Hardbingers

7

The itching and burning had faded to next to nothing by the time Jack turned a corner two blocks from the warehouse. He pulled over and unbuttoned his shirt. No rash, but the usually pink scars on his chest, a matched troika of ten-inch ridges running diagonally from up near his left shoulder down and across his right pectoral, looked red and swollen now.

He ran his fingers over them. Hot.

His chest muscles tightened. Considering the nature of the creature that had left these souvenirs, this was not good.

Had to be related to that warehouse. The scars seemed to react whenever he got near it.

He leaned back and thought about how he'd landed here. Anyone else would see it as a string of coincidences.

Timmy's niece is kidnapped. Timmy—just like Jack—happens to be a regular at Julio's. Jack just happens to be present when the dudes in black appear. A little cat-and-mouse action leads him here, to a place that causes an angry reaction in his scars.

Coincidences? Not likely. Especially since he had it on good authority that there would be no more coincidences in his life.

Which meant he'd been led here.

But by whom? And for good or ill? Check that: Whose good or ill?

Part of Jack—the more primitive brain centers devoted to self-preservation—urged him to slam the car into gear and get the hell out of here.

Good idea. Smart idea.

But let's think about that.

No one knew he was here. No one was aware he even knew about the place. Driving by too many times might raise a flag if they had security cameras aimed at the street.

But he could walk by.

Once. Just once.

He'd worn a midweight Jets hoodie under his bomber. Pull a knit cap down to his eyebrows, wrap a scarf around his neck and lower face, pull up the hood, add a pair of sunglasses, and he'd be unrecognizable. Wouldn't work in warmer weather, but here in January he was just another guy shielding himself from the cold.

So that was what he did. When he finished the wrap-up he checked himself in the rearview mirror.

Call me Griffin.

He adjusted the Glock in the nylon holster in the small of his back, then stepped out and walked to the corner. After a quick survey, he put his head down and into the breeze, then started toward the warehouse. Figured he might as well go for broke and walk right past the front door.

With each step the discomfort in the scars increased but he kept moving, determined to see how bad it would get. By the time he came even with the door he felt as if his chest were on fire.

And then the door flew open and half a dozen men jumped out, swarming around him with drawn pistols—all suppressor-equipped H-Ks. Miller's massive presence was unmistakable among them.

Shock slowed him. How had they known? How could they possibly have known it was him?

He went for his Glock but a muzzle jammed against ribs.

"Don't even think about it."

So he lashed out with fists and feet. Got in a few good kicks and punches, caused some pain, picked up some for himself. Desperation added extra strength and speed—if they got him inside he'd be cooked—but despite his efforts they soon had him down. He felt his Glock pulled from its holster. Then they lifted him, one man to each limb, and carried him kicking and twisting through the door.

The farther inside they took him, the worse the burning across his chest. But questions about how he'd screwed up took over. They'd been waiting for him. No way they could have recognized him… unless one of them had seen him changing in the car.

His scarf had slipped up over his eyes during the melee so he saw very little of his surroundings as he was carried to a chair and slammed into it. His backup was yanked from its ankle holster, then his legs were released, but his arms remained stretched and pinned behind him.

"Hey-hey," said a voice. "He's got a Kel-Tec backup… a P-eleven. That's a keeper."

"Let's have a look at you," said another voice, this one vaguely familiar. Probably Miller's.

The scarf was pulled away, taking the shades with it, and Jack found himself gazing up at Miller—out of uniform, but as mean looking as ever. And big. Jack hadn't appreciated his size before. He didn't quite qualify for a Stone-henge upright, but he looked like he could sub for a lintel. His eyes held all the warmth of photovoltaic cells, and they flashed when he saw Jack's face.

"Fuck! Look who it is!"

Look who it is? Miller's surprise didn't make sense. Hadn't they known who they were snatching?

Miller's smile undulated like a worm, allowing glimpses of mottled, steel-gray teeth as he looked behind Jack.

"Hey, Davis. You won't believe this."

A guy with short blond hair, a receding hairline, full lips, and bright blue eyes—he'd been driving the SUV last night—stepped into view. He too did a double take.

