A Murder of Crows (20 page)

“W
HERE ARE
we going?” Scott asked when they got outside the Jolly Roger Club.

“I’ll tell you in the car.” Hicks pulled out his new handheld device and ran an OMNI scan of all frequencies near his position. The speed of the scan was faster than anything he’d seen in a handheld before—almost instantaneous. The scan showed no secured or federal signals in his immediate area.

If Stephens’ people were watching him, they were doing it old school. No radios and no Company equipment. They’d be using parked cars and binoculars and cell phones instead. He checked the street and rooftops and windows of the surrounding buildings for anything out of the ordinary. All he saw was the standard decay of Midtown Manhattan’s forgotten west side.

Hicks put the handheld away. “I need you to take me to a meeting I’ve got up at Rockefeller Center. If it goes well, you’ll be taking someone to a private jet in a couple of hours.”

They got to the car. Scott got behind the wheel and Hicks rode shot gun.

“And if it doesn’t go well?” Scott asked.

“Then you’ll be leaving someone on the side of the road. Any problem with that?”

“Makes no difference to me, so long as you remember I’m not your fucking errand boy. I overheard the call Roger got on the way back here, so I know you’re the new Dean. Good for you. I want you to remember I’m not your driver, and I’m not going to run all over town doing odd jobs for you because you’re suddenly on top of the org chart. I didn’t do it for the other guy and I sure as shit won’t do it for you. If you’ve got a problem with that, tell me now and I’ll update my resume.”

Hicks knew Scott was an alpha type. He needed to be an alpha in order to do the kind of work he did and do it well. Marine Recon vets weren’t known for being passive.

But Hicks also knew if he backed down from him now, he’d lose his respect and never get it back.

“You’re being well paid to do what you’re told, Scott. You’re going to keep on doing what you’re told if you want to keep on getting well paid. If you want to jump ship and join up with a private firm where you earn half the money babysitting celebrities or sweating your balls off in a jungle for some tin pot dictator, be my guest. For now, you’re going to drive me up to Rockefeller Center and wait for further instructions. If you don’t like it, tell me now and I’ll catch a cab.”

Scott laughed more to himself than to Hicks. “Yeah, I get it. Jesus. And you wonder why nobody likes you.”

“I couldn’t care less. Now let’s go.”

As Scott drove the SUV up Twelfth Avenue, Hicks pulled up the profile of Rahul Patel on his handheld. He had already read the file months before, back when the Dean had sent him to investigate the apartment of Rahul’s sister, but the file still made for impressive reading.

Up until his sister’s death, Patel had been one of the most effective counter-terrorism operatives in India’s National Investigation Agency. He had not only hunted down the men who had planned the attack on Mumbai in 2008, but he had also thwarted two additional attacks since. He had a reputation within the intelligence community as an agent who was not only good at uncovering intelligence, but acting on it as well. Many had one set of skills, but few had both.

Patel’s success also earned him some powerful enemies who had decided to take their revenge by murdering his sister in her Manhattan apartment six months before. Rahul believed he had taken all precautions to protect her identity, but Hicks knew no one in their line of work was ever entirely safe. Loved ones least of all. Heads of state, popes, and presidents had all been assassinated. A pretty doctor living alone on the Upper West Side was an easy target for the kinds of people who Rahul Patel counted as enemies.

Unfortunately, the University had learned of the plot to kill Rahul’s sister too late. By the time the Dean had sent Hicks to protect her, she was already dead. Hicks’ mission immediately changed from protecting the girl to protecting the killers from Rahul. The people who had ordered her death were essential to several important University operations happening at the time. The arrest or death of these men would have crippled years of expensive and important intelligence work which had helped the University stop several terror plots around the globe.

Nothing ever moved in a straight line in the intelligence game. Not even revenge.

