The Seven Markets (16 page)

McBride raised a timid hand; it was out of character for the man, who had trouble fitting through some doorways.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Can we stop and ride the Matterhorn, sir?”

The men broke out in an explosion of laughter. Hart could have strangled McBride, stealing his joke like that. Uncreative ass.

He looked down and saw the major digging his hands into the edge of the table, knuckles gone white. And Hart reminded himself that, crazy or not, the old bat had only paid half the money up front, something he knew would be on the major’s mind as well. Punch a hole in the crazy and see if Grandma Moses here took her money elsewhere. Hart stole a look in her direction. If she was put out in the slightest by their mockery, he couldn’t tell it by the utterly serene expression on her face.

Presley must have seen the same, because he relaxed his grip on the table’s edge and chuckled. “Funny guy,” he said. Hart watched the color drain from McBride’s face. “You’re a real comedian. Tell me, then, Mister Comedian, what are the target’s defensive capabilities?”

“Sir?”

“No?”

“Sir, we weren’t briefed—”

Presley roared across the table at McBride. For once, Hart was glad he’d let someone else get off a good one. Let the big man suck it up.

“I know you weren’t briefed, Captain! That’s because we don’t have any intel on their defensive capabilities, do we? Guards in the inn? No. Guards outside? No. Guards in his rooms? No! We have zero actionable data on what we’re about to jump into, so I’d like to know why you think it’s acceptable to begin telling knock-knock jokes!”

“But sir,” McBride stammered. “Tony—”

The major’s face, awash with fury, became suddenly placid. “Don’t go laying your inadequacies off on Captain Hart. God knows he’s got enough of his own. But he knows his job inside and out, and he’s not going to find himself hip-deep in whatever’s waiting for us inside that inn.” Hart followed Major Presley’s eyes as they zeroed in on the old bat parked, silent as ever, at the opposite end of the table. “He’s babysitting, which means while your face is being chewed on by God-knows-what, he’s going to be watching
from a distance
. If I were you I’d worry a whole lot less about telling jokes and a lot more about what’s waiting for us inside that inn. Doesn’t that sound a just bit more productive?”

There was no sarcasm in McBride’s voice when he responded. “Yes sir!”

Presley closed the display and turned away from the briefing table.

“Something you lot need to get through your thick skulls. We’re going in, no question about it. According to intel, target has already resisted one assassin’s intentions, with devastating results for said assassin. If you thought you were catching an easy gig, if you thought we were going to spend another five years living the high life, think again. The target is live, the clock is ticking, and when we land in Cleveland, we are going in guns hot.” He turned to the old bat, who might have been a statue for all the emotion she showed. “A job is a job. And we’ve got a job to do. You could have stepped out years ago, but today is the day and I expect nothing but the best from each and every one of you.”

Major Presley stormed off to the rear of the private jet, leaving Hart, McBride, and the rest to digest his words. Hart suspected the major was fixing himself a drink, or checking his load out. He waited what seemed an appropriate time and then hotfooted it after him.

“Need to keep your jokes to yourself, Captain,” Presley said.

Hart grinned. “Yessir. Never happen again, sir.”

Presley rolled his eyes skyward, dropping several ice cubes into his rocks glass. “Wiseass.”

“So my mama always said.”

“And she was right. Never could keep your damn fool mouth shut. Most days, you’re more trouble than you’re worth. Tell me again why I keep you around?”

“No idea, sir. Bad habit, probably.”

“Too true, Captain.” Presley offered a glass to Hart. “Disneyland. Jackass. You almost cracked me up. What d’you think old nuttypants would think then?”

Hart shrugged. “Who knew she’d come with? I figured . . .”

He didn’t need to finish his sentence. They’d all had the same thought: take the old lady’s money, fly off to points unknown, and return with wondrous tales of the magical fantasyland they’d found there. Her husband? The fairy-tale prince she’d sent them to bag? Oh, he must have skipped the market this year, ma’am. And it’s ‘Hart’ with a ‘t’ on those checks, thank you very much.

“Disneyland,” Presley said, downing his drink in a single gulp. “You’ve got to watch that. The other men see you smarting off and think it’s okay. If they see you being serious . . .”