"I'll be damned."

Jack didn't get this. They hadn't known it was him.

He glanced around. They'd seated him in a dingy, wide-open space. No natural light through the bricked-over windows. One of his attackers limped back and forth, rubbing his knee. Another had a swollen lip.

"We'll all be damned if we don't figure how he found us." Miller leaned close to Jack and bared his teeth. "But not as damned as this piece of shit."

Jack locked eyes with him. "Ooh, my midi-chlorians are all atwitter."

After the few seconds it took for that to register, Miller made a fist the size of a softball and cocked his arm. Jack steeled himself for the blow. This was going to hurt.

But Davis grabbed his arm.

"The 0 didn't say anything about working him over."

Thank you, 0, whoever you are.

"But he didn't say not to."

He shook off Davis's hand and completed his swing. Jack was ready by then. At the last second he ducked and angled his head toward Miller. The punch landed on the crown of his skull, rattling his brain and vibrating down his spine. Lights flashed in his vision but quickly cleared. Hurt like hell, but Miller hurt worse.

"God damn't"

Jack looked up and saw the big jerk clutching his hand against his chest. Fury lit his eyes as he reared back his leg.

"You lousy son of a—"

"Stop this immediately!"

A new voice. Jack turned and saw a middle-aged man in a long robe gliding toward him. He sported long silvery locks and his face glowed with a beatific expression. Looked like somebody who could have been right at home in the Heaven's Gate pilot seat.

Oh, hell. A cult.

Were any comets due?

"He must not be harmed."

A little late for that. Jack was already hurting—big time. Fire, hotter that ever, blotted out his headache as it raked across his chest. He felt as if he were being branded.

"He's the one we told you about," Davis said. "The guy who interfered with last night's mission."

The guru or whatever he was—the "0" Davis had mentioned?—smiled as if he'd known this all along.

"From what you told me, I don't think 'interfered' is a fair assessment. He did not interfere with the purpose of your mission, which went as planned, did it not? I'm sure he involved himself only out of concern for the child's well-being." He focused his smile on Jack. "Is that not right?"

Jack couldn't have answered if he'd wanted to. This was his first close-up, straight-on look at the guru, and what he saw locked his tongue.

His eyes… all black… not a trace of white… like holes into interstellar space.

He'd seen eyes just like that—or at least thought he had—last year.

What the hell had he got himself into?

"It's all right if you don't answer," the guru said. "I understand that you didn't expect to be hauled in here like a side of beef. I apologize for that, but I saw no other way."

Miller's steel eyes blinked. "You're apologizing to him? You're the Oculus, he's… he's…"

Obviously Miller was at a loss as to who the Oculus—Jack figured that was what the "0" stood for—thought Jack was. He wasn't alone.

The guru never took his black eyes off Jack.

"Nevertheless, Mister Miller, I am apologizing."

Jack didn't know what to make of this guy. The Oculus, whatever that meant, had an imperturbable, celestial air about him. He wasn't just plain old laid-back, he was Dilaudid-with-a-Jack-Daniei's-chaser laid-back.

"Please release him."

As the two behind let go of his arms, Jack decided this guy might not be so bad. The first thing he did was rub his chest where three soldering irons were at work.

"You're going to let him walk?" Davis said.

"If he wishes."

Jack rose. "I wish."

He had to get out of here before his scars burst into flame.

The Oculus raised his hand. "But not until you and I have had a chat."

Jack rubbed his scars again.

"Maybe I'm not in a talking mood."

Miller cocked one of his Belgian-block fists. "I can fix that."

The Oculus was watching Jack, his eight-ball eyes fixed on his chest.

"The scars are burning, aren't they." It wasn't a question.

How did he know about the scars? On other occasions certain people had seemed to be able to look through his shirt and see them, but those folks had been on the wrong side.

What side was the Oculus on?

"We can't let him go," Miller said. "He knows too much. He's found Home. He'll lead others—"

"No, he won't."

Miller's face reddened. "You can guarantee that?"

Not once had the Oculus's gaze shifted from Jack. "Yes. Because you see before you the Heir."

The hush that followed was absolute except for the ticks of water moving through the heating pipes.

