Back in the desert.
The street was winding and filled with children. They laughed, wrestling, tumbling in the dust, all almond eyes and shining smiles. But beyond them he could hear a noise, a humming, crushing sound, something coming closer. It was death, he knew that, and he yelled, tried to warn them. The children wouldn't listen, none of them would listen, even as it came around the corner, a juggernaut of creaking metal treads and armor plates the color of disease, spitting gouts of flame in a tide of red and yellow. The children played, never looking at the machine drawing closer, this terrible engine that had its own momentum, that ruined everything in its path. Martinez was in the street, too, the children squealing with delight as they climbed on him and over him, and he hummed a single steady note as he stared at Jason, hummed it as the flames reached him, hummed it as fire ate the world, hummed a single droning note like the end of everything.
Then the car hit a bump, bouncing Jason Palmer's head against the window it lay on, and he came to, the hum transformed into the buzz of tires, the vibration of glass against his ear. His eyes opened, bleary, swimming, too wet. The car seat fabric. Headlights through the glass. His hands, in front of him and touching at the wrists.
Voices.
It came back in a flash, and he closed his eyes, head and heart racing. Pain blossomed with consciousness, a throbbing flower with roots unmaking his brain. It was worse with his eyes closed, color and shape playing against the darkness as they passed other cars, nothing to focus on but creeping scarlet pain.
Voices again, from the front. "I'd like to get there tonight, Grandma."
"Don't be an idiot. We can't afford to get pulled over."
"Why not? You could chat with them, you know, bullshit about the job. Pretend you're still a cop."
"Fuck you."
Jason's skull was filled with concrete. He was in a car. Slumped on the right side. The men in front of him were talking. Bickering. His body hurt, every crack and divot in the road ringing up through his temples, and his hands were bound together. Zip-tied, by the feel of it; his hands bloodless and numb. There was something warm leaning against him. Warm and heavy and soft.
He waited for the next set of headlights to pass, then risked opening his eyes a slit.
No.
It was Cruz. He could just make her out in his peripheral vision. Her eyes were closed, but he didn't see any obvious wounds. Whoever had taken him out must have done her just as fast.
Pain had come first. Now anger followed. He cherished the burn, the black powder heat. Owned it, bank up the fire inside. He was going to tear someone's head off. He owed Cruz that much. He could lunge forward, try for the wheel. Or if he could get his arms up and over one of their heads, he could-
Stop.
The voice in his head was familiar, but it wasn't his own.
It was Mikey's.
You aren't clearing a room, rifle in hand and squad at your back. You're dizzy. Unarmed. Your hands are bound. Go easy, little bro. Think. Figure out what you're fighting. I'm depending on you.
Billy is depending on you.
Jason took as deep a breath as he dared. Closed his eyes to focus, then opened them again, looking forward this time. He remembered Billy's description of the men he'd seen murder his father: one big, muscular and balding; one slim and normal-looking, hair black and gray.
Anthony DiRisio sat on the right. Thinning hair and hard jaw, the casual weight of working muscle. An air of cold menace. Calm, cracking jokes as he rode shotgun. The driver more nervous, his fingers tapping the wheel, his shoulders tensed. His hair was black giving way to gray. Galway, Cruz's old partner. A cop gone to murder and worse, but not used to it yet. Not comfortable.
So two. And when he opened the car door he'd seen a third guy, the gunman with the scar across his cheek, the one he'd dumped in the river down by Lower Wacker. He must be in another car.
Through slit eyes he couldn't see much out the window, just the lanes of a highway, some construction barriers. The rain had stopped, but drops on the window spun onrushing headlights into stars. Lonely street lights, and beyond them, trees. They'd left the city behind. Suburban houses still peeked through, but Jason could only assume they were headed out to some quiet rural woodland where two shots in the head wouldn't be heard.
All because of the alderman.
Fucker. He'd played the good man, the JFK Democrat, smart, dedicated, considerate. Talked with conviction about the flaws in the system, the worm in the apple, when all the time he'd been describing himself. Christ, the guy had listened as they parroted his plan back to him.
