Reapers (41 page)

A bearded man nodded and continued south. Ash walked back around the corner and leaned against a building. When Lucy tried to ask what they were doing, he shushed her.

Within five minutes, footsteps crunched from up the street. Barry raised his arm in greeting; he'd circled around. "He appears to be enjoying his dinner."

"There'd be something wrong with him if he weren't. Those chefs are fucking magicians." Ash turned to the others and smiled sharply. "Here's the score. Basically, Distro is a bunch of fucking idiots who like to follow their routines until the ruts are too deep to climb out of. We're going in. Do
not
harm the staff. The last thing I want is the Feds to come down on our ass. And one of the cooks is the guy who tipped me off."

"Who's the target?" Lucy said.

"Don't worry about it. You just make sure that anyone who goes for a gun doesn't have time to take a shot."

"How heavy can we get?"

"They're Distro," Ash said. "Hurt them as much as you want."

He backtracked a block to Park Avenue, headed downtown for two more blocks, then swung inside what purported to be a jewelry shop, but the only thing it had on display these days was broken glass and empty cases. Ash used a penlight to maneuver around the worst of it. He entered a back door and strode through a series of back rooms and corridors without so much as a pause for a look around. Lucy brooked no doubt that, as spontaneous as this voyage seemed, it had been a long time in the making.

He exited into a courtyard that smelled like pan-fried onions and slow-roasted cardamom. Light flickered in a window of the adjoining building. Ash walked up to a back door and put his finger to his lips.

"Inside is a no-talking zone. If I hear anything besides 'Hands up,' or 'Put the gun down,' then tomorrow's lunch special will be a hot bowl of You Soup. Got it?"

They all nodded. He opened the door. The scent of spice swirled past on a rush of warm, damp air. Ash drew his pistol and crept down a narrow tiled hallway. On the other side of a swinging door with a porthole window, pans clanked and sizzled.

Ash swept it open and spoke in a conversational tone. "Hello and pardon the interruption. FYI, a group of scary people is about to walk through the door. As long as you stay quiet, go about your business, and for the love of God, don't try anything funny, I promise no one will be hurt. No one you care about, anyway. Agreed?"

He was answered by the hiss of cooking. He beckoned the others through the door. The kitchen was tight and steamy; canary-yellow dishes bubbled on the stove in a heady rush of cumin and onion. Five people stood stock still at their stations. The workers' ages ranged from eight to eighty, but every one of them shared the same expression: icy terror.

"Benson, keep an eye on them," Ash said. "Rest of you, walk this way."

One trooper peeled off to watch the restaurant workers. He had a rifle in his hands but didn't point it at anything in particular. Ash crossed the sweaty room, drew his pistol, and booted open the door.

"Hands up." He swung his gun across the dining room. "You move, you die."

People sat at four different tables. Other than one couple in their thirties, the rest were men in suits, divided evenly between old white wrinklebags and buffed young dudes with pistols on their hips. A craggy-faced old man made eye contact with the bodyguards at the next table. He nodded. Slowly, they lifted their hands.

Ash's people stripped them of their guns, patted them down. Ash strolled up to the craggy-faced man.

"Jim Rimbold?" Ash's jaw dropped in mock surprise. "What are
you
doing here at the same time and the same place you always come here like a man who doesn't have a city full of enemies?"

The man gazed back steadily. "Supporting local business."

Ash laughed merrily. "Supporting local business! So what do you call trading with the aliens? Adapting to the growing demands of interstellar commerce?"

"Are you here to rob us?" Rimbold said. "You're welcome to anything on my person."

"How kind of you to offer. Know what, it was a long walk and your dinner looks astounding." He dropped into an empty chair and pulled Rimbold's plate across the table with a harsh scrape. He forked up a mound of orange curry and chewed. "What a kingly feast! Want some?"

"What do you want?"

"For you to enjoy your meal. Too rich for my blood." Ash stood, jolting the table. Silverware lurched. Rimbold's guards jerked. Lucy trained her pistol on one man's back. Ash lifted a bite of curry and airplaned it toward Rimbold's face. "Open wide!"

