Fear City (22 page)

Lonnie, Lonnie, Lonnie … can't wait to see your face when you see mine … can't wait to get reacquainted … can't wait to learn your real name … can't wait to watch your eyes bulge like the whore's. Can't wait, can't wait, can't wait.

 

4

“Okay,” Dane muttered. “You've got your money. What are you going to do with it?”

Shortly after al-Thani left, Kadir had entered the doorway to the building, presumably to go up to the mosque. Why? To tell Sheikh Omar? Make a call? Both?

He came back a few minutes later and the four of them hung around under the awning of the Chinese takeout until a blue late-model Ford Taurus rolled up. Kadir got in and the Ford started moving north again. Dane checked out the driver as it passed but had never seen him before. That made two new Mohammedans into the mix in two days. He was going to need a scorecard soon to keep them all straight.

The Nova, with the other new one driving, Abouhalima in front and Yousef in the rear, made a U-turn and headed south.

“Shit!”

Why the hell had he sent Jack after al-Thani? Well, he couldn't have predicted this.

All right—which way to go?

Kadir had the money. Follow the money. He was facing south on Kennedy so he had to wait to make his own U and follow the Taurus. A few more seconds behind and he would have missed seeing it turn right on Newark Avenue. He followed as it made a left on Summit Avenue. As they bore up the incline, it looked like they were heading for the Heights. What did the Jersey City Heights hold for a couple of crazy jihadists?

He stayed a few cars back but that proved a mistake when traffic was halted to allow a super-long tractor trailer to back into a driveway. When the road cleared, the Taurus was gone.

Cursing a blue streak, Dane raced around the Heights for a good twenty minutes without spotting them. Finally he gave up and headed back the way he had come. He parked near the base of Summit and waited, figuring if they'd gone up this way, they'd come back down this way.

Or so he hoped.

 

5

Aimal Kasi drove along Dolley Madison Boulevard on his way to pick up a package in Georgetown and deliver it to an office in Tyson's Corners. As he neared the entrance to CIA Headquarters in Langley, he slowed to inspect the double row of cars stopped at the traffic light, waiting to make the left turn into the complex.

Despite his best efforts over the weekend, he had been unable to purchase any hand grenades. A Kashmiri friend in Reston knew of a Saudi who had a number of assault rifles and might be willing to sell one. Aimal had met him in a public park on Sunday where they came to terms. A Type 56 assault rifle—the imitation AK-47 made by the Chinese—now rested in his trunk, equipped with a full magazine. All he needed was a chance to use it.

But how to put it to best use? How to do the most damage to the Great Satan in his blow for jihad? He thought of racing into the entrance and charging toward the headquarters, but certainly roadblocks and armed guards lined the path. He might be killed before he fired a single shot.

No, he had to find a better way.

Trusting in Allah to enlighten him, he drove on.

 

6

Soon after Reggie and Klari
ć
exited the Lincoln Tunnel into midtown, it became clear that Lonnie was going to be following al-Thani all the way home. As the Mercedes fought the crosstown traffic, the pickup hung back. That told Reggie that Lonnie already knew where al-Thani was going. Klari
ć
stayed a few cars behind Lonnie.

As al-Thani's driver—maybe Klari
ć
knew the guy but Reggie didn't—dropped the Arab off at his place on Second Avenue, Lonnie didn't stop or even slow to watch. Instead he turned downtown.

“This could be interesting,” Reggie said.

They followed him down to the East Thirties where he took the ramp to the Midtown Tunnel.

“Looks like he's heading for Queens.”

They followed him through the tunnel and onto 495.

“Long Island?” Reggie said. “Let's hope so. Less crowded out there.”

But no, he turned south on the BQE.

“Brooklyn. Damn.”

They needed an opportunity to roust Lonnie into the van with a minimum of fuss and, ideally, no witnesses. Or at least none who'd care enough to drop a dime.

Lonnie got onto Broadway in Williamsburg and followed that to Myrtle Avenue in Bushwick.

“Where the hell is he going?”

“You know this city good?” Klari
ć
said.

