Blackjack: A Cross Novel Part 17

"These killings, easy enough to say they're all about color, but we both know that's not what's going on."

"We do, huh?"

"You know d.a.m.n well I'm telling the truth. The UBG hasn't got anybody who can walk through walls, and neither does the Brotherhood. It's not lobos, either. There's a hunter loose in this joint, and he's working the place like a wolf turned loose in a corral of sheep. A concrete corral, with chained-up sheep."

"You know who he is?"

"I don't even know what he is ... but he's not one of us."

"He's not white?"

"He's not human. Not anymore, anyway. He's a trophy-taker, and his tribe is keeping score. Under their system, you kill a killer, you get credit for all his kills."

"I'd say you was crazy," Nyati replied, "except I saw some of the bodies myself. What the h.e.l.l they want with spines and skulls anyway?"

"I don't know. It's their mark, the one they always leave behind. Like fang-and-claw marks you see in the jungle. A signature kill."

"How you figure on stopping something like that? Specially in here, with no guns?"

"Guns wouldn't do it. If there's a way, it's gotta be slice, not shoot. But maybe there is a way. I say 'maybe' because the odds don't look good. But to even give us that much of a chance, you gotta work with me."

"I only work with my own kind."

"Look, I'm not doing the 'some of my best friends are black' number, and there's no time for that cred c.r.a.p anyway. If Butch hadn't gotten word to you, why would you be up on this roof right now?

"All you need to know-I guess I should say believe-is that, in this war, I am your own kind. Long as that ... thing's around here, the human race is the only race that counts.

"It's always some kind of 'us against them,' right? Black against white, outlaws against citizens. But there's one thing I learned a long time ago-no warrior is stronger than War. Until whatever that thing is goes down, we're all the same color, just different shades."

"So what are those people-"

"That's just it. They're not 'people' at all. So when I say it's us against them, that's just what I mean."

Cross pulled a pack of cigarettes from his s.h.i.+rt pocket. Without offering a smoke to Nyati, he fired it up, cupping the end with both hands.

"You know why I'm here," he said. "And I know you got that word from people you trust. So do whatever you have to do, talk it over with whoever you need to. Make a decision, and get word to me."

"How?"

"Friday, at noon mess, I'm gonna step into No Man's Land. Alone. If you're with me, you step into it, too. Make sure your men stand down. I'll do the same. And then I'll tell you how we can pull it off. Maybe pull it off. I'll tell you face to face, right there."

Nyati looked at Cross. "You ain't short on b.a.l.l.s, I'll give you that."

Cross slowly turned around and walked away, not looking back. The three black men were deep in conversation as Cross slipped over the rooftop and lowered himself back into his cell.

As he pulled the bars back into their original position and coated the broken spots with a black substance that gave off a faint hissing sound, a long, thin shadow shape-s.h.i.+fted on the roof.

The words "No Man's Land" vibrated. Then, from inside one of the bars Cross had just sealed: "Stay...."

Two corners of torn playing cards trembled in the light breeze: the ace of hearts, and the jack of clubs.

"I THINK you're crazy," Tiger told Cross on Wednesday.

"You saying it won't work?"

"I'm saying we don't know. Nothing like what you're talking about has ever been tried."

"Just because Wanda can't find it in her computers? I've been thinking about everything you told me. Doing time is good for that, thinking about the past. Roman gladiators that don't know how to farm ... Maybe we're dealing with some kind of ... presence. That's the best way I can put it. All these kills, all over the world, for so many years-it can't be some mob doing that."

"Because?"

"Because no gang survives that long without takeover attempts. Maybe there's a palace coup, like there was in Liberia. Maybe it's a street shooting, like outside Stark's Steakhouse in New York. Maybe it's spreading the word that someone's in custody ... and cooperating. A million different ways. And n.o.body's ever tried any of them? Ever?

"And even if any gang could survive for centuries-h.e.l.l, it would have to be a lot longer than that-what's in it for them now, all of a sudden?" Cross continued to answer Tiger's one-word question. "There's never been a ransom demand, never been a warn-off note; they never try to occupy territory. There's no money. There's only this ... slaughter they do. And even that, it just doesn't feel like revenge."

"So what does it feel like?"

Cross held Tiger's dark-amber eyes, speaking very softly. "It feels like pain. It feels like when someone gets killed-I don't mean die of old age, or in combat-I mean ..."

His voice stopped. He breathed slowly through his nose, trying to self-center, knowing he wouldn't get another chance.

"Okay, this may sound crazy to you, but it's all I've got. I'm not sure, but ... maybe when someone gets killed for someone else's fun, maybe their pain doesn't die with them."

"That's nice poetry. What are we supposed to do with it?"

"Look, I don't think it matters where they come from. All we know is that there's certain work they do. And whatever that is, it always ends up in enough spine-ripped hanging corpses to make its own forest."

"So you couldn't get close to-?"

"It's not something I'd want to get close to. But I know something that might take one of them down, keep him nice and quiet until you can come and get him. And I got the perfect d.a.m.n place to do it. Right here. Now, all you have to do is listen," he whispered.

Tiger remained silent for several minutes. Her only response was "Cross ..."

"Can you get it for me? Yes or no?"

"Sure. It's no big deal. We got real small ones now."

"I need three of them."

"Three?! What could you possibly-?"

"Don't worry about it. Just remember: three of them, fast as you can, okay?"

