Vigilante (4 page)

G
lad Arjay’s not watching this,” mumbled Branford as they listened to the president’s speech. “He’d probably be crying.”

Nolan didn’t react. He tried not to talk more than necessary; moving his face made his wounds itch.

The third member of their team, who was currently back in his work area banging away on his latest piece of equipment with earbuds in each ear, was as different from the two military-bred soldiers as could be. Arjay Thale was what it said on his passport, though neither Nolan nor Branford had any idea if that was his real name. In America he was perceived as a black man, but he claimed to be of multiethnic, aristocratic European descent, and he spoke in a very formal manner as if to prove it. His words came out with inflections somewhere between Cockney and South African.

The truth was, they had no idea where Arjay hailed from, and it really didn’t matter. The man was a gifted engineer and inventor, as much scientist as mechanic. Branford had found him through some underground channels and Nolan personally convinced Arjay to come on board with their mission, though that had proven a difficult task.

Arjay was a hardcore pacifist. So the only way Nolan could convince him to join their project, live in seclusion and absolute secrecy under New York City, and lend his brilliant mind to their needs, was to promise that Nolan’s goals were in line with Arjay’s peace-loving ways. But Nolan knew it would take a lot more than hugs and puppies to do what they were planning to do.

“Enough of this,” Nolan said, tired of hearing the president praise him. Big talk seemed to be the one thing his old friend was good for these days. “Turn it off.”

He turned and left Branford alone in the Cube, unconcerned about whether the general did as he asked. Arjay looked up from his work space and motioned for Nolan to join him. He wore an apparatus on his head that had two extending goggles in front of his eyes.

Without a word, Arjay pointed at the steel table in front of him. Nolan saw nothing but an empty tabletop.

“What?” he said, louder than necessary due to Arjay’s earphones.

Arjay pulled the cords out of his ears and smiled. “Just there. On the surface.”

“I don’t see anything, Arjay,” Nolan replied, his patience nonexistent. He wanted Arjay to complete his work so he could get out there on the streets and do what he was born to do. Every time he thought about having to wait around for another month, it made his skin itch on the inside until it was hard to stand still.

But Arjay was still smiling. He removed the goggles from his head and held them out.

Nolan dutifully placed the bizarre hat on his head and pulled the goggles down in front of his eyes. He was immediately disoriented, as his suspicion had been that they were night-vision or ultraviolet specs of some kind. Instead, they appeared to be ultra-high-resolution scopes that focused automatically on whatever was in front of them. It was nauseating looking at the world this way, so in an attempt to get the experience over with, he zeroed in on the steel tabletop.

Now he could see an intricate latticework of hexagonal lines, like a honeycomb that had only one paper-thin layer. He was stunned to find that something had been on the table after all.

“What is it? Is it invisible?”

“Not as such, no,” said Arjay. “It’s called graphene. A form of carbon discovered only a short time back. Graphene is rare, expensive in any large quantity, and must be crafted by hand. It is a time-consuming process. It is also the strongest substance known to this world—harder even than diamond, but at a minuscule fraction of the size. In its purest form, it is two-dimensional, the width of a single atom, if you can imagine—”

“Okay,” Nolan interrupted. “So it’s all that. Why am I looking at it?”

“Very soon it will save your life,” Arjay replied. “Once I am done layering it several dozen times, I will apply it in a way that none have ever tried. I intend to weave it into the fabric of your combat fatigues.”

Nolan removed the goggles and considered Arjay’s words. “Are you saying this stuff that I can’t even
see
with my own eyes—this is bulletproof?”

Arjay locked eyes on him knowingly. “It will stop more than bullets. Not that I would see you try it.”

Nolan’s eyebrows flew upward. “It’s impenetrable?”

Arjay wagged his head side to side. “It is flexible enough to absorb
some
impact, but not all. It simply will not break, unless subjected to something more powerful than standard melee weapons or gunfire. High-velocity sniper fire, for example. But for hand-to-hand work, it is superior to Kevlar in every way, easily preventing penetration by point-blank gunfire or bladed weapons.”

