They met outside of Walt Harris' restaurant, a smart and trendy establishment, medium-sized, in an up market part of the city center. He corrected himself. It had once been smart. The huge, plate glass window at the front had been replaced with a crude sheet of plywood to cover the damage caused when the stolen car had rammed it. Harris must have been keeping an eye out for them, for he rushed outside to greet them and shook hands. He nodded at the plywood.
"Since they did that, I've lost three quarters of my business. I mean, who'd want to come to a restaurant that looks like it belongs in a shantytown? Come on in, and we'll go through to my office and talk."
They followed him through the almost empty restaurant. He noticed as they pushed their way through, the murmur of voices ceased, as the diners and staff looked to see what new trouble had arrived. They went through into the office. Harris sat behind his desk, and Taylor and Wes looked on as the restaurant owner dragged out sheets of paper. He tossed them on his desk, contemptuously.
"Look at this! Every one of these has arrived in the last few weeks from my suppliers. They're cutting off my lines of credit, and the damned finance company is calling in my loans. The word’s out on the street. I'm finished. I've no doubt that bastard Babayev is behind it, and it's part of his plan to get me out."
Wes leaned forward. "Walt, I don't get it. What's so important about this place that they need to get their hands on it so desperately? I mean there must be dozens of eating-houses around here that want to sell. In the middle of a recession, half these places must be going out of business, why not buy them?"
Harris nodded. "Ordinarily, you'd be right, but come with me. I'll show you something."
He stood up and went back out of the office, and they followed him up a wide staircase. When they reached the top, what faced them was a vast, empty space. He turned to them.
"I always intended to use this to expand, but we never quite got there. This part of the building is zoned for use as a nightclub. That's mighty rare around here, some kind of an anomaly. They wouldn't be able to get the city council to agree it now. But as it is, it's worth a huge amount of money for its development potential alone. These gangsters always seem to home in on nightclubs like bears to a honeypot. If somebody invests the right amount of money in this place, it would be worth millions. There would be spin-offs too, there always is. Illegal gambling, prostitution, drugs, you name it. If the right people get hold of this place," he grimaced and shook his head. "No, that's wrong. If the wrong people get hold of this place, they could turn it into a cash machine. The Uzbeks are new to this area, and they want to build up fast. Once they turn this place into a nightclub, they could attract lowlifes from miles around. A lot of people have made offers over the years, and I've turned them all down, but if I don't get these gangsters off my back, they’ll break me."
Wes looked at Taylor and raised his eyebrows. "I reckon it's time we paid these guys a visit."
"Do you think you can persuade them to stop?" Walt asked.
Neither man answered for a few moments, and the restaurant owner took off his eyeglasses, checked them out in the light and put them back on. Then he did it again. His face was perspiring, and it was obvious he was terrified both for his family and his livelihood.
"I reckon we'll call and see them tomorrow morning. Is that okay with you, Wes?"
The big man nodded. "Walt needs to get back to running his business instead of trying to cope with these thugs. We'll do our best."
The man saw them out of the restaurant, stuttering his thanks, and simultaneously glancing at those few tables that were occupied to ensure his few remaining clients had everything they wanted.
"I'd say 1000 hours would be a good time to go see our Muslim friend," Wes murmured.
Taylor was surprised he hadn't realized it before. Of course, the Uzbeks were Muslims, and often joined the Al Qaeda and Taliban attacks in Afghanistan. Like Islamists everywhere, when they weren't slaughtering each other, they gleefully fell on Western troops like packs of rabid dogs. He nodded.
"I'll meet you there."
He parked in the street behind Kate Donovan's apartment block and walked around to the front. He had more than the restaurant owner's problems on his mind. His limp was getting worse, and he felt as if everyone he passed in the street was staring at him and labeling him ' cripple'.
And the pain!
It was starting to tear through him in waves, a nightmarish attack from within that he was finding it increasingly impossible to deal with. Every ten seconds, his body told him, 'go find a dealer and take some of the blessed Oxy. You'll be fine'. But his brain told him, 'only until the next time. Until you become an addict'. So far, his brain was ahead on points, but only just.
Will Kate have a bottle of Bourbon in her apartment, or maybe two?
