A Murder of Crows (19 page)

Hicks didn’t like the sound of that. The only thing Roger liked better than a good time was making money. Closing the club kept him from doing both. Roger must have been taking his abduction especially hard. “Where is he now?”

Scott looked up at the ceiling. “Up in his chamber or cell or whatever the fuck he calls it.”

“He alone?”

“Probably. I don’t know and I’m not going up there to find out. I might catch something.”

Hicks knew Scott was a capable man, but he never did any more than he had to. Tell him and his people to kick in a door or clean up a crime scene, they did it. But it was nearly impossible to get Scott to do something not mentioned in the initial mission scope. Hicks found him frustrating at times, but at least he was consistent.

“I’d appreciate it if you could hang around for a couple of minutes until I get a read on Roger’s condition.”

Scott’s eyebrows rose as he adjusted himself on the barstool. “Jesus, Hicks. That’s the closest you’ve ever come to saying ‘please.’

Hicks would’ve said it if he’d had to. Luckily, it didn’t come to that.

H
ICKS FOUND
Roger Cobb alone in his bed chamber.

Normally the room was lit by candles, where men and women in various stages of intoxication and undress cavorted in the shadows of the windowless room.

But now, with all the candles extinguished and all the lights on, Hicks saw the room for the gaudy hellhole it was. The velvet wallpaper was stained and torn in several places. So were all the curtains and drapes Roger had hung throughout the room to give the space the illusion of depth and mystery. All of the corners were empty, save for the half-filled glasses and overflowing ashtrays. He spotted a couple of charred bongs and pipes on the floor by the couch, left by clients too stoned to remember to take them. About three to five years’ worth of prison time of cocaine residue had been left cut but un-snorted on various tables. Roger hadn’t given his customers much warning about last call. Hicks couldn’t blame them for hurrying. There had never been a last call at The Jolly Roger Club before.

Even Roger’s infamous sex swing hung empty in the center of his bedroom. The entire space smelled of stale sex, spilled wine, and candle wax.

Roger was sitting in an oversized black leather lounge chair. He’d changed out of his clothes and was now wearing a gray t-shirt and faded jeans. He was balancing a glass with three fingers of scotch on his knee. He threw Hicks a boozy smile when he saw him. “Hi, honey. Welcome home. How was your day? And you cut your hair, too. How pretty you look.”

Roger sounded like he was already on his third drink, maybe fourth. After the kind of day he’d had, Hicks couldn’t blame him for being sloshed.

“I’ve been better.” He walked over to Roger’s wet bar and poured three fingers of Johnnie Walker Blue Label into a reasonably clean glass. He decided to skip the ice. “I see you closed the club.”

“My, how observant. There’s something about being abducted and nearly tortured that killed my mood for tits and Techno right now. Besides, I needed to sweep the place for bugs. Those bastards grabbed me too close to this place. They already knew so much about me, I was afraid they might’ve made an educated guess and figured I owned this place.”

Hicks took his scotch and lowered himself into the leather couch opposite Roger. “Find anything?”

“No. The place was clean. For bugs, anyway. Well, the listening kind. You should’ve seen what moved when I turned on the main lights. Fucking place has more roaches than a Parisian sewer. An exterminator will cost me a small fortune, but it has to be done. I don’t know why they’re here, though. We barely have any food. I would’ve thought a roach would starve to death in here.”

“The sugar in the drinks draws them,” Hicks said, though he didn’t know why. It was something to say because he didn’t know what to say to Roger. He added, “I’m sorry about Stephens. I saw how rough it got for you in there.”

“Seeing and being there are two different things,” Roger said. “On the ride back, Scott told me you’d hacked into their camera feed and saw the whole thing live. I figured you would eventually, hence the Morse code.”

Hicks took a swig of Blue Label. The subtle burn felt good at the back of his throat. “Turning on your phone helped. How’d you get access to it?”

“I kept begging them to give it to me. I told them I needed to make a call. I suppose one of the dimwits picked it up and activated it by accident.”

“Did Scott tell you Stephens tried to grab me before they went after you?”

But Roger didn’t look like he had heard him. “Their goddamned van came out of nowhere. Cut off my cab and pulled me out of the back before I even knew what was happening.” He grinned. “One of them was in pretty bad shape. Kept holding his throat and had a hard time breathing. I should’ve recognized your handiwork.”

Hicks didn’t grin. “It wasn’t enough to keep them from grabbing you, though. Maybe the Dean was right. Maybe I should’ve shot the sons of bitches instead.”

“And start a war with our own intelligence agencies? Not smart, my friend. You did the right thing by letting them go. Speaking of the Dean, I hear congratulations are in order.” He raised his glass and toasted him. “
Habemus papam
.”

Hicks lowered his glass. “How did you find out?”

“Dad called me after I got home. We had a nice long chat where I listened while he spoke. He explained all about how he’d given Stephens my location and access to parts of my old file. He explained how it was all part of his final lesson to you and me about the dangers we’re facing from the Barnyard. He wanted us to appreciate the true nature of our enemy before he shuffled off this mortal coil.” Roger swirled his scotch before he took a good belt. “At least the son of a bitch had the decency to not attempt an apology.”