Nolan looked down at the table again. He couldn’t believe it. He knew Arjay was good, but this was beyond cutting edge. He vaguely remembered hearing the term “graphene” a good while back as some kind of experimental material that might be usable and abundant ten or twenty years in the future. The fact that Arjay had managed to manufacture the stuff here and now was nothing short of miraculous.

“This is . . . it’s unbelievable. I can’t begin to thank you,” he said.

Arjay held his eyes locked on Nolan. “There is a drawback.”

“There always is,” said Nolan, his enthusiasm for Arjay’s work in no way diminished.

“We haven’t the means to manufacture graphene easily. I have allocated the majority of my time to this, so you shall have this one wardrobe selection that’s lined with graphene. But no more. And it is not everlasting. Over time, it will take damage just like anything else. After it is deteriorated beyond repair—even if that is years away—it is unlikely that we will have the resources to make more.”

Nolan didn’t care. It was still an additional layer of defense he hadn’t been expecting to have, one that was superior in every way to anything he might face.

Branford’s voice rang out from the Cube, and Nolan looked up to see the old man standing at the rear entrance. “New billboards are going up tomorrow,” he reported. “Got proofs of ’em here if you wanna see.”

Nolan thanked Arjay again and left him to his work. Returning to Branford, he found three screens inside the Cube had been illuminated with the light-gray billboard mockup images, which were identical to the first billboards in every way, except that the message had been changed. Where the first design had said “THERE IS A BETTER WAY,” this second series of ads proclaimed “I WILL SHOW YOU A BETTER WAY.”

Nolan nodded. “Looks good. Question is, will they work?”

“Already got regular coverage from every major national news outlet. Every time a new ad appears someplace, the reporters go nuts trying to track down the source. There are even some sites online that are treating it like one of those viral marketing games.”

“Good,” replied Nolan. The billboards were serving their purpose. After this second phase, a third and final message would be rolled out for all with eyes to see.

“Did the egghead say anything about—” Branford started.

Nolan shook his head, cutting him off. “I didn’t ask.”

Branford glowered. “I know you promised him he wouldn’t have to make any weapons, but you’ve got to have
something
to defend yourself with out there! It doesn’t have to be a lethal instrument, just a defensive one. And I’m not letting you go through with any of this unless you’re carrying something more than body armor.”

It was a bold statement, and Nolan wondered if Branford was willing to back it up. He’d never known the old man to bluff, but Branford wasn’t in charge of this operation, and they all knew it. This was Nolan’s project, and the buck stopped with him. Even so, Nolan had served under Branford’s command for two tours of duty, and some subliminal effect of spending time with him again made Nolan feel like he was still the man’s subordinate. At least a little.

“I’ll ask him,” Nolan replied at last. “I promise.”

Y
uri Vasko adjusted his glasses as he tread and retread over the same section of carpet, his feet every bit as angry as his head. Even the strains of Tchaikovsky’s “Serenade for Strings in C Major” emerging quietly from his side-table stereo did little to cool his outrage.

He ran his misshapen right hand through what was left of his brown hair, then pocketed it and cursed the appendage for being so useless. It ached in response and he stopped pacing for a moment to take a deep breath and push away the pain. His assistant, Marko, stepped forward as if worried, but Vasko brushed the younger man away, upset he’d shown even a moment of weakness.

Three men stood in his office, on the opposite side of his desk, waiting and watching his movements: two burly gentlemen who were on his payroll, and a frightened messenger sitting on a chair between them, who’d been sent by that swine, Nimeiri.

Nimeiri had sent this very young, very dark-skinned Sudanese man on his behalf, to demand three times his usual rate for a substantial shipment of cocaine that had come into his possession.

Ninety thousand! Does he think I’m made of money?

Life was difficult enough as it was without his business associates trying to wring more money out of him for the same services they’d always provided.

It’s that accursed crime bill!
he thought.
They’re all peeing their pants, terrified it’s going to put us out of business.

Vasko stopped his pacing to stare out the picture window behind his desk. Below, the early evening streets of Manhattan were dotted with hundreds, maybe thousands, of pedestrians. Office workers headed home. Construction workers digging up another street for no obvious reason. Families taking in the big city sights.

It was innocent and pleasant, and Vasko wondered what it would be like to be one of those people, living a simpler life as an office clerk or a retail salesperson. His wife and daughter lived a simpler life than he, as removed as he could make them from his business. But they enjoyed the luxuries they had because of what he did, which ultimately made them as far from normal as he was.