She'd heard him coming and was waiting at the door. He saw her face fall. The etched lines of pain must have been obvious on his face, in his expression. Almost like cracks in an unrestored old master painting.
"You look like a man who could use a drink."
"Forget a drink, a bottle would be more like it."
She grimaced. "That bad, eh? Maybe I can offer something even better."
Before he could answer, she put her arms around him and pulled him to her. The kiss was long and deeply passionate. She began to guide him toward the couch in the living room, and with their lips still clamped together, gently eased him down so he was lying on his back.
"Kate, that drink…"
"Schh..."
She began to undress, slowly and sensuously. He was staggered. She could be very sexy on occasion, but this time, she put on a real show. He kept his face neutral, but he was smiling inwardly.
She could have made a fortune on the stage as a stripper. Best not to mention that.
With a last flick, she tossed away her bra and panties and stood in front of him, naked and magnificent. Her body was perfectly proportioned, her skin firm and smooth, her face a mix of innocence and lust. He briefly wondered how she could do that, but she wasn't about to give him time to think. He went to say something, but she put her finger on his lips.
So that’s the way she wants to play it, fair enough.
She removed his clothes, item-by-item, button-by-button, and he allowed her to pull off his pants and shorts so that he too was naked. Then the real show began.
She licked him all over, every part of his body so that his brain was in a frenzy. In front of him, he could see his cock like a hard, rigid pole, and when her warm tongue flicked around it, he almost erupted. Still without speaking, her head moved up to his body, her tongue continuing to torment him with its light, moist movements.
"Kate, I can't…"
"I know."
She lowered herself onto him, and he almost felt the top of his head lift off as his penis entered her moist warmth and she began working her hips. When he tried to help, she stopped him and moved his hands away.
"No, this is my treat. Just lay back and enjoy yourself."
"But you…"
"Oh, believe me, I'm in heaven."
Her body gyrated gently over his, and it was everything he could do to prevent himself from climaxing early. She pulled his head to her breasts, one by one, and forced the nipples inside his mouth so that he was able to lick and tease them. He heard her moan, and he reached up to hold her ass and pull her down onto him, closer, tighter. And then he couldn't hold back. He bucked his hips in and out, responding to her movements and for long minutes they fucked like there was no tomorrow. Then they came, both of them, together, reaching the dizzy heights of joy that are only very rarely experienced, and only by two people who know each other and their bodies deeply and intimately. Afterward, he held her tight to him, and they both enjoyed the warmth and closeness of post-coital bliss.
"That was wonderful," he finally said to her.
"For me too. Did it help? The pain, I mean."
He chuckled. "You know, I'd clean forgotten. So yeah, I guess it did. I could still do with that drink, but I guess I'll manage without the bottle."
They sat drinking in contented silence. Everything they needed to say to each other, they'd said, only in a more physical way. It was an evening such as he hadn't enjoyed in a long time until the pain started again. He started drinking more heavily. Doc failed to show.
I’ll look him up in the morning, but I feel a sense of betrayal. Doesn't the guy know how desperately I need him? Yes, of course he does. Which means something has gone wrong.
He had a deep sense of foreboding, and he'd already sunk three doubles. Every few minutes, Kate eyed the falling level in the bottle with dismay. He felt as if she was making a protest against his drinking habits, albeit a silent one.
Maybe she has a point.
When he spoke, he knew it wasn't him talking. It was the booze.
"What is it? Can't a guy take a drink?"
She wouldn't rise to the argument.
"Is it bad again, so soon?"
So soon after they'd made love in such a wonderful and satisfying way. After the wonderful gift she'd given him when he arrived.
"It's pretty bad. I went to see Doc earlier, but he couldn't help me. Not right now, anyway."
Her eyes flared with alarm. "What's happened to him? Is he in trouble?"
"Yeah, you could say that."
He explained to her about Hermann's problems and the attempt to take over his work.
"If they take him into the military or one of their projects, he won't be able to help me with the legs. They could classify his work, which would mean I’ll lose pretty well everything. "
She looked puzzled. "I don't understand. Why would they do something like that? I mean, what could he offer the military?"
"Plenty. On the surface, they'd be interested in helping casualties like me, men who have lost limbs in action. But I don't think that'd be their priority. What they want, their Holy Grail is the perfect soldier. Someone who can go into battle, and when he's injured by bombs and bullets, they can pull him back, repair him, and send him back in."