"Okay," Tiger agreed, her eyes sorrowful.

"What're you so sad about?" Cross asked her. "No matter if I'm right or wrong, you'll be outside the blast zone."

"Are all men stupid?" Tiger said. Her face softened for a brief second, then hardened into a warrior's mask.

She turned to leave, then felt Cross's hand on her shoulder.

"What?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure." She shrugged.

"Why does Percy think you're a d.y.k.e?"

"Percy thinks any woman who's not interested in him is such a rare phenomenon that it can only be explained by her being a lesbian. Truth is, I'm bi. What difference could that make?"

"Sure, I get that much. But the blond guy, too. And Wanda-"

"Those two are bloodless robots. But they're not the same kind of robot. I could stick my b.o.o.bs in Blondie's face and he wouldn't even blush. But if I so much as come near Wanda, she gets feelings she doesn't want to have."

"I get it."

"Get what?"

"Why you and Tracker can work with people like them. It's your only way in, isn't it?"

"Until now," Tiger said, and she spun around and walked away, transfixing those watching in the process. Hers was a purposeful move-not a single eye in the room turned toward Cross.

CROSS SAT next to Banner at the mess table. His mouth barely moved, but his body posture was so intense and urgent that other members moved as far away as possible without leaving their posts.

Finally, Cross stood up. Slowly and deliberately, he walked into the traditional No Man's Land of cleared s.p.a.ce between whites and blacks. A guard started to step forward but stopped in his tracks as Nyati arose from his crew's table and moved toward Cross.

The entire mess hall was silent. Dead silent. The guards froze, knowing that if a full-scale race war jumped off in that enclosed s.p.a.ce, they weren't going to make it out alive.

When Cross and Nyati were close enough to b.u.mp noses, Cross started to speak, his words inaudible to all but the leader of the UBG. When he finished, he stepped back an inch.

Then he said, still under his breath, "If you buy it, there's nothing else for me to say. I just told you all I know. For this one, it is us against them. You believe that, then it's the Death House. Bring whatever you want, bring whoever you want. But it's only going to be the five of us doing the actual work. That means we all lose some men."

"All?"

"All," Cross confirmed. "Human body armor isn't going to keep them off for long. If they get to us before we're ready, we're done, too."

"Five? You and me, that leaves three short."

"Ortega and Banner."

"Banner? That n.a.z.i's already been breathing longer than he should. What do we need with two white men?"

"Who's the boss of the Hmongs?"

"Recognized them right away, huh? They a seriously bad bunch, man. But that crew, it's also got Vietnamese, Chinese, j.a.panese ... probably others I don't even know about. And, listen now, in here, they forget all that. They play it like an all-for-one mob. They got no choice. But you can see they really don't like each other any more than they do us."

"It's only the Hmong guy I want."

"Why him?"

"I speak a few words of the language. I can break it down for him."

Nyati stared hard at Cross. And took the same in return. "Okay, man. It's your show. What time?"

"Midnight."

"Done."

"For the race!" Cross shouted. But before anyone on either side could react, Nyati echoed, "For the race!"

Then, to the stunned surprise of all watching, they stood in the middle of No Man's Land, and clasped hands.

MIDNIGHT. THE Death House area was clogged with convicts, still divided along racial lines, but not openly antagonistic toward one another. Frightened would be a better description of their mood, fear was the single unifying factor among them.

Whites, blacks, and Latinos were all there, even a sprinkling of Asians. Everyone was armed with whatever they were able to procure from the broad spectrum of prison-available weapons.

Men just before combat act the same way in prison as they do on any battlefield: some smoke, some pace, some pray. Every man was anxious to get it on, and even more anxious for it to be over.

Cross was standing with Nyati and Ortega, their backs against the gas-chamber wall.

One of the Asians approached, a short, thin man holding what looked like a strip of razor blades on a string. His face could be that of a man anywhere between thirty-five and seventy-five, but his eyes were not those of a young man. Cross pointed to his right, confirming to Nyati that the Asian's appearance was not a surprise.

Banner detached himself from his crew and moved over to where the others were standing.

"Deal me in," he said.

"Just you?" Cross asked.

"Look around, brother. We're all here. But it's got to be me up front. I'm the shot-caller, so this is my place, too. Like you told me, this is for the race. So, whatever goes down, I'm down with it. But I have to go standing up, see?"

Cross nodded. He turned to Ortega. "Your man knows what to do?"

"For this, I am my man, hermano. After you first talked with me, I reached out. What you say, it is true. It has always been true. All the way back to the Aztecs. The Mayans and the Incas. So it is just like you and Nyati called it out. For the race!"

"For the race," Banner echoed, but very quietly.

Each man held up a fist, waist-high. And then they slammed them together in an unmistakable gesture of final unity.

"YOU SURE it's coming, man?" Nyati asked.

"Look around you. If it wants to hunt the real life-takers inside these walls, we're the only game in town."

The Hmong nodded, but said nothing. Then he vanished.

A TINY shadowy blotch materialized within the densely packed men. It thickened and lengthened, gathering ma.s.s. Then it began moving like an anaconda through a swamp. Blood spurted wildly as individual men were torn into random pieces. Their body parts flew through the darkness until they hit the nearest wall, where a stack of ripped-out spines began to pile up.

Some of the men tried to run, others stood their ground, desperately striking blindly at whatever was attacking them.