That was why DiRisio had been there, why he'd been in a tux. It hadn't been for Jason and Cruz at all. He'd been there because he worked for the alderman. He was the fixer, the lethal hand of darkness.
"This is a waste of time," DiRisio said. "Let's just clip them and dump them in the river."
"He wants to talk to them." Galway tapped his fingers on the wheel.
"A washed-out soldier and a cop wanted for murder. Nobody'd miss them." He paused. "Though that partner of yours is a peach. You ever get a taste?"
Galway turned to stare at DiRisio. He had a stern profile, craggy and unblinking, and he didn't look nervous anymore. "You're a piece of shit. You know that?"
DiRisio laughed. "Pots and kettles, my friend."
"I'm a cop. You're not my friend."
"You got that half right."
Jason tuned them out, hearing Galway's words again. He wants to talk to them, the cop said. The alderman wanted them alive for some reason. Which meant they weren't on their way to an execution field after all. So long as they had value, they wouldn't be killed. Questioned, beaten. But not killed.
And so long as they were alive, there was time. Time to get his bearings, time to seize an opportunity.
Time to make them pay.
It was a thin thread of hope, but Jason clung to it as the car rolled into darkness.
Somehow, someway, he would make them pay. Even if it cost his life.
A rich man's neighborhood. Garish houses set back from the road, fronted by wide swathes of rain-black lawn. The mansions were all different styles, English manors to Greek revivals, but they were united in a single characteristic: All were bordered by fences. Some dressed up their intentions with decorative stone, others played honest with spiked metal, but the message was universally clear.
Stay away; the world belongs to us.
They'd been heading north on the Edens, that much he'd been able to catch from a highway marker. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, and hadn't been able to see their exit, but he guessed they were in Kenilworth, maybe Highland Park. Big-money neighborhoods, the kind where you told people you lived there, they whistled soft, wondered privately what you pulled down.
Jason remembered the alderman saying how he had to live in his district. There wasn't a more polar opposite of Crenwood than the street they rolled down. Owens probably owned some piece-of-shit ranch, had his mail delivered there, put the address on election forms.
The hum of the tires slowed, then they turned left into a driveway, smooth blacktop leading to a high stone wall. Headlights splashed across a heavy metal gate. A car pulled in behind them, the light dazzling after the dark. Galway opened his window, punched a button on an intercom. They sat in silence a moment, then the gate swung ponderously open, revealing a curved driveway snaking up to a large house, boxy and bright with glass. The driveway was fifty yards of white gravel that cracked and popped as they rolled. Galway pulled in along the front steps, killed the engine. Jason closed his eyes, lay still. The silence was loud enough to hear his pulse beat in his ears.
"How are they?" It was Galway's voice.
"Fine. Palmer's been awake for awhile."
"You've got to be-" Interior lights flashed on, painting Jason's eyelids pink-orange. He could hear the seat in front of him creak, Galway turning around. "He doesn't look awake to me."
"He is. Right, Jason?"
There didn't seem to be any point in pretending. He opened his eyes to see Galway's cowboy face staring at him over the seatback.
"How did you know?" Galway glanced over.
"His breathing changed." DiRisio spun, a smile beneath his lopsided nose. His gaze was unreadable as a cobra's. "Why don't you go see if he's ready. I'll watch them." For a moment it looked like Galway was going to argue, but then he opened the door and stepped out.
The engine ticked softly in the summer heat.
"So." DiRisio said softly. "Alone at last, right? Just two soldiers." He looked down at Jason's uniform. "The Class A's are a nice touch. I always hated the things, but you look good."
"You killed my brother."
"Yes." DiRisio stared back. "I did."
Jason grit his teeth. Fought to master it. He made himself look out the window. He'd been flexing his fingers slowly ever since he woke up, and the feeling had come back, sharp pins and needles. It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do. He wormed his way upright. Cruz slid off his shoulder, her head rolling to one side. The way she flopped like a doll fed the fire within. Jason flexed his shoulders, feigning stiffness, then brought them down with one elbow resting against the back seat. "I figured a fuck like you would just shoot us, dump us in an alley."
