Authors: Robin Parrish
Vigilante (18 page)
F
illed with righteous anger, Nolan barreled past hotel patrons and staff, through lush hallways and a grand foyer, until he burst through a set of glass double doors to find himself on Park Avenue. He turned around and looked up at the old concrete building to see the glittering gold letters that said this was the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. If memory served, he was about five blocks north of Grand Central Station.
His skin no longer tingled with the aftereffects of the shock, but it had become numb in various patches across his body. He ignored it.
He was getting the usual stares and even a few cheers from pedestrians coming and going from the hotel, but he was in no mood for their blind adoration. He knew he needed to reset his earpiece and attempt to reach Branford and the others, to let them know he was okay. They were no doubt frantic by now at his lack of contact. Instead, he found himself just walking, aimlessly, for the first time in years.
Nolan didn’t know whether he was going north or south, east or west, and it didn’t matter. Hastings could have had people tailing him right now in unmarked cars, but this he also cared very little about. If he kept at this for very long, people would start to swarm around him, asking for his autograph or just wanting to shake his hand. News crews would soon appear with ambitious reporters trying their best to get him on camera. Some more aggressive members of the police may even try to arrest him.
None of it mattered. He just kept putting one foot in front of the other, never lifting his eyes from the pavement. Something about it felt good. A private moment of rebellion from all the rigid rules and strictures of this path he’d chosen.
Every time Nolan thought of Hastings, he felt his blood pressure rise. Was it because the man had had the gall to trick him with a false emergency and then abduct him, just to talk to him? What was Hastings expecting to get out of the conversation? Did he think he could get The Hand to join forces with the White House in the war on crime?
Seeing his old friend had brought back a rush of unexpected memories and sensations. For a moment in there, he had almost tasted the sour urine smell of the solitary confinement chamber from his captivity. He remembered the gaunt, skeletal features of Hastings’ face when he became ill while they were prisoners, his sunken eyes and withdrawn cheeks. He remembered the pain. The endless, endless pain.
And it had reminded him of Hastings’ stubborn refusal to believe in God. Nolan had drawn on his faith as his only source of strength during those dark days, while his friend had denounced any belief in a higher power. Nolan credited God with their survival and escape; Hastings saw their suffering as evidence of God’s absence. Or worse, apathy.
The two of them had been strict in their avoidance of arguments during their captivity. Disagreeing was a luxury they couldn’t indulge in; it would sap what little morale they clung to, and drain their energy.
Things were different now. They had quickly drifted apart after their escape, as the unspoken disparity between them no longer had anything keeping it in check. Without a common enemy to focus on, suddenly their differing ideological viewpoints became all-important.
Hastings was the leader of the free world. Nolan was a symbol of goodness and hope. He almost felt bad for not trying harder to rekindle the brotherly bond they’d had so long ago. They really did want the same things, and it wasn’t like Nolan had gone out of his way to embrace his old friend. Hastings was right: Nolan had kept him out of this, very intentionally.
Nolan couldn’t shake the guilt he felt, even though he knew his reasoning for everything he’d done, for the decisions he’d made that had gotten him to that point, were sound. He and Hastings were different. They always would be. Even if their goal was the same, their reasons and methods would always be in direct opposition to one another.
Thor will never be my ally
, he concluded sadly, and suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks.
There it was again. The sense that he was being watched.
To his immediate left was a building made of stone, four stories high. Acting on instinct, he pulled out the grappler and aimed it straight up at the roof of the stone building. He retracted it at its top speed, and in a moment, he was standing on the building’s roof.
Perched less than four feet away—and taken aback by his sudden confrontation—was the last person he expected to see.
“You!” he spat. “What do
you
want?”
OCI Agent Coral Lively blanched, wilting right there in front of him. She was wearing the same gray camouflage combat fatigues that Nolan remembered from that night at Vasko’s home, but had added sunglasses over her eyes. Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail.
When she couldn’t manage to come up with an answer, Nolan lost his patience. “You’ve been following me, haven’t you.”
“No,” she said. “Yes. Sorry, I—”
“What do you want, Agent Lively?” he said, his words a challenge.
She looked surprised, so he spoke again. “I know who you are, Coral Anne Lively. Thirty-three years old. Born in West Virginia, raised in D.C. Four years detective work with DCPD, followed by seven with the Secret Service. I looked you up.”
Coral was speechless. Apparently she’d had no idea he possessed such resources.
Nolan was growing angry again. “So, you’re keeping tabs on me so you and your boss can think up new lies to feed the media?”
“No,” she said, finding her voice at last. “Nobody knows that I’m . . . I mean, I had no part in that decision. I filed a formal complaint—”
Nolan paused. “Really? You put on record a dissenting opinion about an executive cover-up? Well, that got you off the president’s Christmas card list.”
“My partner’s furious with me,” she went on. “But I didn’t sign up to defame and deceive.”
“Good for you,” he said, and meant it, though he was still too angry for it to come out with sincerity. “Why are you following me?”
Coral looked away. “I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t. I just—I was . . . curious. About you.”
Nolan tilted his head down, ensuring that his hood covered his entire face. “Who I am doesn’t matter,” he said. “All that matters is what I do.”
“It matters
why
you do it,” she countered.
“Okay, then why did you shoot Vasko’s wife between the eyes?” he asked. He knew it was a cheap shot the second it passed from his lips, but she had it coming. And he was still in a foul mood.
