “Holy shit, get out!”

Angelo steered the van beneath the elevated train tracks, then made a right-hand turn when he reached the long metal stairways descending from the station above. Dozens of men and women loitered outside, many of them smoking outside bars. As the busy street receded behind the vehicle, houses and residential buildings came into view, most of their windows dark and the night quiet. Making a left turn onto a side street, Angelo searched the houses for street numbers. Then he saw the empty police cruiser parked at the curb ahead.

“We're here,” he said. “All set?”

“I'm ready,” Henri said in the back.

Pulling ahead of the cruiser, Angelo slowed to a stop.

He saw no police officers outside, just a silhouette peering around the curtain of the picture window to his right. Then he unbuckled his seat belt and climbed into the back. “Be fast.” He opened the sliding door. “There's someone at the window.”

“Not for long,” Henri said.

In the dim illumination provided by the dome light in the ceiling, Angelo watched Henri get down on one knee and raise the rocket-propelled grenade launcher to his shoulder, the rocket at the end of the weapon protruding outside the van.

The silhouette in the window grew darker, almost solid.

“He sees us,” Angelo said.

“And I see him.” Henri squeezed the trigger of the antitank weapon. The soft explosion that followed sounded no louder than a standard gun, and white smoke filled the back of the van.

Angelo turned his head in time to see the upstairs of the house disintegrate in an orange and yellow fireball, the accompanying roar radiating outward as debris rained down on the van. The blast demolished the first floor of the house, which seemed to fold in upon itself before dark smoke cascaded out. The ground shook, triggering high-pitched car alarms all around the block.

Henri tossed the RPG launcher down on the van's floor, and Angelo shut the door. Angelo climbed up front, shifted the van into gear, and stepped on the gas. The van shot forward as flaming boards pierced the murky smoke ahead and unseen projectiles dented the top of the van. The
smoke dissipated, and in the rearview mirror Angelo saw bright flames leaping out of the smoky ruins of the house.

The cell phone's piercing ring caused Mace to stir in the darkness. Rolling over, he blinked at the digital alarm clock as he clicked on the bedside lamp: midnight. Beside him, Cheryl pulled a pillow over her head. For a moment, Mace felt like he was back in their Manhattan apartment. He picked up his phone and squinted at its display, which flashed Detective Bureau at him. It had been a long time since he had seen that identification. “This is Mace.”

“Captain, this is Sergeant Biro at Detective Bureau Brooklyn,” a male voice said.

Brooklyn …

“I have instructions to notify you with any developments in the Rhonda Wilson abduction.”

Mace blinked sleep out of his eyes. “Go ahead, Sergeant. You've got my attention.”

“The Wilsons' home in Bensonhurst is in flames, and neighbors reported hearing an explosion. Two detectives from Missing Persons and one uniform were present. There doesn't seem to have been any survivors.”

Mace felt the blood draining from his head.
Three cops killed.
He took a pen from the end table drawer and pressed it against the notepad by the lamp. “Give me the address.”

The war had begun.

A
fter they made love for the second time, Karol slipped out of bed.

Admiring her nude body, Willy folded one arm behind his head. “Where are you going?”

Karol stopped for a moment, an odd expression on her face. “To the bathroom.”

He nodded at her closed hand. “With your cell phone?”‘

“I just wanted to check my messages without waking .you. We did get kind of busy as soon as we came in.”

Propping himself up on one elbow, he felt the gold medallion around his neck slide along his chest. “I'm ready to get busy again.”

She set her phone on the bureau. “We're going to be exhausted tomorrow. I don't want Mace to think he made a mistake bringing me on board.”

”Mira,
you kept me waiting a long time. Now I've got you right where I want you. I don't plan to let you go.”

Positioning one knee on the bed, Karol looked down at him, faint light shining through the windows highlighting her body. She drew her fingers along the inside of her breasts down to her flat stomach. “You want this?”

Beneath the blanket, Willy spread his legs. “I'd show you how much if it wasn't so damned cold.”

Karol descended onto him like a bird and pecked at his swollen lips. Sliding his hands around her waist, he pulled her closer. She slid her tongue into his mouth, then pulled it out, teasing him. Using one foot, he pushed away the blanket separating them and felt her heat against his skin. She rubbed herself against him, and he readied himself for entry.

A cell phone rang, and he glanced at her bureau.

“That's yours,” she said, rolling off him.

“Give me my pants?”

“Get them yourself.” She strode past his pants on the floor, took an electric-blue robe from her closet, and put it on.

Hopping out of bed, Willy snatched up his pants, removed his cell phone from its holder, and pressed it against his ear. “Diega.”

“It's Ken. The Wilsons' Bensonhurst home was obliterated. Tony's on his way to the scene. Soares, Cato, and a PO were inside. No survivors.”

Willy stood straight. “Damn. W—I'll be right there.”

“Negative. Tony says he can handle whatever needs doing. He just wanted everyone to know.”

“I'll call Karol. You worry about Candice.”