The man pursed his lips like a recalcitrant child. Ash raised his pistol and tick-tocked the barrel back and forth. Rimbold opened up. Ash slid the fork inside and scraped its contents off on the man's teeth. He set down the utensil, put his hand on the man's jaw, and helped him chew.

"What do you think? Delicious, right?"

Rimbold swallowed before replying. "Is there a point to these theatrics?"

"Now that we've shared bread, maybe we can be honest with each other. I don't like you, Jim. I tried to negotiate with your people. I told them you get your half of the city, we get ours. How do they respond? A counteroffer? Gentlemanly negotiations?"

"Is that what you think you're doing right now?"

"Nerve didn't so much as consider my proposal!" Ash went on. "Predictably enough, the fists start to fly. And you—savvy, alien-fucking businessman that you are—decide it's a good idea to send your people to burn my bar and kill
my
people."

"Hold on a minute," Rimbold said. "That was a message-mission. No one was authorized to kill."

"Used those nonlethal flaming Molotovs, did you?" Ash grinned in fury. "You should have stuck to your business. Because this is how we handle ours."

Rimbold's face paled. "We can neg—"

Ash shot him twice in the chest. Rimbold's partners and bodyguards shouted and began to stand. Ash knocked three of them down as fast as he could pull the trigger. Bodies tumbled back, legs askew. The table uprighted, spilling curries and steaming platters of rice. The fake fruit centerpiece tumbled into the air, bouncing plastic oranges across the floor. A young man in a suit dived at Ash. Lucy blasted him onto the toppled table. Guns roared around her.

The shots stopped as suddenly as if someone had held up a flag. The smell of burnt powder overpowered the spices. The young couple pressed themselves against the far wall. A red string of goo fell slowly from the ceiling. The young man bent double and vomited.

Ash blew smoke from his pistol and jammed it into his holster. "That curry really is good. Wonder if they do takeout?"

One of his soldiers pointed at the vomiting man and his girlfriend. "What about them?"

Ash waved to get the woman's attention. "Hey. You two who don't appreciate a fine meal. You're not associated with Distro, are you?"

The woman shook her head in panicked jerks. "It's our anniversary."

"Probably the most memorable one you ever had! You're welcome." He leaned over Rimbold's fallen body, grabbed the man's face, and shook it back and forth. "That's one dead son of a bitch. Let's get out of here."

He walked back into the kitchen. The employees stared, wide-eyed. Ash collected Benson from guard duty and the group exited into the courtyard and picked their way across the broken glass on the jewelry shop floor.

"Did we just whack Distro's CEO?" Lucy said.

"Would you like to register a complaint?" Ash said.

"No."

"Well, I would. Never, ever use the word 'whack' to describe a killing again."

"Got it," she said. "How do you think they'll retaliate?"

"With any luck, they'll attack us on our home turf." Ash flung open the shop door and took a long breath of the cold night air. "We can end this feud then and there."

They ran uptown through the snow. The streets were quiet, but Lucy had the feeling she wouldn't have to write any notes at this point. As for the massacre, she felt neither guilty nor happy. These people were arrogant. Trading with aliens. Bullying farmers. Taking slaves. They thought all they had to do was get people so scared they'd forget how it ever felt to stand on their own two feet.

But there was a place beyond fear. When you've lived in death's shadow long enough—smelled his breath, felt his knuckles bump down the ridges of your spine—your hatred for whomever put you next to him is the one thing that can become deathless.

The gangs had sown fear for too long. The harvest would be merciless.

As soon as they got back to Sicily, Ash spread the word. All non-essential operations were suspended. Everyone was to be armed at all times. The scouting presence was quadrupled. They were given code words: "Wilson" to challenge the identity of someone unknown to you, "Mookie" to confirm you were Kono.

Three days of fortifications ensued. Men hauled old cars to barricade the ends of the block. Saws rasped and hammers rapped. Ash's sapper planted pipe bombs along the advance to Sicily, concealing the explosives in planters and under piles of trash. Workers affixed hollow wooden panels to the fire escape landings, then packed the panels with dirt and scrap metal, turning the landings into armored firing platforms with access to rooftop snipers' nests.