She shook her head in disbelief. "That's astonishing! I can hardly believe it."
"You'd better believe it. Besides, when I got shot up a few months back, isn't that exactly what Hermann did? Repaired the damage to my prosthetic limbs?"
She was silent for a few moments, trying to comprehend the enormity of what he said. "It sounds like a remake of 'Frankenstein'."
He smiled. "Hermann would go that far. He'd do anything to assist battlefield casualties who've lost limbs. But if they wanted him for the other thing, helping them develop some kind of super fighting machine, no way."
"He may not have a choice," she observed quietly.
"He'll have a choice. We all do." He stared at her. "I'd have to make a choice."
She stared at him as his meaning became clear, and her eyes looked moist. "You're not serious? Is this why you've been so cold to me lately? Because you think everything may come to an end if Hermann can't help out?"
"You deserve better, Kate. Not a fucking cripple."
"Isn’t it up to me to decide what I deserve? Damnit, Jack, why can't you show me some affection? What are you, a fucking robot?"
The moment she finished speaking, she flushed bright red as she realized what she’d just said to a man with two artificial legs. She started to apologize, but he cut her off.
"Yeah, a fucking robot. Isn't that what I am?"
He jumped to his feet and strode through the door, wincing as a knifelike pain shot through him. The whiskey had helped but only a bit. He turned back to Kate.
"I'll let you know how it goes with Walt. We're seeing Babayev in the morning."
"Jack, don't go. Please stay the night."
"You want to share your bed with a fucking robot?"
He stormed to the door and then it happened. One moment he was walking, and the next he'd collapsed in her hallway. She ran to help and pulled him through to her living room. It was one of the worst moments of his life.
Maybe now she'll see what I mean.
"Jack, how can I help? What happened?"
He had a good idea. Lately, the code embedded in the control circuits had acquired some kind of a glitch. He didn't know why, only that it was essential for Hermann to sort through the bugs and reset the software, but Hermann hadn't showed. What was more important to him was getting out of her apartment as fast as possible. Of all the people in the world he would have shown weakness to, she was the very last one.
"It's okay. I can handle it."
He went through the reset procedure Hermann had shown him after he'd installed a tiny panel just behind his knee. He had to lie on the floor for almost a half-hour while the system went through its complicated diagnostics and rebooted. For all that time, he was as helpless as a newborn babe. Or a paraplegic, which until Hermann fixed up the new legs, was what he had been. Kate watched him in silence. She understood and respected his need for privacy. At one stage, she asked him if he wanted her to switch on the television while he waited. He gave her a one-word reply.
"No."
He saw her eyes close in pain at his surly reply, but after that, she sat and waited in silence. Finally, he experienced the familiar sensation as his limbs began to come online, and then the tightening of the artificial muscles that told him they were ready, until the next time. He got to his feet, muttered a brisk, ‘thanks’, and left the apartment. He took the stairs two at a time, oblivious to the jolts of agony that stabbed into him with every step. He walked out into the night and stood for a few moments to recover.
"You're not planning to drive in that condition?"
He looked around fast. It was a cop's voice.
How the hell did the officer know what I planned?
And then it became clear.
"Brad! What brings you out here?"
Detective Brad Stutz, one of Boston's finest, and a cop who’d helped him before when he was up against a violent Muslim businessman who was busy ripping off local citizens, some of them wounded vets like himself. Stutz had proved himself on that occasion to be a brave and resourceful cop, and prided himself on his total honesty.
"I saw the car, Taylor, so I thought you'd be here. I need to talk to you."
"What's up?"
"We had a complaint at the Department from a Walt Harris, about a guy named Babayev. He owns several businesses here in Boston. The complainant accused Babayev of threats, murder, violence, racketeering, and some serious shit. One of our guys talked to Babayev. Naturally, he denied everything." His eyes rolled. "The complaint found its way to my desk, and I went and talked to Mr. Harris. He said he'd spoken to you and Wes, so I thought I'd have a word and see what's going on. I don't want you turning the city into Beirut, like the last time."
Taylor smiled, remembering the epic battle they'd had with the property magnate, culminating in the destruction of an entire office block and the death of a crooked cop.