The blood drained from Coral’s cheeks, and her lips parted, but no sound escaped them. She took a step backward, and though she worked hard to fight it, Nolan was certain he saw one of her knees buckle for a fraction of a second.
He turned his back on her and pulled out the grappler. “Go home, Agent Lively. And put some thought into a new line of work.”
Nolan fired the grappler and left her standing on the rooftop alone
.
D
espite noise-canceling headphones, the din of Yuri Vasko’s newest toy still made his ears ache. A helicopter, previously owned by one of Vasko’s rivals, hadn’t been on his list of acquisitions, but when the Feds made their arrest—aided by a truckload of evidence provided by The Hand—the aircraft had become available at a bargain price.
The chopper buzzed low over the Manhattan skyline, hitting the base of the altitude requirement for privately owned flying vehicles. This was supposed to be merely a trial run around the city, a chance for Vasko to try out his new toy. The pilot—a former employee of his arrested comrade, who basically came with the chopper—had warned him how dangerous it was to risk the wrath of the FAA by narrowly skirting the legal boundaries this way. But Vasko insisted on being as close to the ground as possible, to facilitate a better view of the buildings, streets, cars, and people below.
Since the vehicle’s takeoff, Vasko’s eyes had never strayed once from the view out of his side window. It was remarkable. How he wished that Lilya was experiencing it with him; she would have relished the contrast of the beautiful sun rising over the man-made metropolis.
Instead, as ever, his only company was Marko, who was ignoring the view entirely and focusing instead on the accounting books he’d brought along.
“With Flanagan in jail, his people have agreed to sign on with you too,” Marko said into his headset. “It’s astounding, really; your manpower and income have more than quadrupled in just under a month’s time, and they’re still rising. There’s barely anyone left—”
Marko’s voice stopped. It didn’t trail off or fade away, it just stopped.
Finally
, Vasko thought.
He’s put it together.
Took him long enough.
“Yuri, do you realize what this means?” said Marko with a dawning awareness. “Did you know this would happen? All of the others have fallen to The Hand or the OCI, and one by one, their remnants have sided with you. With you taking on so many additional resources, and your fame rising to such a measure . . .
“There is no one in the city with the power and influence you have. You have risen to the top of the city’s crime syndicate. And the public still thinks of you as a sympathetic figure. You’re all but untouchable.”
Vasko was expressionless, accepting this information as fact without comment. He continued to scour the streets below, searching, searching . . .
“Did you know? Did you know this would happen?” Marko asked again, in awe.
Vasko nodded, just once.
It was a victory he’d seen coming weeks ago, yet he felt no joy over it. He’d hoped to derive pleasure from this rise to power, but it felt as hollow as his own insides. Tactically, it was extraordinary how the tragic events of his life had made it possible for him to reach this point, almost overnight. Even the efforts of The Hand were working in his favor, eliminating the competition one by one and making it easier for Vasko to reach the top.
While The Hand and the OCI were busy focusing on other syndicate bosses, Vasko had quietly moved in and taken possession of their old assets, properties, and operatives. At first he had used bribes and payouts, but as the number of men pledged to his side grew, he was soon able to achieve the same results by applying threats and intimidation. Like dominoes toppling, each falling piece triggered the next until soon he’d been the only one standing.
Yet still he did not celebrate. There was no victory without Lilya at his side and Olena holding his heart.
He pulled a piece of paper out of an inside jacket pocket and handed it to Marko. “I need you to find the items on this list and purchase them. I don’t care what they cost.”
Marko grew agitated as he scanned the sheet of paper. “I don’t even know what some of this stuff
is
, Yuri. And the rest—it won’t be easy.”
Vasko ignored him. Even now, his eyes remained fixed outside his window. “Once that’s done, I want you to sell the building,” he said into his headset.
“What building?” asked a confused Marko. “The office?
Our
office building?”
Vasko nodded once. “We’re moving to someplace more central. More visible.”
“
More
visible? Is that wise?”
Vasko didn’t answer. He was in no mood to explain himself, and he didn’t care to humor Marko’s anxieties. Vasko was afraid of nothing. Not anymore. There was nothing to fear. Only something to hate.
“Where are we moving to?” Marko asked, his voice jittery with concern. “Have you already purchased this new office?”
“No, not yet,” Vasko replied, continuing to inspect the city below. By all rights, it was now
his
city. He owned more of it than anyone. “But I have something in mind.”
I
’ve read your stuff. What have you got against this guy?” asked Danny Sze. He was a short, stocky man, dressed in a traditional white karate gi, though the belt tied around his waist was jet black with several white stripes on the ends. He sat in his office, which he’d adorned with elaborate amounts of traditional Chinese decor, all over the walls, his desk, and even the floor. His voice, however, was pure New York. And upset.
It could not have been more obvious to Agnes that he was not happy to see her. Moreover, he’d gone out of his way to make her feel unwelcome there when she’d knocked on his door and asked for a few minutes of his time. He hadn’t even offered her anything to sit on when he’d returned to his own desk chair.
Agnes didn’t care. She wanted to stand anyway. She liked the feeling of towering over him.
All of New York knew that she was zeroing in on The Hand’s identity, and that it was only a matter of time. She’d already revealed more about the man than anyone else had even tried to, including observations about his scars, examinations of his weaponry and gadgets, and most recently, a psychological profile of the kind of person that would resort to taking the law into his own hands.
She was on the verge. She was close and everyone knew it.
“It’s nothing personal,” she replied. “Just doing my job.”
“Your job requires that you destroy a good man?” Danny asked, crossing his arms.