"Now see, that hurts. What did I ever do to you?" DiRisio raised a finger to his temple. "Oh, that's right. I crushed your brother's windpipe and watched him flop to death on a dirty bar floor."
Jason threw himself forward, thrusting off his elbow for leverage, zip-tied hands stabbing forward, fingers out and spread to spear DiRisio's eyes. The big man reacted with startling speed, leaning back, left arm coming up in a wave that caught Jason's attention, something like a block. He started to adjust for it, keeping his momentum going, only somehow now there was a pistol in DiRisio's other hand, the black eye pointing straight at Jason's forehead. Like it had appeared there by magic. Jason checked himself, caught his hands on the back of the seat.
"Easy, Sergeant." DiRisio's finger was inside the trigger guard and gently tensed. "The boss wants to talk to you. Which means I'd just as soon not kill you yet. But you pull something like that again, I might change my mind."
Jason grimaced, then eased himself back.
"Here's something you better understand." DiRisio thumbed the safety and made the SIG vanish. "You've been a pain in the ass. I respect that. But I haven't gotten much sleep the last few days chasing you around, and I don't like fancy parties. So don't irritate me. Because when it comes time for you to go, it can happen fast," he snapped his fingers, "or real damn slow. And not just for you." DiRisio's eyes flicked over Cruz. "We clear?"
Jason turned, looked out the side window. Clenched his jaw. His hands shook, and he concentrated on willing them to stop. On battling the icy spiders climbing his spine and the crackling rage in his belly. Thinking of Mikey, laying on the floor of his bar, eyes bugged and hands desperate at his throat.
"Attaboy. Just sit and hate me real quiet like."
The house door opened, and Galway walked out. The gunman with the scar had been smoking a cigarette on the porch, and flicked it away as Galway joined him. The two men spoke briefly, then Galway strode over and opened the door, his sidearm in his right hand.
"Come on, Palmer. Man wants to see you alone."
"No." He slid his feet under the seat in front of him, tensed his muscles. He could do this much, at least.
"I sound like I was asking?"
"I'm not leaving her with this psycho." He kept his voice calm. "You want to waste me, waste me. But I'm not leaving her alone with him."
Galway sighed. "Jesus Christ."
"Relax, tough guy." DiRisio smiled. "I'll take Palmer in, you see to her."
Galway looked at Jason, who nodded reluctantly. He didn't think Galway would mess with Cruz. Besides, he didn't have much choice. DiRisio opened his door and got out, the car rising on its shocks as his weight left. He opened the rear door, jerked his SIG, and gestured with it.
Jason climbed out of the car, his muscles stiff and screaming. Took a moment to stretch his arms upward. Putting his thoughts in rigid order. Strength and discipline. Whatever lay inside the house for himself, he could take it. Maybe he'd even earned it, mistakes he'd made: Martinez, the Worm, Michael. But Cruz hadn't, and neither had Billy. If the last thing Jason did was save their lives, well, he could die with that.
That was what soldiers did.
"Move."
Jason started up the path. Scarface leered at him, then fell in with DiRisio. The front door to the house was open, framing an inviting foyer painted in creams and tans. Silver-framed mirrors and colorful rugs, a staircase winding up. As he stepped in, Jason risked a glance over his shoulder. The men stood four steps back; out of reach, but too close to miss a shot. Professionals. Jason glared, then continued, the foyer giving way to a high-ceilinged living room. Supple leather chairs, low-slung coffee table, abstract art reflected in pale hardwood floors. A faded red door decorated with Asian characters was set in the far wall, and DiRisio told him to knock.
"Yes." The voice was muffled.
Jason reached for the door handle, willing his body ready, welcoming the old familiar tingle in his fingers. This was as good a spot as any. He visualized the move: open the door, hurl himself through, use the momentum to slam it behind him. It would only hold off DiRisio for a fraction of a second, but that should be enough for Jason to make a play.
Maybe the last of his life.