"It's nothing like that. We haven't even spoken to this guy Babayev, not yet."
"I take it you plan on visiting him?"
"Yeah."
"Let me know what goes down when you see him. Can you give me a call?"
Taylor shook his head to clear the alcohol. It was like some kind of a jigsaw puzzle set out in front of him, and he felt if he hadn't had that final shot, he would have been able to see where the final piece fit.
"What aren't you telling me, Brad? What's this guy done?"
Stutz sighed. "We're not certain yet. The signs are he's planning to use the same kind of methods the Islamic terrorists use, to take over chunks of the fair city of Boston, both legal and illegal. Shootings, bombings, assassinations, you name it. He's into property, drugs, protection rackets, anything that'll make a buck."
"It sounds serious."
"It could cause a heap of trouble. We don't want a war breaking out on our streets."
"No, we sure don't."
"Look, Taylor, this is real important. Any clues you get, give me a call. We want this mother stopped in his tracks before his one-man crime wave gets out of hand. By the way, buddy, you need a ride home?" Before Taylor could answer, he continued. "My car is along the street. Walk with me and I'll take you home. You try driving and I'll have to book you."
Stutz kept it friendly with a smile. Taylor wanted to argue, but he knew the detective was right. He had enough problems on his plate already. He didn't want a DUI charge added to them. He followed Stutz and then climbed into his unmarked car, a dented Ford Explorer that looked in need of new paintwork. Apart from the doors, and they'd both been recently painted. Stutz seemed to read his mind. He spoke to Taylor as he drove.
"It's departmental policy. They're making do with older vehicles to try and balance the budget."
"They should consider a spray job. The paintwork's faded. I can see the original Boston PD logo starting to show through."
The detective smiled and nodded. "I'll have a word with them. And you'll let me know how it goes with Babayev?"
He pulled up outside the apartment block. Taylor climbed out and stuck his head back inside the vehicle. "Thanks, Brad. I'll keep you in the loop."
"Yeah."
He took the stairs up to his apartment, wincing as he put each foot down on the hard concrete. He finally reached his floor and went in. There was a message in his head, a voice telling him to make the right decision. Get hold of some Oxy before it was too late, before the agony of his missing limbs became too much to bear, and he opted for the ultimate pain relief. In his case, it came in a 9mm size. He knew he was finished and resolved to locate his dealer in the morning.
If Doc can't help me, I have to do something. Something drastic.
* * *
The following morning he woke up late. When he swung his legs out of the bed, the daggers of pain attacked him as soon as his feet touched the floor. He recalled the previous night. There were some things he had to do before he met Wes. He called the former Seal on his cell.
"Wes? There's something I need to do before I meet you. I need the afternoon. Can we rearrange for 2100 hours?"
A pause. "You okay? Is there any I can do, Boss?"
"Nothing, I'm fine. I'll see you tonight at Babayev's place."
He ended the call and checked the time. It was already almost ten, so it was as well he'd rearranged the meet. He showered and dressed, cursing as he recalled the Camaro was still parked in the street behind Kate's apartment block. He knew he wouldn't make it on foot, so he called a cab and swallowed a cup of hot strong coffee and a handful of Tylenol while he was waiting. The driver took him to Kate's apartment block and stopped next to his car. He climbed into the driving seat of his sixties classic and started the motor.
There isn't much better in life than a 428 cubic inch V8 engine that runs even better than when it was new, except a beautiful woman like Kate. I've screwed things up there, and I don't know if there's any going back. I can't saddle her with a partner in a wheelchair. Where the fuck is Doc? As soon as I'm fixed up, I'll try and locate him.
He drove direct to Paris Street and braked to a halt adjacent to the park. It had been a few months since he'd been there to buy drugs, and to his relief he could see Derek waiting in the center of the park, sitting on a bench. Every few seconds he looked around warily, in case cops were watching him. Taylor smiled.
He should have saved his time. His raddled, wasted face and expensive but garish street-cred clothes are like a brand. He can only be a small-time drug dealer, or possibly an actor playing one, and there sure as hell aren't any movie cameras in evidence.
Parked on the other side of the park, tucked under a leafy tree, he could see the big, black expensive SUV. Quint's car, the personal wheels of the big black dealer who ran a good-size chunk of Boston's drug business. He locked the car and walked over to Derek. The recognition was immediate.