His attention was drawn to an oversized billboard being erected on the side of a high-rise across the street. At first he thought the sign was going to advertise some new Broadway show, and was about to make a mental note to remember the name, when it turned into something else altogether.

Two workers began to unroll the long digital printout that made up the sign, securing it in place on the billboard foot by foot until the complete image emerged: a slate-gray background topped by a huge hand that was completely white, with fingers stretched out. Layered over the hand was black lettering in a big blocky font.

“I WILL SHOW YOU A BETTER WAY,” it proclaimed. And that was it. It offered no further details or information. Not even so much as a phone number.

Another of those signs
, Vasko mused.
Ridiculous. Absurd.

He’d followed the recent news stories about these odd billboard ads that had been popping up all over the country. Identical, every one, all bearing the same hand and the same simple message. Major news agencies had tried for weeks to track down the company or individual paying for the billboards, but they were handled through a front company that led reporters in circles, impossible to penetrate.

And what were the ads supposed to mean? “A better way”? A better way to what?

The chair holding the young man behind him creaked when he shifted his weight in it, and Vasko’s thoughts came back to the here and now. He returned his attention to this messenger, this boy-man. Vasko tilted his head to one side, examining him.

“You have . . . family?” said Vasko in his thick Ukrainian accent.

The boy nodded. He couldn’t have been more than twenty, Vasko thought.

“My mother, father, and sister still live in Sudan,” the young man spoke up. “I work for my uncle to earn money to bring them here to live.”

Vasko’s eyebrows jumped slightly. “Nimeiri is your uncle?”

The young man nodded again and almost offered a smile, but seemed to think better of it. “Uncle is a very powerful man. He commands much respect. I hope to be like him someday.”

Still Vasko studied the boy. “Family
is
everything. Yes? What could be more important?”

“Nothing,” replied the boy, a bit uncertain that he was giving the right answer.

Vasko smiled lightly. “Nothing indeed. Absolutely nothing. Family is everything.”

He turned to Marko and gave a nod so subtle that no one but he could have perceived it.

Vasko walked around his desk and bypassed the young man and the two goons, instead heading for the door at the opposite end of his office. He opened it and held it open, motioning for the three men to join him.

“Come,” said Vasko. “Please, come.”

He led the way to a nearby elevator and ushered Nimeiri’s nephew inside, with Vasko’s two men close behind. He pushed a button and they began to descend rapidly.

When the doors parted, they were on the ground level, and Vasko spoke as he wound his way through the building toward the loading dock in back.

“I want your uncle to know that I understand how important this transaction must be to him, to send his own nephew to deliver his offer,” he said. “I want him to know that I value family as much as he does. You look like you haven’t eaten in a week; let’s get you properly fed before sending you back to your uncle.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the young man uncertainly as they continued to walk. “I will be sure to let him know of your kindness.”

“Good,” Vasko said, smiling again at the boy. He stopped at a sliding garage door that was closed. “Now let’s see that your uncle gets that message.”

He hit a button on the wall beside the garage door and it rolled upward to reveal the rear of a cement mixer. Vasko’s two big men grabbed the boy under his arms and dragged him to the back of the heavy truck and forced open his mouth.

Nimeiri’s nephew tried to scream, but it happened too fast and his yell was muffled by a rush of wet cement over his mouth, gagging him and pouring down his throat. He thrashed but Vasko’s men held him firm. Tears flowed like a stream, his face turning blood red as he struggled and fought to get oxygen into his lungs until finally going limp.

Vasko motioned for the truck to power down. The young boy’s eyes were still open wide, though Vasko knew he was dead. He pulled a small knife out of his pants pocket and cut off one of the dead boy’s thumbs. This would be sent back to Nimeiri, along with seven of his best men, who would shoot as many people in Nimeiri’s organization as it took for him to get the message.

And that message was simple: Nimeiri was out of business, effective immediately.

In the meantime, Vasko ordered the young man’s body placed aboard one of the twelve cargo ships that he owned and chunked in the Atlantic, where it would rapidly sink thousands of feet to the ocean floor.