Hicks wasn’t surprised. Apologies weren’t the Dean’s style. “He said he’ll be dead by this time tomorrow.”

“And good riddance.” Roger finished his drink and went to the bar to pour another. “After what that son of a bitch put me through?”

Hicks had seen Roger get worked up like this before. It never ended well. “Take it easy.”

“I had every intention of taking it easy today. I had a beautiful day planned until the van came out of nowhere and practically t-boned my fucking cab.” He pointed back toward the empty sex swing in his bedroom. “Don’t let all the whips and chains and kinky shit you see around this place fool you, James. I don’t like being handcuffed and locked in a small room with a goddamned DIA goon threatening my life.”

“I know. The Dean told them where to find me, too.”

Roger poured himself four fingers of scotch and sat back down. “So he told me, as if we’re supposed to forgive him because he admitted betraying us. He’s no better than any of the other bastards in his position. Yet another dying old man playing games and moving pieces around the chess board. And after he betrays us, he dumps it all in your lap while he goes off to die alone like some old elephant in the jungle.” Roger sneered. “See? There’s his jungle analogy again. The fucking coward.”

Hicks saw a thin blue vein pulse along Roger’s neck up to his temple. “He gave them my file, James. My old file. My old
life
. Do you have any idea how hard I worked to put all of it behind me? To forget who I was and what they did to me before all of this?”

Hicks didn’t know the details of Roger’s past, only that much of it had been miserable. He’d never offered details and Hicks had never pried. He could appreciate a man’s desire to forget who he was. “It was a rotten thing to do, but it’s done. We got you out alive and…”

But Roger didn’t hear him. His hand trembled as his fingers whitened around the tumbler of scotch. “Do you know how deep I had to bury that shit to forget it, only to have this punk Stephens throw it in my face? Like it’s nothing? And why? Because the Dean wanted to make a fucking point on his way out the door.”

The glass shattered in Roger’s hand.

Roger didn’t flinch. Neither did Hicks. He knew Roger’s hands may have looked delicate, but they were much stronger than they looked. He’d seen and heard what those hands could do to a human.

Roger was too focused on his anger to notice the scotch and blood soaking into his jeans. “I don’t like being confronted with ghosts, James, least of all my own. And I sure as shit don’t like being manhandled by thugs.” He looked at Hicks. “The Stephens boy laid hands, James. I cannot allow that to go unanswered.”

“It won’t.” Hicks knew Roger needed a towel, but didn’t get one for him. It was his mess. He would tend to it in his own time if he tended to it at all.

Hicks drank his scotch instead. “Now that I’m the Dean, maybe I can broker some kind of deal with Stephens after all.”

“It’s too late for diplomacy now.” Roger seemed to finally notice the glass had shattered in his hand. He began to calmly remove the larger chunks of glass from his lap and set them on the end table. “Stephens knows they’re on to something. He’ll come at us with everything he’s got.”

Hicks looked at his drink. “We’re going to have to make them stop.”

Roger continued removing the shards of glass from his left hand. He didn’t flinch or wince. He looked as calm as a child picking paint chips off a wall. “And how do we do that?”

“I’ve got some ideas. In fact, the Dean gave me an interesting idea before he left.”

Roger looked interested. “No shit? What kind of an idea?”

“One I know you’re going to like.”

He saw Roger’s mood brighten, so he quickly added, “Nothing direct and nothing lethal. Shooting Stephens or Avery will make us feel better, but I need you to find a more subtle way to stop them or send them off course.”

“Death is far more permanent,” Roger warned.

“They’re our own people. We’re on the same side. They just don’t know it yet. And they won’t until all of this is over.”

He rubbed his face in his hands as the Carousel of Concern began to turn once more in his mind.
Jabbar. Stephens. The University. The Mossad.
Christ, he hadn’t even begun to figure out how he’d break the news of Bajjah’s death to Tali.
Each concern was essential. Each one of them would crush him if he let it. He needed time to quiet his mind and keep everything in order, but time was the one thing he didn’t have.

“Speaking of allies,” Roger said as he pulled the last piece of glass from his hand, “I contacted Rahul Patel this morning before I left Alphabet City. He’s interested in the London job you mentioned. Tailing the Shaban character.”

Hicks blinked his eyes clear. “Just because he’s interested in the job, doesn’t mean we’re interested in him doing it. He’s a drunk.”

“Only if he drinks.” Roger went to the bar and began to wrap his hand in a towel. “I’ve searched OMNI for other operatives who could do the job, but Rahul’s still the best one available to work London for us. I was supposed to meet him at six, but I’ll never be able to get ready in time to meet him.” He held up his wrapped hand. “Not after this nonsense.”

He didn’t like the idea of using someone on the downswing of his career. But given his abilities, even if Rahul was only half the agent he’d once been, he was good enough to tail Shaban. “Get yourself cleaned up. I’ll go. Where are you supposed to meet him?”

“At his cousin’s restaurant in Rockefeller Center. I’ll give you the address from my phone after I finish dressing my hand. You’ll want to be careful, though. He might be a drunk, but he’s still a trained assassin. And he hates your guts.”

Hicks fought down a yawn. “He’s in good company.”