Something about the word, its implications, and the uppercase H Jack sensed in the pronunciation, sent a sour chime echoing through his head.

Miller recovered first. "Bullshit!"

"Tradition has it that the Heir will bear the scars of the Otherness when he makes his presence known." The Oculus's black eyes fixed on Jack's. "Show them. Let them see your scars."

Jack shook his head. "I don't think so."

He'd been assessing his position during the blather. Six guys—all yenigeri, he guessed—plus the Oculus formed a rough circle around him. No, wait. One more hovering on the fringe: Zeklos. But he had a suitcase in his hand and didn't look engaged.

How to get out of here…

The Oculus looked like a powder puff, but the others… the way they moved, the way the two who had been holding his arms remained behind him, blocking his way to the door, spoke of training and professionalism.

He could try, but his chances of getting past them and to the street were slim. And then if the door was locked…

"I am not giving an order," the Oculus said, "I am making a request. Please show them your scars."

Jack couldn't read those onyx eyes, but he sensed something in the tone that said, It's important that you do this.

Well, why not? Probably feel good to get some cool air against the heat.

"Okay. Since you put it that way."

He pulled off the Jets jacket and threw it on the chair. He untucked and unbuttoned his flannel shirt but didn't take it off. Instead he pulled up his T-shirt.

Everyone stared. Someone gasped, someone said "Jeez," someone said "Holy shit."

Jack looked down and repressed a gasp of his own. He'd never seen the scars so red.

"Mister Tucci," the Oculus said. "Please dim the lights."

A dark-haired yeniceri walked to the wall next to the door and turned a rheostat. As the overhead lights faded, Jack watched his scars.

They began to glow a dull, ember red. What the—?

He heard Davis say, "I'll… be… damned."

Jack's sentiments exactly. It was this place. Had to be. But what here could cause this?

He heard a sound and looked up to see Zeklos's openmouthed stare. He'd dropped his suitcase.

"Thank you, Mister Tucci," the Oculus said. "That will be fine."

As the lights came up, the glow faded. But the burning remained as strong as before.

Jack pulled down his T-shirt. He went to button up his outer shirt but quit after trying the first button. Didn't want to put his shaking fingers on display.

"Somebody want to tell me what the hell is going on?"

The Oculus smiled. "I shall be more than happy to, Mister…?"

Jack hesitated, then figured what the hell.

"Jack… just Jack."

"Very well, Jack. We shall adjourn to my quarters and—"

"Just a goddamn minute," Miller said. "No way we're going to let him get you alone."

"I have nothing to fear from this man."

"I'm not so sure about that. He waltzes in here—"

Jack had had about enough of Miller. "You call that waltzing? Who taught you to dance—Godzilla?"

Someone snickered. Miller threw a glare past Jack's shoulder, then turned to the Oculus.

"It's our job to keep you safe. And until I'm convinced you're safe with a guy caught sneaking around Home carrying a couple of nines, I'm his Siamese twin."

"I agree," Davis said. "Dangerous enough to allow you alone with him, but Diana's up there too. Too risky."

"Very well. You both may come along if you wish."

Davis nodded. "We wish. But I want to know one thing first: What made those scars?"

The Oculus raised his right hand and raked the air before Jack's chest with his index, middle, and ring fingers.

"A rakosh."

"Oh, come on!" Davis said. "They don't exist."

The Oculus turned to him. "Common knowledge in the outside world says we don't either."

"But I thought they were just bogeymen the Twins made up to scare us when we were kids."

The Twins? The words rocked Jack.

"Oh, they are quite real. Or at least they were." Back to Jack. "Are you responsible for their disappearance?"

"All but one."

Another hush.

Finally the Oculus nodded. "I see. I've sensed one somewhere to the south. And only the man who killed them would know that one still lives." He turned and started walking away to Jack's left. "Come. We'll be more comfortable in my quarters."

"I've got a lot of questions," Jack said.

"And I have the answers… at least most of them."

Jack wanted to hear those answers—maybe he'd finally connected with someone who didn't speak in riddles and non sequiturs—so he followed.

Davis and Miller tagged along.