Vigilante (26 page)

I
do not like being summoned,” said Usko Kayone, his voice reverberating like the inside of a deep barrel in Vasko’s office. He spoke with a heavy West African accent.

An unusually tall man, bald, with skin like polished charcoal, he sat across the desk from Vasko. Hailing from Namibia, he came to Vasko’s attention under the highest recommendations. The man exuded an abnormal calm, and his heavy gaze was like staring into the eyes of caged panther.

“I apologize, Mr. Kayone,” replied Vasko. “I meant no offense.”

“Why am I here?” Kayone asked.

Vasko leaned back in his seat. “I’m looking to bring on some extra security before New Year’s Eve.”

Kayone’s response was immediate and unenthusiastic. “You do not call me or my team because you want
security
. You call me because there is someone you want dead. Someone who will not die easily.”

Vasko had to concede the point. “Is that a problem?”

“I would not be here if it was,” Kayone replied. “As long as you can afford my fee, there will be no problem between us of any kind.”

The office door was flung open and Marko blustered in, his chest heaving in gasps and the late afternoon sun casting his face in a deep shade of red. Vasko was furious that his friend would interrupt an important meeting such as this, and was about to berate him harshly, but the expression on Marko’s face brought him up short.

“Yuri, did you hear?” said Marko, rushing to Vasko’s side. “Look!” He flung a newspaper down on Vasko’s clear acrylic desk.

It was a copy of the
Times
with a headline that dominated the entire top half of the front page with the words “THE HAND REVEALED?” Unfolding the paper, Vasko saw that a large blurry photo of The Hand running down a sidewalk was beside a portrait of equal size. The second image was an Army Special Forces profile photo of Lieutenant Nolan Gray.

“Hm, clever move,” Vasko said, unperturbed.

“Wait, what?” asked Marko. “This was strategized? Who did it?”

“President Hastings, I would imagine,” Vasko said. “He believes that this could change his fortunes, shift momentum in his favor. He thinks the people will ‘see the light’—that light being Nolan Gray—and stand to fight against us.”

“You don’t seem terribly worried.” Marko’s own agitation hadn’t been quelled one bit.

“This was inevitable. It had to come out sooner or later. Look here—several of our recent losses are being attributed to The Hand. That property in the Lower East Side last week . . . So he
is
back, then. This was a message. He’s been trying to get my attention. He’s coming for me,” he mused.

Marko took a step back. “You expected this. All of it. You planned for it?”

Without a word, Vasko produced a small key and inserted it into the lock on one of his desk drawers. A fat folder was inside, and he handed it to Marko.

“The president wants the people to know who The Hand is,” he said. “Fair enough. But let’s ensure that they get the whole story.”

Vasko watched as Marko opened the file and winced at the contents: detailed descriptions of the tortures and violations that were inflicted upon Nolan Gray during his captivity, along with a great deal of research explaining the damage that that sort of thing does to a person psychologically. He was about to tell Marko which media outlet to send the folder’s contents to anonymously when his guest stood to his feet.

Vasko had almost forgotten the tall man was still there. “Forgive me, where are my manners,” said Vasko.

The big man jabbed a finger down on the table, touching the newspaper photograph of Nolan Gray. “
This
is the man you would have me kill?”

“Well, yes. Is that a problem?”

Kayone turned his back on Vasko and made for the door. When it was open, he looked back and said, “I will not fight Nolan Gray. I will not kill him. Not
him
.”

“I’ll double your asking price,” said Vasko. “Triple it. Name your fee, and I’ll pay it.”

His eyes taking in the state-of-the-art crystal palace Vasko had constructed, Kayone replied, “You don’t have enough money.” He shut the office door behind him.

N
olan felt disgusting. He wanted to take a shower. Or three.

He hadn’t been in a dirty fight or sweating with the exertion of his task. It was where he was that made him feel revolting.

An unexpectedly brutal winter had fallen over New York the first week in December, bringing record low temperatures and a snowfall that seemed to fall from the sky on a whim and stop just as fast. Always a quick thinker, Arjay fashioned him some detachable cleats for his boots, which made life considerably easier whenever he encountered ice.