Reggie nodded. “Been here a few years now. Don't have a car but I've bused and subwayed all over.”

Not much else to do. Living in the Order's building and waiting for them to give him something to pick up or deliver had offered him virtually unlimited free time. Unfortunately he'd had extremely limited funds. But if he planned his transfers right, he could ride all day, all over the five boroughs, on a single subway token. He'd done just that, many times. He'd taken the M train out here on numerous occasions. Most of the subway lines in the outer boroughs weren't
sub
at all—they ran on elevated tracks. Reggie preferred those because they gave him something to look at besides a tunnel wall. Right now Lonnie was leading them along the tracks that ran above Myrtle Avenue.

Finally he pulled in before a small garage flanked by abandoned buildings under the tracks near Palmetto and St. Nicholas. Its corrugated overhead door was down. Klari
ć
slowed a little as they cruised by.

“This might be good,” Reggie said as he watched Lonnie enter through the smaller door to the side. “Depending on who and what's inside, this could be
real
good.”

Klari
ć
's head was swiveling like a radar dish. “I do not know. Maybe we should wait for night.”

“Night? Who knows where he's gonna be by night? Listen. It's still early in the morning and it's Presidents' Day—”

“What is this Presidents' Day?”

“A holiday. The kids are off school. Most of them are sleeping in. And the ones that ain't—man, it's not only fucking freezing out there, it's pouring, so if they ain't watching 'toons, they're playing Mario Brothers or Mortal Kombat.”

“I don't like,” Klari
ć
said. “Too much light.”

“The amount of light don't matter—the amount of people matter, and there ain't hardly any around. Let me out here, then hang a U and come back while I take a peek inside.”

As Klari
ć
pulled over, Reggie grabbed his short bow and quiver from behind the seat.

Klari
ć
pulled a pistol from a shoulder holster and held it up. “Why you so old-fashioned? This is better.”

“I'm better with this. I might kill him with that.” He showed him the tip of the two-blade broadhead he used. “Besides, this hurts more.”

He'd told al-Thani that he needed a long coat and Klari
ć
had arrived with a lined raincoat this morning. He hooked the quiver to his belt and slipped the bow under the flap of the coat.

Doing his best to look like he belonged there, he strolled most of the way to the door Lonnie had entered, then slowed and sidled the last few feet. The door had no windows and was even more beat-up than the rest of the building. Its warped wood made it hang crooked on its hinges, leaving a gap between the edge and the frame. Reggie peeked through …

… and there he was: Lonnie.

Reggie contained the eruption of rage. Had to keep calm, check out the scene. Anyone else around? No, just the little spic chick he was talking to. She looked fourteen, tops. What was he—?

That dirty motherfucker! She was the right color and the right age now to be one of the kids they'd trucked up to Staten Island. Had he kept one for himself?

Reggie's hand shook as he pulled the bow from under his coat and grabbed an arrow. Plenty of space in the gap to place one in his shoulder—his right shoulder, because that would make that arm useless but leave all the rest of his body to have fun with when they dragged him back to the West Side.

He nocked the arrow onto the string …

 

7

“First stop will be FAO Schwartz where we can—”

“Can we go on the big piano?” Bonita said, her dark eyes flashing. “The one on the floor?”

Jack laughed as he helped wrap a scarf around her neck. Damn, her English was better every time he saw her.

“You don't know how to play piano,” said Rico from where he was adjusting the hydraulics on the plow attachment to his truck.

The forecast predicted snow for Friday so Jack guessed he was getting ready.

“Doesn't matter,” Jack called back. Then to Bonita, “Have you been watching
Big
again?”

“I love
Big
!”

“So do I. But is he right—you can't play piano?”

“No.”

“Neither can I, except for ‘Chopsticks.' I'll show you how when we get there—if they still have the keyboard and if they'll let us.”

“They did in the movie.”

“Yeah, well, that was a movie. We'll be in real life.”

Bonita had never been in FAO and neither had he. What for? He was the only kid he knew, and he preferred toys from the time when his father was a kid.

“And then we go to the movie?”

