Vigilante (8 page)

N
olan watched as Alice spun a slow circle, taking in the technological wonders of his subway platform home. It was a strange amalgam of the nearly ancient station and its musty, chipped stonework, and the bright, high-tech equipment and endless gadgetry and wires that he and his friends had installed. His thoughts went back to how difficult it had been culling this place together. And that didn’t even include procuring the billboards and other advertisements all over the country. It had taken time, perseverance, and money. A
lot
of money.

“You can stay here,” he said, placing his gadgets down on a steel table, one by one. “It’s not the most comfortable place, but it’s safe. From your husband.”

She nodded wordlessly, looking around with big eyes. It was a long moment before she said anything, and he waited, allowing her to take her time to absorb.

“How do you afford all this?” she whispered, as if afraid that some Big Brother might be listening in via all the technology.

It was true, his grand plan had required one thing he didn’t have enough of: funding. He had his own life savings, and a handsome chunk of money his grandmother had left him. Branford had contributed part of his personal savings as well. But all of that still wasn’t nearly enough to carry out the full extent of his plan. So over a year before the two of them faked his death, Nolan had called in favors from old friends—as many as he’d dared. Soldiers he’d served with during the war, anyone who wouldn’t be alive today if not for him.

It was a long list, but he’d only bothered calling the wealthy ones. Never one for small talk, their conversations usually started with Nolan reminding his friend that they owed him their life.

“I’m calling to cash in,” he would say.

“Okay . . . What can I do for you?”

“Money.”

Usually there was a swallowing sound or some other twitch that Nolan could hear through the phone. “How much?” one of his new benefactors would ask.

“Lots.”

This would be followed by confusion from the war buddy, along with a demand to know why Nolan was asking. “You in some kind of trouble? Can you tell me what you need money for?”

“I’m going to change things.”

That was all the explanation he could afford to give. By force of personality alone, he’d managed to acquire over four million dollars to finance his plan. And all of it in cash, completely off the books.

Nolan explained to Alice how it had taken years to plan all of this out. Years in which he watched the political system, waiting and hoping that things would change for the better and this weary world would see some vestiges of real hope. When hope never came to Washington, or anywhere else, he decided he would deliver it himself. He knew it would be impossible to impact the whole world all by himself, so he created a plan that was focused on New York.

“Why New York?” she asked.

“This city is, for all intents, the de facto capital of the Western world.”

There was nowhere else in the United States or the world where international politics, finances, culture, and dreams intersected in one place. And of course the people. Sixteen million residents from every corner of the world. The perfect microcosm, a model of the entire planet. The eyes of the globe were always watching New York; there was no better platform from which to send a message.

Nolan heard the familiar creak of the gate surrounding the Cube swing open and Branford’s even footsteps.

“The Hand,” announced the General. It was his way of welcoming Nolan back home and congratulating him on a job well done. “That’s what they’re calling you. This one reporter for the
Gazette
coined it.”

He seemed unsurprised by their visitor, but waited in silence.

“General,” Nolan began, “may I introduce—”

“Alice Regan,” interrupted Branford. “Fifty-nine years old. Currently unemployed. Suffers from bursitis. Moved to New York from Atlanta twenty-six years ago so her husband, Barry, could accept a position with the NYPD. No other living family members.”

Alice’s eyes had gotten bigger with every word, and now looked ready to leave her head.

“I was just going to say she was your next-door neighbor,” said Nolan.

Branford glanced at him. “Got her on camera when you were bringing her in. Ran her through facial recognition software, wasn’t hard to access her records.”

“That’s . . .” said Alice, at a loss for words. “Well, that’s something.”

“Oh
snap
,” said a voice from the dark.

“And that’s Arjay,” Nolan continued. Then he called out to the back corner, “Take it easy, guys.
I
brought Alice in. I helped her out a while back, but she never told anyone about me. We can trust her. She’s going to stay with us for a while.”

Arjay walked over to inspect the newcomer. Then he looked horrified, taking a step backward. “She’s seen my face! Those of us that still
have
faces have something to lose, you know. My work here was meant to be untraceable, but
she
now knows I am connected to you. This jeopardizes everything. . . .”

“Calm down,” Nolan said, in a tone that was more domineering than he intended. “I said you can trust her, and that means you can.”

Arjay crossed his arms in front of his chest, a skeptical look on his face. “You are certain of this?”

Nolan glanced at her. “Yes. And if not, I’ll kill her.”

Alice’s eyes grew huge, and it was clear she was thinking she’d made a mistake coming here.

“Kidding!” Nolan backpedaled. “I’m kidding, Alice.”

Arjay retreated to his work space, but not before calling back to them, “But he could, you know. With his little toe.”

Nolan turned to Branford, who gave Alice a clipped “Ma’am” and then motioned for Nolan to follow him. Something dangerous flashed in his eyes, and when they had a little space he growled, “Should we expect more tenants in the future?”

Nolan shot Branford a look of warning and lowered his voice. “There’s nowhere else she can go. Put her on the street and she’ll be dead within a week. Now, what were you saying about the media?”