“I know, I know. They’ll act serious. Boss? Tell me, what do we do when we get to Cleveland and there’s a parking lot where her market is supposed to be?”

“Dunno, Captain. Park?”

Two identical black SUVs were waiting at the airport when they landed. Major Presley stood aside with the old woman while Hart and the men broke out their gear and ported it into the trucks. Shotguns and assault rifles, flak jackets and body armor, hand grenades, plastique explosives, remote detonators, night-vision goggles, combat knives, and zip-ties.

If everything went according to plan, all they’d need were the zip-ties.

Hart rode in the first SUV with Presley and the old bat. He expected her to be full of nervous energy; she’d chatter on and on about their preparations, her expectations, maybe make a vague, not-so-veiled threat about how unhappy she’d be if things went pear-shaped. Rich folks thought hiring a guy like him was the same thing as ordering an expensive dinner; if their steak didn’t come out right, they’d just holler at the waiter and send it back.

But she didn’t blather on. She didn’t threaten him or take an opportunity to remind him how godawful important this was. As if you spent a quarter of a million on a whim. In fact, she didn’t say a word until they were nearly there. And when she did finally open her mouth, it was something of a relief to him.

“Remember what we discussed, Major. Remind your men.”

“They’ve all been fully briefed,” Presley said, working hard not to smirk. But when the SUVs stopped and the men were assembled out on the street, he did take a second to remind them. Not like it made a difference—Disneyland and all that—but Hart figured he felt better getting it out.

“Okay, you all know the drill. We’re going in by the numbers and we’re taking it slow. If our intel is right, we won’t see any opposition unless we make it ourselves. For clarity: I’m not going to see any one of you starting trouble. Keep your weapons holstered and your knives sheathed. We’re just eight friends taking a trip to the market. The eight little piggies. Browse around if you like.
Don’t
eat or drink anything.”

Hart saw the old bat nodding her head in agreement. This was, he thought, the oddest part of her story, the idea that eating food from her fantasy market would somehow get under your skin. They weren’t going in sightseeing, though, and there was no reason for any of them to stop for a burger along the way.

“When we reach our objective we’ll assess the situation. We’ll book a couple rooms, stake out the bar. Again, we will not provoke violence and we will not be goaded into it. Use your weapons as a
last resort only.
Is that clear?”

Hart enjoyed the surprise in Presley’s face when, instead of the mumbled assent he clearly expected, the men shouted as one, “YES SIR!”

Hamming it up for the old woman. Fantastic. At least she couldn’t complain they weren’t enthusiastic. But she wasn’t even paying attention. She’d moved past Presley’s show and was fussing about in the back of her SUV.

“Ma’am?” Presley said, catching her attention. “Anything else to add?”

“Presents, Major. One for each of you.”

The men quickly crowded around. They’d discussed bonuses for a successful mission, but Hart thought it was damned strange passing out the cash before going in. Still, he wasn’t going to argue.

It wasn’t money she was handing out but capes. No, he corrected himself, not capes but cloaks. Freaking
cloaks
. His was forest green and long enough it would drag behind him when he walked. He tried to hitch it up but she stopped him.

“Let it drag. It’s supposed to. Here.”

She undid the clasp he’d fastened, turned it around and suddenly his shoulders were free. The cloak might have become weightless.

“You’ve got secret pockets here, here and here. And if you pull it closed you’ll be able to hide away. From some folks, at least.”

The other men looked miserable. Presley was doing the best, collecting the yards of shimmery fabric up in a ball so it wouldn’t tangle in his equipment. To the major’s credit, he was willing to hold still while she adjusted his cloak the same way she’d adjusted Hart’s. When she spread out his cloak so it surrounded him, Presley let it hang where it fell.

And Hart noticed something as she finished adjusting each of them; the bulk of their weapons vanished beneath the cloaks. Each man had either a shotgun or an assault rifle strapped to his back, but there was no hint of these when she’d done her work. The cloaks sucked up the sound as well. McBride loaded his shotgun and gave his Glock a final check, but neither action made more than the slightest tickle of sound to Hart’s ears.

She slung a final cloak over her own birdlike shoulders and fastened a long, bone-handled knife to her belt. With the hood of her cloak drawn, Hart found he had to keep reminding himself where she was standing—next to the SUV, behind Andrews—or he lost track of her.