“No, then we go to lunch. I think you'll like Mickey Mantle's. It's just down the street from FAO. Your brother's gonna be so jealous 'cause I hear they have great burgers. After our bellies are fit to bust, we go see
Home Alone Two
. I—oops, your shoe is untied.”

As he dropped into a crouch to fix it, he heard a
thik!
and a soft grunt from Bonita. He looked up and she was falling backward with an arrow shaft protruding from her chest.

It took a heartbeat or two to process the impossible sight playing out right in front of him. Bonita's expression showed more shock and surprise than pain as she continued to stumble-fall backward. He heard Rico scream her name but he wasn't rushing toward her. Instead he was charging to Jack's right, his face a mask of rage. Jack's first instinct was to grab for Bonita but another more primitive part made him seek out the origin of the arrow.

Arrow …

That could mean only one thing … only one person.

As he spun he saw a pale skinny guy with a red mullet standing inside the door that was still swinging open.

Reggie.

He was nocking another arrow and his narrow little eyes were on Jack. But those eyes shifted right and he couldn't help but know he wasn't going to get a second shot at Jack with Rico so close. So he swiveled and loosed it at Rico. It pierced his throat, the point erupting from the back of his neck. Rico stumbled and dropped to his knees, clawing at his throat as blood gushed from his mouth.

Jack was already moving. He'd left his Glock under the front seat of the pickup and didn't have time to go for the Semmerling in his ankle holster, so he grabbed a small wooden bench and raised it as he charged Reggie. He peered over the top edge as he held it before him like a shield. He saw Reggie nock another arrow—damn, he was fast—and aim it straight at the bench. Jack didn't believe for a second that Reggie thought he could put it through the two-inch board, so he watched his eyes, and when they flicked down, he lowered the bench and it caught the arrow loosed at his legs.

And then he was on Reggie, ramming him back against the door just as someone else started to come through. The door slammed against the newcomer. Jack had time to notice he was big and had a semiauto in his hand before slamming the bench against Reggie again, knocking him down. The bow fell from his grasp as his arrows scattered across the floor.

The big guy pushed through then but tripped over the fallen Reggie. The new guy's arm was closest so Jack slammed the bench down hard against it. A bone crunched in his elbow and the gun dropped. Jack swung the bench again, this time against the guy's head.

Reggie was up and moving—toward the door rather than Jack. Jack grabbed for him, caught a piece of his coat but couldn't hold him. He threw the bench at him, hitting his upper back. It staggered him but didn't knock him off his feet. He banged against the door frame, bounced off, and stumbled outside.

“Oh, no! Not this time!”

The new guy lay prone, reaching for his gun with his good arm. Jack jumped on him, landing knees first full force on his back. He heard ribs shatter as the air rushed out in an agonized
whoosh
. Grabbing the bow and picking up an arrow as he rose, Jack took off after Reggie. He wanted to go to Bonita and Rico, but if he didn't stop Reggie now, no telling what further harm he'd do. He might be going for an Uzi or the like.

As he came through the door he saw the mullet-haired bastard climbing into a Caravan. Jack reached it just as the door slammed shut and locked. He stood in the rain smashing his hands against the window. Just inches away on the other side of the glass, Reggie grinned as he gave him the finger.

But the grin disappeared when he reached for the ignition. His expression became frantic as he began looking around the front seats.

Jack could think of only one reason for that: no key. And he had a pretty good idea where that key might be.

He dashed back inside and found the big guy grunting in agony as he inched along the floor on his belly toward his fallen semiautomatic. Jack kicked it away, then jumped on his back again. More ribs cracked. Jack pawed through his pockets, finding a wallet, some cash, some keys—

A door slammed outside.

The Caravan? Reggie making a run for it?

Grabbing the bow and arrow again, he dashed back outside. Sure enough, Reggie was hurrying away through the rain as best he could on the knees Jack had once broken. Jack knew nothing about bows, but it seemed pretty cut and dried. He nocked an arrow with a nasty-looking head, pulled it back to his chin, aimed it at Reggie's back, and let fly.