Blackjack (12 page)

CROSS SAT
, thinking it over. Replaying in his head all the assignments he’d undertaken over the years.

Not a hit man—who am I kidding?
he thought to himself, keeping his face a show-nothing mask.

“Why me?” he finally asked.

“Believe it or not,” the blond man told him, “what we want is your mind, not your combat skills. You have unique … experiences that our superiors believe would be invaluable.”

“Two choices: either actually say something, or drive me home, pal.”

“Look around you, Mr. Cross. Tracker got his name from his work. Percy’s been in more wars than I’ve had birthdays. And Tiger … well, she’s earned her name. Between our financial resources and the commitment of our volunteers, we have more than enough manpower.”

Tiger raised an eyebrow at this last word, but didn’t deign to speak.

“Okay, you’ll pay the freight, but only COD. Fair enough. But it’s not only money I work for. How high do you guys reach?”

The blond man made a gesture which instantly translated to: “All the way to the top.”

“Yeah? Can you fix me up with a Get Out of Jail Free card?”

“What’s that?”

“Just what it sounds like: immunity from prosecution. The feds do it all the time. They do it for rats; why not for … contract employees?”

The blond man exchanged a look with Wanda. “We could probably handle that. Give us the details.”

“Details?”

“When the crime was committed, who was involved, that kind of thing.”

“It hasn’t been committed yet.”

“What? That doesn’t make any—”

“My crew are all tightrope-walkers. You can’t make too many passes without taking a fall. Sooner or later, that happens—maybe to one of us; maybe to us all. So that’s what I want: the
next
fall, on the house.”

Another look between the blond man and Wanda. Finally, the blond said, “We’ll have to check on that.”

“I can wait,” Cross told him. He slid a slip of paper across the table. “These people’ll know how to reach me. Or you can track me down yourselves, in case you want to show off your toys again.”

“Tiger and Tracker will take you back,” the blond man said as the Indian slid behind Cross, a black blindfold in his hands.

ALMOST DAWN
. A limo-sized four-door sedan made its way through the city. It moved purposefully, a shark attracted by the electrical pulses of potential prey.

The comparison is valid. This is the infamous “Shark Car,” known and feared throughout the Badlands. A three-ton armored beast, all-wheel drive with adjustable power distribution, independent suspension all around, air bags under each wheel. The power plant was a totally reworked mega-monster engine: a thirteen-plus-liter Hemi, with two separate shots of nitrous oxide always available. Its city-camo paint was a shaded, blotched gray-black, rarely noticed except by those who knew what they were actually viewing.

The high-tech van was on the move as well. Tiger was behind the wheel, Cross next to her in the front seat, the blindfold still over his eyes. Tracker was riding behind them, a short-barreled, night-scoped rifle across his lap.

The van moved placidly through constantly changing neighborhoods. Multi-levels yielded sharp contrasts as antiseptically wealthy sections became festering-sore slums. The lines of demarcation weren’t always so clearly marked, especially in newly gentrified areas. Desolate poverty ran through the near-deserted night streets as randomly as the broken veins in a wino’s nose.

“What you said before. About tribalism. Was that just playing games with that government stooge?” Tracker asked.

Smoking a cigarette with the black blindfold still in place, Cross looked like a man facing the firing squad. He answered without turning around.

“You tell me. Doesn’t this feel like one tribe’s doing all the killings? They got their own way of doing things, their own gods to worship.…”

“But how could one tribe …?”

“You wouldn’t have said what you did about Seminoles unless you’ve got Cherokee blood yourself,” Cross answered.

“I do.”

“But you’re not
exactly
a Cherokee, right?”

“I just said—”

“You’re a Chickasaw,” Cross interrupted, speaking as if simply stating a fact. “Which means your ancestors didn’t sow crops. Didn’t do a lot of hunting, either. So they had to keep on the move.”

“Speak clearly,” Tracker said, his voice just a shade off threat.

“Okay. How’s this? Your ancestors got what they needed from other tribes. And not by trading. They
took
what they needed.”