Nolan crouched on a rooftop in the Bowery in south Manhattan across the street from his target, watching for a man. Only one person remained inside the establishment across the way—the owner, a man named Nico Vinson. It was after four in the morning and no one in the Bowery seemed to be awake but Nolan and his quarry. Even the streets, which were covered in a couple of inches of snow, were void of activity.

The bright neon sign hanging fifty feet above Vinson’s business was still on. Nolan kept waiting for it to go out, the signal that Vinson was preparing to go home at last.

The gaudy pink lights bore a vulgar name, declaring Nico Vinson’s business to be the Bowery’s one and only strip club. Nolan knew that was just the tip of what the club offered. Women had entered there and never been heard of again, a twisted place that exploited sex and poured money into Yuri Vasko’s pockets. Vinson’s business was a blight on the city. On Nolan’s city.

The ugly neon lights finally went out and Nolan stood, switching over to night vision in the sudden dark. As expected, Nico Vinson came out the front door less than a minute after the sign was extinguished. He was a short man with a black ponytail and a stocky build most would’ve found intimidating. When Vinson turned back to lock up for the night, Nolan produced a small transmitter in one hand and a button.

A shiny black Hummer parked a block up the street—with a license plate registered to Nicolas Vinson—exploded. A tiny explosive attached to the vehicle’s undercarriage sent the big SUV more than three feet into the air, with bits of metal, glass, and rubber soaring in all directions.

Vinson was thrown on the ground by the blast, and when he spun in place to examine it, he gaped in horror. He recovered quickly though, fishing for the tiny Seecamp pistol Nolan knew the man concealed at all times, for self-defense. But by the time the minuscule silver gun was out in the open, Nolan had already used the grappler to lower himself quickly to the ground and run full-bore into Vinson, ramming him up against the front of his own building.

The pistol flew out of his hand and landed somewhere in the snow. Vinson swore and tossed a wild punch, but Nolan ducked, grabbed the man between the legs, and spun to slam him flat down on his back.

Vinson tried to shout, but Nolan placed a gloved hand over his mouth.

“Shut up!” he said, his voice nothing but a whisper.

Nolan pulled out his staff and without extending it, placed the baton-sized stick against the other man’s larynx and pressed.

“Nicolas Carver Vinson. Seven burglaries, four years ago. Nine grand thefts auto, two months after that. Two cases of statutory rape, two years ago. Six counts of murder one, seven months ago.”

Based on the bulging eyes staring at him, Nolan knew he had the man’s attention now. Still he held one hand over Vinson’s mouth and the other clutched around the staff that was mashing into the man’s neck.

Still only whispering, Nolan spoke again. “You have one chance to tell me what I want to know. Refuse or fail, and I’ll hand-deliver you to prison, right now. Along with all the evidence needed to make sure you stay there until the end of time. Got it?”

With furious eyes, Vinson nonetheless nodded his head in a curt affirmative.

“Vasko’s been bringing weapons, drugs, and counterfeit money into the city for weeks. Whole crates of the stuff,” Nolan said, moving his face in an inch closer and lowering his voice to an angry snarl. “Where’s he storing it all?”

Nolan let up on the man’s throat by a fractional amount. But instead of replying, Vinson’s eyes searched the sky.

“Don’t you even think about lying to me,” Nolan seethed.

Vinson made eye contact, and although he was still angry, there was fear in his eyes as well. “He’s got a warehouse, okay? On a pier, somewhere on the west side.”

That narrowed it down a bit, but Manhattan had more than two dozen piers on its west side. Nolan supposed he would have to check them all.

Nolan didn’t thank the man before him. Instead, he knocked Vinson out with a steel fist to the head and carried him across the street, where he secured him to a street lamp. Vinson stirred as Nolan finished tethering him to the lamppost. Groggy, he was still able to curse him in two languages. In reply, Nolan produced his small transmitter again.

“You’re scum, Vinson,” he said. “You’re the scum that feeds off scum. I’m going to rid this city of you and everyone like you. And then, maybe the whole planet.”

