Drawing Dead (28 page)

“So not Ace…”

“And not you, either,” Tiger told Tracker.

“What about—?”

“Oh, she knows all about Sweetie,” Tiger smoothly assured Princess.

“What they could brand, they could kill,” Rhino cut in, hard. “So something else must be in play.”

Tracker cleared his throat. “When we got that message about what Hemp had sent a man to do, we deployed. I found a roost and waited. But…this is difficult to explain. I had a clear sight line, working off a bipod. I was going to make it rain .50-cals, but I opted for a head shot first because I needed time for the armor piercers to find the Semtex, and Hemp was Job One. A man taking a body hit could get lucky—he might have been wrapped.

“I didn't miss. I know I didn't. But…this sounds insane, but I swear Hemp's head just
exploded
at the same time I squeezed off the round. I saw it in the scope. This is all inside little tiny pieces of a second, but I'm sure it wasn't my round that took him out.”

“They could do that,” Cross said. “Stuff like that, they've been doing for centuries. At least, I think so. Nothing else explains what Blondie and his girlfriend were putting together a capture-team for. Those two didn't know Tracker and Tiger were really with
us.
And they never found out.

“So whatever put this brand on me, it had its own reasons. But, whatever those are—whatever
it
is—just like Rhino said; if they wanted us, they could take us. I think Tracker saw exactly what he described. Maybe Hemp wasn't looking for us to move so fast, but he had to know what was going to jump off if that hit on Sharyn—”

“And my
children,
” Ace said, his deep voice throbbing.

“So they took care of the problem to keep us from acting,” Cross went on. “And what Mural Girl told Tiger, that's enough to confirm. There's no connect.”

“Swell. Now we don't have an enemy in the world. Not in
this
world, anyway,” Buddha sneered.

“If Blondie's alive, we do,” Cross said. “I doubt the feds would answer our letter. Hell, the way things turned out, they could be looking for him themselves. And that Wanda girl, too, maybe…”

“What about that other—?”

“Percy? He's stone-to-the-bone loyal,” Tiger answered Tracker. “You watched him, right? He didn't like those two any more than we did. Percy, he's no analyst. A pure hunter-killer team in one man's skin. He couldn't find them on his own, but, if the G does, he's the man they'd send to clean up the loose ends. If they've got any more like him on their payroll, they're already in some desert, laying waste.

“No, it's just Blondie and Wanda. A lethal cocktail, true enough. But do-it-yourself wouldn't be their style. Those kind, they push buttons to launch missiles. Percy
is
a damn missile, but he's not theirs to use, not anymore. Whatever they do, it would have to be on their own.”

“All that is what I saw as well,” Tracker added. “Percy is no danger to us. So we must either find those two, or confirm they're dead.”

“We find them, we
make
them dead,” the gang's leader said, passing the final judgment.

A THIN STRIP
of neon tubing that ran across the ceiling seam in the back room suddenly lit up, a throbbing blue pulse of warning.

“Strangers,” Cross said. Meaning that the ancient man who sat at the front desk of Red 71's basement poolroom hadn't recognized whoever had just entered.

“Didn't come here to shoot a game of pool,” Buddha said, unnecessarily.

Cross toggled a switch that sent a visual feed to a flat-screen monitor. “Russians” was all he said.

“I thought we sent all of Viktor's mob to—”

“That's the problem with blowing things up,” Tracker said to Buddha. “You can't get an accurate body count.”

“And we could never be sure they were all there when you RPG'ed their joint, anyway,” Cross added.

“How many?” Rhino asked.

“Looks like four,” Cross answered. “All at the same table.”

“I'll bring them over to
your
table,” the behemoth said.

“No,” Cross said. “Too messy if they get stupid.”

“You boys all forgot the most important ingredient in any successful club,” Tiger said, standing up as she spoke. “That would be the hostess.”

“No,” Rhino said to Princess, who was already on his feet, the Akita at his side. “You and Sweetie have to wait now. Tiger will be fine.”

“Already
is,
” Ace said, as he reached for the sawed-off 12-gauge he always carried on a rawhide thong around his neck.

“HI, BOYS,”
Tiger purred at the four men. “Welcome to our little club.”

The men froze. Maybe it was the sight of Tiger's outrageous torso threatening the camo spandex. Or her striped mane. Or the fact that she was taller than any of them.

“My name's Tiger. Can I help you with something? Anything you want?” she innocently asked, her voice going throatier with her last three words.

“We play pool,” one of the Russians finally said. “Eight-ball. Two teams.” He was medium-height, stocky, in a black leather jacket and dark jeans. Heavy cheekbones, thin lips, short haircut. Nothing to distinguish him from the others, except that he had spoken first. And the crude tattoos on his hands.
Cross will know what they mean,
Tiger thought, taking a mental snapshot.

“Playing for money?” she asked, a slight smile dancing over her lips.

“Sure,” he said, tossing a rubber-banded roll of bills on the green felt of the tabletop.

“That's against the rules here,” Tiger said, pointing a long, black-gelled nail at the sign against the far wall.

NO GAMBLING

She put her hands on her hips, as if the matter was settled.

“There are many more of us,” the Russian said. “We lost some people. Viktor is gone. But we are here. The money I show you, that is to explain ourselves. Viktor did not understand there is always a tax to pay. We understand. We pay the tax. Every week. Right here, we send a man with the tax money. And your…people, they leave our business in peace.”

“How much do you think this tax would be?”

“That is for you to say. But we do not haggle like some fishwives. We—”

“Do I look like a fishwife to you?”

“No, no. My English is maybe not so good. You tell us the tax. Flat only. No…percentage, nothing like that.”

“Come back in a week,” Tiger said, turning on one heel and walking away.

The Russians watched her until she disappeared from view. Then their leader nodded his head sharply, a clear signal.

They left their pool cues on the table. And the rubber-banded roll of bills.

WHEN THE
neon tube went blank, Buddha and Tracker entered the poolroom, pistols held loosely at their sides.

Upon returning, Buddha tossed the roll of bills at Cross, who caught it in his right hand, opened his left to start a flame, and lit the cigarette that was already in his mouth.

“No Kansas City bankroll,” he said. “It's all hundreds. Five large.”

“Not bad for once a week, right, boss?”

“Very bad,” Cross answered. “We take that, we're letting one of them in here once a week, too. Probably a different one each time. Enough time passes, we get used to that. These guys, they already know Putin's got his own problems now. Never mind the Ukraine, it's the Chechnyan rebels he's
always
got on his mind. The Ukrainians aren't going to invade Russia, but they could learn from the Chechnyans–suicide bombings are convincing propaganda.

“Putin can't have that. He's got to be in control. Somebody whispers in his ear that we—our whole crew—that we're negotiating with the Chechnyans. Hard contract, huge money. Not a contract for some movie theater or train station. For
him.
He doesn't have to be a mind reader to know they'd empty their pockets for his head.”