“That was the truth,” Tracker finished. “Yes. I see what you speak of now. The Simbas—”

“Tribes wander,” Tiger interrupted, speaking aloud what she had been thinking ever since Cross used the word “Simbas.”

Cross nodded a silent affirmative.

“Some tribes don’t even have a homeland,” Tiger rolled on. “Nomads. They just pitch their tents wherever they are. Like the Mongols. Or those Chickasaws.”

“Yeah, there’s no racial piece in this,” Cross agreed. “Look at the Gypsies. Like the ones they tried to drive out of France. Had them standing in line for Hitler’s ovens, too.”

Tiger’s “uh-huh” was more growl than speech.

“And you don’t have to be Roma to be a gypsy, do you?” Cross finished.

As Tracker silently nodded agreement, Tiger looked over at Cross, thoughtfully. “Right,” she agreed, her voice so soft it was almost a purr.

“
ARE YOU
guys the whole team?” Cross asked.

“What team?” Tiger responded warily.

“Whatever Blondie’s in charge of. There’s five of you that I met. All I’m asking: are there any more?”

Tracker and Tiger exchanged looks. Tracker shrugged his shoulders in a “Why not?” gesture.

“The op is multi-national,” Tiger told Cross. “We’re Unit 3. I don’t know how many teams are working this, but I can tell you this much for sure: there’s no place where the killers we’re looking for
haven’t
made an appearance.”

In her mind’s eye, Tiger reviewed footage she’d been shown of other units. Some seemed racially homogenous, others were overtly mixed, but it would take an expert eye to discern between the Japanese, Korean, Thai, Laos, Vietnamese, and Chinese that formed one group. Assembling a
team
from those nationalities had never been accomplished—their traditional posture toward one another has historically ranged from simmering hostility to outright warfare.

It was the same for a black crew. A closer look would reveal members ranging from Africa to the West Indies. A Latino unit had Mexican, Cuban, and Central and South American members—the latter still another example that flew in the face of any attitudes known to the authorities. Or the underworld.

“Who’s the boss?” Cross asked.

“TRAP,” Tiger said, glancing at his blindfolded face. “It isn’t a person, it’s a program. A computer program. We all feed to a central database, and instructions come back.”

Tiger’s mind viewed a super-computer, encircled by a waist-high band on which terminals sat. Behind each terminal an operator was incessantly inputting, examining, then inputting again and again.

“A computer …” Cross snorted. “Computers don’t understand hunter-killer teams.”

“It was TRAP that told us to bring you into this,” Tiger answered. “Computers don’t have to understand, they just have to process. They’re no better than the data they feed on. And, sometimes, human ‘understanding’ would just get in the way.”

As she wheeled the van around a long, sweeping corner, it became apparent that they were back in that part of the city where Cross was at home. Tracker leaned forward and unsnapped the blindfold.

CROSS BLINKED
his eyes a couple of times. Once sight-oriented, he said, “Drop me anywhere.”

The van pulled to the curb. Cross jumped down and slipped into the shadows, penetrating deeper and deeper until he became one himself.

“He knows the old ways,” Tracker said to Tiger.

“He knows some new ones, too,” Tiger replied as the van pulled off. She flicked a switch to pop a rectangular gauge into life. The activated screen was blank. “See? We lost thermal on him the minute he put on that long coat.”

CROSS EMERGED
from an alley. The Shark Car was waiting, idling soundlessly. Its back door popped open. Cross stepped in. The car moved off.

“You got them, Buddha?”

“Knew where to meet you, didn’t I, boss?”

“I had the transmitter on me—in the heel of my boot. But they’ll probably sweep that van, find the little unit I left behind.”

Buddha pushed a button. What looked like a navigation
screen opened on the dashboard. A moving red dot was plainly visible. “Maybe so,” he said. “But they haven’t done it yet.”

“Then Rhino has them locked on, too. I guess that’s all we can do for one night.”

“You really think they might go for that free-pass deal, boss?”

“It’s probably not their call. But that doesn’t matter. They’ll
say
so, anyway.”

“
YOU GOT
the package?”