Hardbingers

12

Jack adjusted his stiff, cold fingers around the field glasses. His eyes burned from staring through the powerful lenses. Davis had brought along a Leica Duovid model. The 12x magnification gave a clear view of the Arabs' unit but the image swam with the slightest movement. He had to rest his elbows on the parapet to steady the binocs.

Six hours of taking turns watching the storage farm and still nothing. The sun had quit early, but the half moon in the cloudless sky gave aid but no comfort. A chill wind had sprung up, ferrying damp salt air from Newark Bay, making surveillance a frosty chore. So much so that they took half-hour shifts on the parapet, with the off pair huddled on the stairwell to keep warm.

At least the cold would keep Shabbir's body from stinking. They'd stowed it under a blanket in the rear of the Suburban. Didn't want the discovery of his earthly remains to spook Allah's henchmen before the feds could catch them.

If not for the cold he might have enjoyed the view. Not for what he could see of Staten Island, but what was around it: the Statue of Liberty and the glow of Lower Manhattan… sans the Trade Towers. Despite the years, Jack still hadn't acclimated to their absence. And here he was, on the lookout for members of the same tribe of shits responsible.

He shook off the rage. That wasn't the way to go now. Anger was a great fuel but also a distraction. No cowboy stuff tonight. They had to do this right.

Jack checked his watch: nine minutes to go before his turn for a warmth break. He rubbed his eyelids, then fitted them back into the eyepieces. He'd become so used to seeing no activity that it took a few seconds for his brain to register the battered sedan pulling into the self-storage lot.

It did two slow circuits under the lights of the empty lot before stopping. A short, swarthy male got out and looked around.

Jack adjusted the focus. This could be it.

After a moment or two the guy started up one of the lanes, but not the one with Shabbir's unit. Jack wasn't ready to give up on him. The guy was playing it smart, moseying around to see if he had company. The unanswered calls to Shabbir had to have shaken up the cell.

Jack watched the guy wander up and down a number of aisles before stopping at the unit in question. More furtive looks around and then he bent over the combination lock. Seconds later he was rolling up the door.

Got him. But only one. Had to be at least four more to account for the six vests.

The guy stepped inside. A flashlight beam flickered on and off a couple of times, then he stepped back out and got on a cell phone.

A minute later three more rust buckets wheeled into the lot.

Had to be them.

Jack trotted over to the door to the stairwell and pulled it open.

"They're here."

Miller was the first out. He grabbed the binocs as he dashed past. Jack and Davis followed him to the parapet.

"Well, well," Miller said, peering through the Leica. "Will you look at this."

"I'd love to," Davis said, "but you're bogarting the glasses."

Miller didn't seem to hear. "We've got four dune monkeys walking toward our deceased friend's bin where a fifth awaits."

"How're they acting?" Davis said.

"Real cautious." Miller lowered the glasses and handed them to Davis, then fished in his pocket. "Time to call the Fibbies."

"Tell them to hurry," Davis said as he peered through the glasses. "We might have to step in if they don't get here in time."

Jack glanced at Miller and watched him hold down a single button on his phone. He'd put the FBI on his speed dialer?

And then Jack realized what was going down.

He reached for Miller's phone. "Miller! No!"

But too late.

The night sky turned to day as a deafening blast shook the building and almost knocked them off their feet.

Jack watched a ball of flame mushroom into the sky, lighting up the whole north shore and Bayonne as well. The self-storage farm looked like Ground Zero. He could feel the heat from here.

Miller grinned into the flames. "Oops."

"You son of a bitch!" Davis shouted.

Jack saw how it had gone down. While he'd been waiting alone Miller had turned on one of the phones, copied down the number, and entered it into his speed dialer.

Jack's shock yielded to fury.

"Do you have any idea how many innocent people you just killed, you bastard?"

Miller shrugged. "Maybe a couple, maybe none. It's Sunday night on Staten Island's North Shore. Think about that."

"Even one is too many."

In the fire's glow Miller's expression was serene. "Hey, we're making a world-saving omelet here, know what I mean? You gotta step back and see the big picture. You can't do that, you don't deserve to be the Sentinel."

Davis bared his teeth. "You shit!"

Jack wanted to take Miller's head off.

"You just vaporized five assets that could have been squeezed for intelligence—could have led to more creeps like them. Might even have given up info on Wrath of Allah."

"What's with you and this Wrath of Allah? That's like the third or fourth time you've brought them up. You got some kind of hard-on for them?"

Jack wasn't about to explain. He didn't owe Miller anything.

"You remind me of them—killing noncombatants for what they think is a higher cause."

Miller sneered. "Now I know you're not the Heir. You're too much of a pantywaist to be the Sentinel."

Jack stepped closer to Miller. Davis grabbed his arm.

"Don't. That's just what he's looking for."

Jack shook him off. Miller's opinions meant nothing to him.

"I'm cool." He stopped a foot or two before Miller and looked up into his flat gray eyes. "Tell me something, Miller. You've said a couple of times that you thought the Heir should come from the yeniceri, right?"

"Yeah."

"Let me guess which one of the yeniceri you think it should be. You?"

Miller's expression lost some of its bravado. "Maybe."

"Okay, Miller. Tell you what: You can have it. I don't want it. It's yours. I now officially declare you the Heir."

Miller looked even less sure of himself. "It doesn't work that way."

"Really? Okay, then, here's a deal: Find a way to transfer it from me to you and it's yours. No strings. How's that sound?"

Miller's mouth worked but he had nothing to say. He looked flummoxed, as if he couldn't conceive of anyone not wanting to be the Sentinel. Pretty obvious he hadn't expected anyone to offer it to him.

"My only reservation about giving it to you is I worry you'll be worse than the Adversary."

Miller telegraphed his move by a shift in his gaze and a tightening of his lips. Jack ducked the roundhouse right and kicked him in the left knee. Like kicking a concrete pillar.

"Hey-hey-hey!" Davis said, jumping between them. "Maybe there's a time and a place for this, but it's not here! We're done. Let's get back Home."

Jack eyed Miller and Miller glared back. Davis was right. Not the time or the place. Jack wondered if there was any right time or place to face this behemoth. His bulk made him slow, but it also made him hard to hurt.

But not impossible.

Jack noticed with some satisfaction that he showed a trace of a limp as they took the stairs down from the roof.