It was all very impressive. If Distro came straight at it—and after the destruction of their import pipeline and the murder of their leader, they had no choice but to retaliate—they'd die on the ramparts.

While this went on, Lucy helped push Buicks up to the lines. Patrolled the streets with binoculars around her neck, eyes flicking to every flap of a pigeon's wing or swirl of gusted snow. And planned her retreat from the city.

Early in the morning, with a half inch of fresh powder muffling the streets, the call went out. Distro was on the move. Scouts came in one after another updating the army's advance. Times Square. 49th Street. Columbus Circle. Ash sent messengers to muster everyone the Kono could bring to bear. Men and women climbed the armored fire escapes and set up behind the wall of cars. A thicket of rifles grew at both ends of the barricaded block. If things got bad, Lucy would slip into Sicily and out the back side of the building. Pretend she'd been out scouting. After Distro was routed, and the Kono counterattacked the Tower, she'd grab Tilly and be on her way.

But Distro never came. The scouts brought in the news: at 65th Street, the enemy force had swerved into Central Park. They were burning out the farmers. Kono's main source of food, trade, and profit. If the Kono didn't move, the city might be theirs, but there would be nothing left in it worth having.

26

Ellie jogged across the street into the park. It was midnight and the paths were deserted. An unsteady breeze tossed the naked branches. It carried the smell of smoke and snow.

"What could have happened to him?" Dee said. "Wait, nevermind—there's no use speculating, that's what we're here to find out, blah blah blah."

"Add a few more blahs, and you've got it covered," Ellie said. "With any luck, after dinner he was too tired or drunk to walk home."

"Don't bullshit me."

"Don't swear at me." She rubbed her eyes. "But yeah. I don't
think
he's just drunk. I
hope
."

"Do you think he parties?" Dee said. "I bet when he's drunk he rides his cane around the room bronco-style. Waving his bowler all 'Yee-ha!'" Dee laughed, but sobered quickly. "We shouldn't have let him go by himself, should we?"

"We had to take the chance. It sounded like he had a real lead."

She scanned the road while they ran, fighting off thoughts of heart attacks. He was far from young and they'd been pushing themselves hard. She had left her snowshoes behind—they were better for long distances, but awkward to run in—and she slipped often. Her feet and knees grew damp. Within ten minutes of leaving the apartment, they turned down the trail to Turtle Pond.

The cabin's windows were blacker than the skies. Ellie stopped, panting, and wiped the wet from her nose. "If I go knock on the door, can you cover me?"

"Got it."

She turned. Dee was already going prone, bracing her gun over a rock beside the path. For a moment, Ellie was saddened, hollowed out that her daughter had so quickly become willing to lie in the midnight snow and open fire on an old woman, but as Dee set her eye behind her scope, the empty sadness became pride. Dee wasn't becoming a monster or sociopath. She was just learning to navigate a landscape after most of the lights had gone out for good. And to protect herself and her family.

Becoming who she needed to be in order to survive.

"Don't be too eager to shoot," Ellie said. "If she's done something to him, she won't be able to answer many questions with a hole in her heart."

Dee nodded. Ellie thought she should impart more wisdom, but there was nothing else to say. She crunched through the snow on the lawn, stopped at the door, and knocked.

After her third try, steps clunked across the floor inside. The window beside the door squeaked open.

"Hands where I can see them," a man said.

Ellie raised them high. "I'm here for Sheriff Hobson."

"About six hours too late."

Heat poured down her skin. "What did you do to him?"

"Not a damn thing," the man said. "They took him. Guess they thought he looked suspicious."

Ellie blinked at the dark window. "Who?"

"Who do you think? The Kono."

"How did they know he'd be here? Did you tell them?"

"I don't like the Kono any more than the next man. They think they own us and everything we grow. But if they gave you the choice between your wife and a man you never even met, you'd make the same decision I did."

"Where did they take him?"

"I had no interest in asking." A gun barrel glinted behind the window. "Now get off my land before they see you here."

She walked from the house. Tracks marred the snow. Some were long and shallow, as if toes had been dragged over the surface. She beckoned Dee over and followed them all the way to the footpath, where they disappeared amid countless other footprints. Ellie knelt, but it was hopeless.