“Uh, some members of the press are calling you ‘The Hand,’ and it seems to be catching on.”

Nolan considered the name and shrugged mentally.
Could be worse.

“Who
are
you people?” Alice called, as if finally finding the courage to voice the main question on her mind. “What’s all this about? And why are you hiding under a hood?” she said, pointing her final question at Nolan.

Branford made to speak, but Nolan cut him off. “New York’s soul is bleeding out. She’s dying. This is about making the city a better place. A moral place, where the innocent aren’t trampled on and the wicked don’t get away with whatever they want.”

Branford turned and wandered away. Nolan knew his old friend so very well. He knew that they would continue their conversation about Alice later, but for now, Branford had decided to leave before he said something inappropriate.

Nolan turned back to Alice, who’d approached. When she spoke, her voice was lowered. “Why did that man in the corner say that? That you don’t have a face? Is that why you were wrapped up like a mummy . . . that night?”

Nolan sighed and closed his eyes. Slowly, he pulled back the hood of his jacket.

He’d expected her to recoil, or make a face of disgust. And he wouldn’t have blamed her; even
he
didn’t like looking at it.

Alice didn’t blink. Instead, she smiled sweetly.

“There now,” she said, nodding. “You’ve seen my scars and bruises, and I’ve seen yours.”

“This is hardly
all
of my scars,” he interjected.

“Mm. Well, the difference is, you saw me at my worst. I’ve only ever seen you at your best.”

Nolan felt his cheeks burn, which he imagined had to be a disgusting display given the condition of his mangled face. His face had the appearance of having been melted and then frozen in place, while there were crisscross scars all up and down his cheeks. The scars were still red lines, having never fully regained their original color. The tissue around his eyes was drawn and narrowed, but thankfully his eyesight remained unimpaired.

He felt awkward under her gaze, suddenly aware of all his pains, particularly a searing burn in his shoulder. He rubbed at it, trying to find relief.

“Are you hurt?”

“It’s nothing,” Nolan replied.

Alice had already reached up to unzip his jacket. “Let me see.”

He hesitated a moment but then slipped the jacket off, revealing the ribbed undershirt he wore beneath. The shirt was sleeveless, so the swelling in his shoulder was embarrassingly visible.

“You still have range of motion,” she mumbled, “so it’s not out. A good sprain, probably.”

Her wrinkled hands came up and proved surprisingly strong at massaging the raw muscle tissue around his shoulder. She checked a number of pressure points, watching for his reaction.

“You a doctor?” asked Nolan.

She gave a brief smile as she continued to work. “I had some training, though it was a long time ago. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but once upon a time, I was an assistant virologist. Worked in a lab, studied diseases up close, looking for cures.”

Nolan’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. He couldn’t help it; she was right that he would never have guessed.

“Why’d you quit?” he probed. “Your husband?”

She shook her head. “This was years before I met Barry. I was right out of grad school, and I never advanced past ‘assistant.’ ”

“Why?”

“I got tired of the darkness of it all. Four years of my life, I spent eight hours a day in a full quarantine suit, working with some of the most dangerous pathogens to ever exist. It dawned on me that if I kept looking into the darkest parts of nature, that one day I would be infected by it.”

Nolan stared at her. The way she looked at him, it almost made her words a warning about his own life and this path he’d chosen.

“Your shoulder will be fine in a few days. Ice will keep the swelling down. So . . . does it hurt?” she asked, studying his face now.

Nolan was glad for the change in subject, pulling his jacket back up over his shoulders. “Branford estimates 60 percent of the nerves in my face have been destroyed. My face doesn’t move very much anymore, but I also don’t feel much in the way of pain.”

“And you look this way . . . on purpose?” she asked.

“If I didn’t, you’d recognize me.” Nolan nodded. “Everyone would.”

Alice looked him in the eye with a sheepish smile. “I recognized your voice the first time you spoke to me, Mr. Gray.”

His eyes went wide. He had no idea she knew who he really was. He suddenly felt as if his insides were a balloon that had popped.

“You were on TV all the time after the war,” she explained, almost apologetic, and Nolan was suddenly very grateful he hadn’t spoken in public earlier today. Alice looked uncomfortable and tried to change the subject. “Don’t I remember hearing back then that you’re a believer?”

He nodded, still reeling from the fact that she’d figured him out so easily. “Yeah.”

She smiled. “I thought so.”

“Well,” Nolan echoed. “If you know who I am, and what I believe, then you must know why I’m doing this.”

Alice looked at him sideways. “More or less. But why would you almost kill yourself just to hide your identity? Aren’t there other ways—?”

“It’s bigger than that,” Nolan said softly. He crinkled his brow. “Everything about us is now governed by the information that’s out there, about you. Any form of ID can be tracked, any email or social network can be traced. Hospitals, banks, creditors—all of these agencies keep ongoing records about you. I had to be erased from this flow of data. Nolan Gray had to be dead.”

He looked away, almost embarrassed that she’d known who he was for weeks and never told a soul. Even after his funeral. Any concerns about trusting her were suddenly gone.