Once Rahul had gotten to his sister’s apartment, Hicks had managed to keep the agent at bay until his superiors from the Indian consulate arrived on the scene. The threat Rahul posed to ongoing University operations may have been stopped, but the death of his only sister had cost a good man his sanity. Rahul had crawled into a bottle since the day of her funeral and refused to come out.

India’s NIA had too much respect for his service to the country to ever formally throw him out of the service. Instead, they placed him on indefinite leave and allowed him to wallow in his misery. Now he spent his days with Jack Daniels at his cousin’s Indian restaurant in Rockefeller Center.

Hicks knew Rahul could be the ideal man to tail Shaban in London if he could set the bottle down. Hicks had dealt with drunks before. They usually didn’t come back so easily.

Hicks sent out a couple of emails and set his plan in motion. If Rahul accepted the job, he’d be on his way to London within the hour.

And if he refused it, the next hour would be his last.

Scott broke Hicks’ concentration when he said, “Hey, look over there. Seems like our new friends are on the move.”

Hicks looked out the driver’s side window and saw a thick column of black smoke billowing into the sky on the New Jersey side of the Hudson River. The wind seemed to be blowing north and east, keeping the smoke on the New Jersey side of the river.

He felt the civilian news apps on his handheld begin to buzz. ‘Breaking News’ bulletins appeared on his locked screen. All of them said pretty much the same thing:

Weehawken Storage Facility Burns.

If Hicks still had been holding a glass of Roger’s scotch, he would have toasted the scene.

Stephens and Avery were covering their tracks.

Well played, gentlemen. Well played.

I
T WAS
past six o’clock by the time Scott parked the SUV up the street from the Patel family restaurant called Nirvana.

Nirvana was the kind of restaurant that did the Indian theme big, or at least what Americans believed to be an authentic Indian theme. Lots of white furnishings trimmed with gold. Ceramic elephants and monkeys and depictions of Hindu gods positioned throughout the dining room. The hostesses wore saris and glided around the place like royalty, even though there weren’t many customers to serve. Attentive waiters wore white shirts and bowed a lot to the ignorant patrons who asked for extra curry.

Hicks spotted Rahul exactly where he’d expected to find him: at the bar nursing a healthy pour of Jack Daniels—neat. He may have only been separated from the NIS for a few months, but the mileage was already beginning to show. He had looked like an Indian version of Cary Grant when Hicks had first met him at his sister’s apartment: tall with a thick head of black hair and a natural bronze complexion no amount of time on a tanning bed could buy. Throw in an accent more Cambridge than Mumbai and he could charm almost anyone into doing anything he wanted.

But too much sour mash and too many late nights had given Rahul a drawn, worn look. Thick dark circles had appeared beneath the same brown eyes that had once made women on six continents swoon. His admirable posture and easy charm had given way to a drunkard’s slouch. His hair was a touch too long and he was a few days overdue for a shave. He was still a handsome kid, but nowhere near what he had once been. And he was nowhere near what Hicks needed him to be again.

For the second time that day, Hicks hoped he wasn’t already too late. He hated jobs like this. He hated not having the resources to go straight for the jugular—to be able to pick up the phone and have someone in London put Shaban under twenty-four hour surveillance. He hated having to move sideways before he could take one step forward. Even if Rahul took the job, there’d be so many variables to consider. Was he too far gone to do the job right? Would he slip while on assignment and drink again? Had his skills been eroded by too much time on a barstool? Could he work for a man he hated?

But Hicks didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on a wish list. He had a terrorist in London who needed watching and, for now, Rahul Patel was his best shot at doing it.

Showtime.
Hicks got out of the SUV and crossed the street.

R
AHUL LOOKED
up from his drink as soon as Hicks pushed through the revolving door and walked past the hostess in the sari. The Rahul of old would never have sat so close to the window or with his back to the street. He would have seen Hicks as soon as he’d crossed the street. The Rahul he had once admired also wouldn’t have been drinking in the middle of the day.

Rahul’s bloodshot eyes widened as he slid off his stool to face the American. “You.”