Vinson was about to come back with a retort when Nolan pressed a different button on the transmitter, and across the street, the entire club was engulfed in a spectacular explosion. It was a carefully controlled blast of C4 designed to destroy the club but do no damage to nearby buildings.

Vinson stared in horror at his former place of business before launching into a list of crude epithets for Nolan, finishing with a promise to kill him.

Nolan dropped to one knee and punched Vinson in the jaw in a sudden vicious blow.

“Tell Vasko The Hand says hi,” he said, rising to his feet and firing the grappler into the air. One second later, he released the trigger and zipped away into the night.

R
unning from rooftop to rooftop, Nolan felt better than he had in months. Destroying that strip club had done wonders for him. Places like that shouldn’t be allowed to exist. Razing it was good, it was
right
. Jesus himself had destroyed the vendors’ stalls at the Temple, because they dishonored that holy site.

There were so many others, so many more “gentlemen’s clubs” throughout New York City, and given time, he would gladly take down every single one of them. And why should he stop there? There were restaurants owned and operated by men who reported directly to Vasko. There were a handful of abortion clinics that he knew for a fact were subsidized by funding from Vasko’s organization. One of the rumors going around was that the mayor himself was getting kickbacks from Vasko on a regular basis. How else could Vasko have arranged to hold his big Times Square New Year’s Eve in a few weeks?

Nolan would tear down Vasko’s entire organization and return the city to the people who lived here. He would give them back their home.

But for now, he required rest.

When he turned the key unlocking the RV five minutes later, he was surprised to see that both Arjay and the general were awake at that early hour. He couldn’t quite wipe the smile off his face, even though he knew he needed to play it cool around them. He wasn’t sure how they might react to all this. They might even accuse him of seeking revenge for Alice’s death, or something similar.

Inside, both of his friends were hard at work. Branford was reclining in one of the bunks, his computer on his lap and his eyes glued to the screen. Arjay sat opposite him, tinkering with a gadget Nolan didn’t recognize.

When Nolan had removed his heavy winter coat and the specialized black flak jacket he wore underneath, he plopped down in a seat next to Arjay.

“How’s it going, guys?” he said, trying not to sound too chipper.

Branford cut his eyes across at Nolan and then sat up straight. He retrieved a fat newspaper and tossed it into Nolan’s lap.

Nolan’s heart jumped into his throat. The headline of the major papers declared the true identity of The Hand to be a very much still alive Lieutenant Nolan Gray.

Genuinely alarmed, he looked up. “How?” he asked.

Branford was scowling. “Just read.”

The article explained that lost files belonging to Agnes Ellerbee of the
Gazette
had been found, and in them, evidence that Nolan was still alive and running around New York playing vigilante. Nolan was immediately suspicious of this, having a pretty good idea who was behind his being outed to the whole world.

He glanced up at his friends a few times while he was reading, but found their hardened but blank expressions impossible to read.

“Did Vasko do this?” asked Branford.

Nolan shook his head. “It’s classic Thor. He’s forcing my hand while simultaneously insisting that I accept his help.”

“And will you?” asked Arjay.

Nolan considered the question. “Not today.”

“Keep reading,” said Branford.

The article went on to show correlations between The Hand’s activities and known skill set, and Nolan Gray’s extensive training. It ended with speculation on recent events in New York City that may have been the work of Nolan Gray—including the gas station/counterfeiting facility.

Reading this article, it finally clicked for him. He understood why his friends were being so guarded toward him just now. They knew.

“How long?” asked Arjay when Nolan put down the newspaper. “How long have you been sneaking out while we sleep?”

“It’s not like that—”

“It is exactly like that!” Arjay said.

“I’ve made no secret of my plans to take down Vasko’s operation,” said Nolan, nodding at the big map on the wall. “You know he has to be put away before anyone in this city will ever feel safe again. And I’ll do whatever it takes to see that happen.”

“And this plan of yours . . .” said Arjay slowly, “It requires the use of
weapons
?”

“They get the job done,” replied Nolan, his words sober, resigned. “And they’re a lot cheaper and easier to come by than your specialized gadgetry.”

Arjay didn’t miss a beat. “That’s because they’re widely used by apes that don’t care who or what they shoot at.”