Good tech, these things. Money buys the best toys, doesn’t it?

“Okay,” Presley said, a grim smile on his face. “Let’s go.”

The Market was right where she’d told them it would be.

The twin dark stone pillars stood like towering guardians over the gateway. Extending from each pillar was a wall, at least twelve feet high, running to the end of the street in either direction. They were too high to see over but it was easy to imagine what was on the other side. Lord knows they’d spent enough time studying her maps and drawings.

“Sir?” Hart said.

“I see it.”

“What d’you see?” Robb said. His voice had that
you guys are screwing with me
tone Hart associated with the moment just before things went pear-shaped.

The problem was, no matter what he was looking at, her fancy market was impossible. The park across the street was barely two blocks from end to end. The maps they’d memorized showed a city bigger than all of Cleveland. He reminded himself that the very rich will often do very weird things. Why not build up a farce market to keep her delusions alive? Anything to fill the days.

Presley cleared his throat. “Okay, we’ll do this by the numbers. Vulgari and Docherty, you’re going in first.”

“Sir?”

“Is there a problem?”

“No sir.”

“Good. Also, remember, once we’re inside, no more ‘sir’ or ‘Major.’ I’m Presley. Use each other’s names as well. This op will work for one reason and one reason only: because no one’s going to know we’re there until it’s done.”

They all nodded but did not answer.

Hart watched as Vulgari and Docherty stepped up to the stone gate.

“You good?” Docherty said, socking his partner on the shoulder.

“Just you keep up.”

Hart watched them cross the street, inwardly amused at how hard they were working to
not
look like soldiers advancing on an enemy’s position. Funny how unarmed ex-Navy SEALs always look like they’re carrying. They exchanged a quick look as they passed through the opening in the stone wall, squeezing together to avoid brushing against either stone pillar. If Presley was waiting for something—a flash of light, a boom of thunder—he didn’t get it. Docherty turned from about ten feet past the gateway to wave.

No, he wasn’t waving. He was calling them to follow.

And Vulgari, who should have remained at his partner’s side come hell or high water, seemed to be wandering away.

“Sir? Sir? Where’d they go?”

Hart recognized Robb’s voice at once. It took him a few seconds to figure out the keening wail, like a dog that’s been run over on the road and can’t figure out where its guts have gone. That was Collins.

Robb was grabbing at the collar of Hart’s cloak, shaking him, begging him to explain. McBride was down with Collins. Hart slapped Robb twice across the face,
slap slap,
and shouted something about pulling it together. He could have been talking to a statue.

Presley pushed Robb back and got into Hart’s grill. “Hart, report.”

“Don’t know, Maj—crap, sorry, Presley—he seems to have just gone to pieces.”

“Where’d they go? Docherty and Vulgari, sir, they’re gone!” The panic in Robb’s voice gnawed on Hart’s spine like a rat working a hunk of spoiled meat.

He twisted his neck to find the pillars and the gateway. Docherty was right there, waving for them to come in. He shouted for them to hurry on up, hurry on in. Vulgari was nowhere to be seen.

“They’re right inside, Robb. Pull yourself together, man.”

“They’re not! Just the playground, the slides, a few kids running around. Where’d they go, sir, oh crap, where’d they go, sir?”

The old bat chuckled and shook her head. “Just two of you. That’s a relief. I was afraid it would be more.”

“What are you talking about?” Presley said. “‘Just two’? Just two what?”

“Just two that can’t see.
Only those with eyes to see,
that’s how it goes, isn’t it? I think I must have mentioned that at some point, no?”

Her hood was up so Hart couldn’t make out her whole face. She was smiling, though. It was a sickly sweet smile, and he understood she wasn’t just crazy; the old bat was mad.

She pulled Robb’s hands free from Hart’s cloak, as if he were a baby and not two hundred and fifty pounds of ex-Marine who could kill her with a hard stare.

“You’re Robb, aren’t you?” she said, her voice so soft it was almost a song. She didn’t continue until he’d looked at her and nodded, his eyes full of panic, his jaw quaking.

“You’re going to need to look after Mister Collins over there. He’s having a worse time of it than you are, if you can believe that. Can you help him back to the SUVs?”