Hicks tried a smile. “Roger couldn’t make it, so you’re stuck with me instead. But if you’re still interested, we can…”

Rahul telegraphed a straight right hand. Hicks easily dodged it, grabbed Rahul’s wrist and flicked an elbow which caught him above the bridge of his nose. The blow wasn’t hard enough to hurt him, only knock him off balance enough to take some of the fight out of him.

But in his drunken state, Rahul tumbled backward like he’d been struck with a roundhouse right hand. He knocked over his stool, drawing looks from all the wait staff and the few patrons eating a late lunch. Hicks covered it up by rushing to help Rahul stay on his feet, as if he was helping an old friend who’d stumbled.

“Take it easy, partner,” he said loud enough for the benefit of the patrons who were watching. He took Rahul under the arm and helped him to his feet. “Let’s grab some air and clear your head.”

Rahul was either too drunk or too stunned to fight him. Hicks didn’t care which. He was glad he went quietly.

As soon as they went through the revolving doors and on the street, Rahul tried to pull away. “I should kill you right now.”

Hicks didn’t let go of his grip on his arm. “Kill me? Shit, you couldn’t even hit me and I was standing right in front of you.”

He decided they should try to blend in with the crowds milling around Rockefeller Center’s ice rink and steered Rahul in that direction. The ice rink wasn’t scheduled to close down for another month, so there were still plenty of tourists in the area. Since all of the benches of the plaza were occupied by selfie-taking tourists and shopping bags, Hicks led Rahul to the high wall overlooking the rink. It gave him something to lean on without falling over.

Hicks watched the last skater glide off the ice as a maintenance worker fired up the Zamboni machine that would roll onto the rink to smooth the surface. “You’re doing a hell of a job of wasting yourself, my friend, and if there’s one thing in this world I hate, it’s waste.”

“I don’t expect you to understand. Your sister wasn’t butchered by your enemies.”

“I’m the one who found her, remember?”

“And you’re also the one who kept me from avenging her.”

“You saw what happened to the men who did it. You saw the pictures.”

“Vengeance by proxy isn’t my thing, mate. She wasn’t your sister. You had no right to…”

“They knew you’d be coming after them. You never would’ve gotten within a thousand yards of them before they saw you coming. I handled it and now they’re dead and that’s what matters. You saw the footage. You saw they died worse than she did.”

Rahul blinked hard and steadied himself with a drunkard’s resolve. “When it fit in with the University’s plans, of course.”

Hicks watched the Zamboni roll out onto the ice. “Everything happens on someone’s timeline, Rahul. It’s the business we’re in. Or at least it’s the business you used to be in before you crawled into a bottle.”

“Spare me the AA bullshit. Roger told me he wanted to talk about a job. If you’ve come here to lecture me instead, you might as well quit wasting time and fuck off. I’ve got drinking to do.”

“You might have drinking to do, but you’re the worst imitation of a drunk I’ve ever seen.” Hicks watched the ice machine begin its slow circuit around the ice. “I’ve made a career out of working drunks for information and setting them up to take the fall. They were all dead men at the end of their line with nothing to look forward to except the next bottle. You’re not there, not yet. All you’re doing is slumming while you wallow in your own misery. The tragedy is an excuse for you to fuck yourself up. I’ve seen it happen to people like us before. I’m seeing it happen now with you.”

Hicks saw the drunkard Rahul had become ebb enough to reveal the talented counter-intelligence man beneath. The man Hicks needed him to be again. “Careful, mate.”

Hicks grinned. “A drunk wouldn’t have been insulted because he wouldn’t have given a shit.” He lightly tapped him on the chest. “You still want to be part of the Game,
mate
. You’re too proud to ask and you’re too afraid of letting go of your grief. Moving on isn’t the same thing as forgetting her. If anything, moving on is the best way you can honor her memory.”

Rahul looked down at the ice surface, too. “I suppose this is the point in the conversation where you try to talk me into coming back.”