He had held on to an admittedly silly hope that his name would die when his funeral was carried out, and that no one would ever discover who he really was. Aside from Branford and Arjay, of course.

“You probably think I’m nuts,” he sighed.

Alice never took her blazing eyes off of him. “I’m alive because of you. I told you that very night that that’s all I need to know.”

T
he president of the United States wrung his hands anxiously as he waited for his turn at the podium. He never got nervous about making speeches anymore, but this day was different.

Pride swelled within him. Everything that was taking place at this ceremony was because of his resolve, his determination, his sheer nerve. The promise he’d made a decade ago to a friend was bearing fruit before his eyes.

Two weeks prior, Hastings’ crime bill had finally passed both the House and the Senate. He’d lost out on a number of other legislative priorities because of Nolan Gray’s expensive funeral proceedings, but the crime bill was the one pillar of his administration that he stubbornly clung to, refusing to budge even one inch. He’d taken it upon himself to appeal to the citizens of the nation to reach out to their congressmen and women and implore them to sign on with the bill; he’d spoken eloquently from the White House on national television, asking every American to call their representatives and tell them exactly how their lives had been impacted by the rising levels of crime across the nation. This kind of personal appeal was an unprecedented move for a president—asking for a direct outpouring of emotion from the people to gain momentum for a high-profile piece of legislation. It had cost him friendships and the respect of many in Washington, but his gamble worked, and members of Congress from both sides of the aisle were forced by the sheer tide of popular response to vote in favor of the bill or risk losing the support of constituents.

Years of dreaming, planning, and hard work had put the culmination of his dream at hand. He was effecting real change, pushing positive action forward. Doing the right thing. Ending the suffering caused by organized crime was what basic human decency and compassion dictated. It wasn’t about some deity who was watching from afar, waiting to eagerly pass judgment while doing nothing to fix the problems of this world himself.

How often had Hastings wondered if this day would come? He’d wanted to give up so many times. Yet here he was, about to give the commencement address for the first group of agents to be accepted into the brand-new “Organized Crime Intelligence” agency. He had handpicked the OCI’s no-nonsense director, Sebastian Pryce, himself. Pryce, who was currently speaking at the lectern, was a portly man with huge eyebrows, an impossibly deep voice, and a permanent scowl. The man was so rough around the edges that he nearly lacked social skills altogether, but he knew how to get things done, and he had a personal hatred for organized crime that stemmed from years of law enforcement.

Hastings peered down at the eager faces of the eight people who sat in the front row of the audience, waiting to be called to the stage in turn so Hastings could shake their hand and present them with their official OCI badge. Five men, three women. Six of them held degrees in criminology, most had started their careers as beat cops, and every one of them had years of field experience in at least one other major law enforcement agency. Each of them had gone through a rigorous new training course, after having been subjected to intense screening and review procedures where their aptitude, worldview, intelligence, morality, and dozens of other character traits had been picked apart to ensure they would be entirely beyond corruption. This was the cornerstone philosophy of the OCI; with so many of the nation’s law enforcement personnel succumbing to the pressures and bribes of the Mafia, the drug cartels, the gangs, and the terrorists, it was crucial this newest department be held to the highest of standards.

At the head of the class was Jonah Janssen. Tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome, the thirty-two-year-old Janssen had graduated with honors from West Point before applying to the FBI, where he went on to lead an organized crime taskforce for four years. To many in the media, he was the face of a new breed of crime fighter: a ground pounder who was bold, adaptive, intelligent, and confident of his purpose.

Since there was so much media interest in Janssen, the OCI had already made his partner assignment known via a press release days before the ceremony was to take place. Coral Lively was a Secret Service agent of seven years who specialized in rooting out counterfeiters. Her uncanny knack for intuition and fast thinking had given her hundreds of hours in undercover work, and it made her an ideal yin to work alongside Janssen’s yang, since his approach was far more traditional and straightforward. He was the logic, she was the wisdom.

The president hoped they would work well together, since they were sure to be under heavier scrutiny than any of the other agents. While the OCI agents took orders from Director Pryce, it was field agents like Janssen and Lively who would be on the front lines, leading the charge to take down organized crime once and for all.

As such, Hastings had just yesterday attended a briefing with the eight agents-elect and Director Pryce, where a number of potential targets were examined in order to determine the first priorities of the OCI. There were arguments for and against various mob bosses, drug cartels, and homeland terrorist cells. Most of the room wanted to aim straight for the top of the heap, attempting to take down the most well-known and notorious crime lords in the United States. But Hastings had offered a countering opinion. With all their necks on the line and media scrutiny at its highest, what they needed first was a victory. Take down a group with fewer numbers that would put up less of a fight than the big dogs, he’d argued, and they’d establish their reputation. Gain the people’s trust, put other crime lords on notice, and start with momentum.

It was a winning choice all around, and in the end the president got his wish.

Starting that very afternoon, after the formal luncheon that would follow the ceremony, Janssen, Lively, and the six other agents would set their sights on the OCI’s first major target. A small-potatoes mob boss operating out of New York City, who had a relatively minor organization but a dangerous reputation.

The name of their first target: Yuri Vasko.