"Hey, man, long time no see. You fixed up with another dealer?"
He shook his head. "I've been clean."
The man grinned, and Taylor stepped back from the halitosis blasting out from the yellowed teeth. It almost made him vomit. Derek was no friend of the Boston dentists.
"Now you're back. You never last long, you guys."
"No. I need some Oxy. You good?"
The rotting multi-hued teeth widened as he nodded. "For you, my man, anything."
They completed the transaction, and just before he walked away, Taylor saw Quint coming toward him. He was built like a bodybuilder, moving chunk of solid oak. And yet for all of the dirty business he was involved in, he had his own code of ethics, kind of.
"Taylor, you're back. Didn't it work out?"
He almost smiled.
The idea that a dealer is concerned at a client's addiction is risible.
"Not entirely. How’re you doing?"
Quint ignored him. "You're in trouble, what's up?"
He laughed. "Hey, what are you, my psychologist?"
The big man grinned. "No, but you ex-military guys, Special Forces and all, I reckon you deserve a break. And it looks to me as if you haven't been getting it."
"Why the sudden concern, Quint?"
His face changed, and he looked angry. "I ain't concerned. What the fuck do you mean by that?” But his anger receded almost as quickly as it came, and the smile returned. "Okay, forget I said that. It's my brother, my younger brother. He signed up for Special Forces."
"Navy Seals?"
He nodded. "Yeah, U.S. Navy. He's doing the BUD/S training, right now. Stupid kid, I told him not to, but he said it was his life's ambition."
"They're a good outfit. I hope he stays safe."
Quint looked down at Taylor’s legs, his prosthetic legs. He nodded slowly. "Yeah, me too."
Afterward, he sat in his car and swallowed six of the tablets. Then he drove to the parking garage. He left the car with Chuck and walked home. As soon as he was inside, he powdered more of the Oxy and diluted it. He injected the solution direct into a vein, immediately the familiar, warm sensation came over him, and he dropped into a peaceful, pain-free sleep.
When he awoke, it was already the middle of the evening and with a start he realized he'd lost more than half of the day. He remembered his dream, his nightmare, but it was no nightmare. It had happened. The last time he’d been in Afghanistan, the explosion, the realization he’d lost both his legs. The agony, the searing pain that always hammered at him, day and night; the specter that would never leave him, the specter of the man behind it. He was still alive; still killing and maiming American troops. Ismail Masood. He climbed out of bed and stood under a stinging, ice cold shower for fifteen minutes, to wash away the sleep and the nightmare. Then he dressed ready to go out, but before he met Wes, there was something he needed to do. He had an appointment with a gangster, which meant taking basic precautions. He left the house and walked to the parking garage. Chuck, the attendant, nodded a friendly greeting as he strolled past him. He reached his parking space, started the engine of the Camaro, and reversed it until he could see the checker plate iron cover that protected the inspection pit. He used his keys on the padlocks, swung the heavy hatch open, and walked down into the pit.
It hadn’t seen a vehicle mechanic in many years. He used it as a storage facility for his weapons collection. Acquired from around the world during scores of missions, the hardware reflected the varied theaters of war he’d operated in. Soviet supplied weaponry, from Makarov pistols to AK-47s and its big brother, the RPK light machine gun. Even RPGs and land mines, all courtesy of the Russians, supplied to their third world allies, and passed on to Taylor when their owners had no further use for them.
In fact, their former owners had no further use for anything, he reflected.
The last thing they’d seen before departing the earth was Taylor’s assault rifle, the wrong end of his assault rifle. He also had a selection of American and European weapons, Colts pistols, M-16s, Belgian FN 7.62mm and a couple of HK410s. He’d come for two weapons, his Sig Sauer P226, the 9mm pistol chosen by most Special Forces for its reliability and stopping power. And after a short hesitation, an M203 single shot 40mm grenade launcher. He knew Walt would be carrying, and these days he opted for a lightweight Glock 17, but if they needed to make a point, the launcher had a way of catching people’s attention. He stashed the launcher in the trunk, tucked the Sig into his waistband, and relocked the steel hatch. Then he checked his watch. He just had time to grab something to eat before his meeting with Wes. As he climbed into the Camaro, he felt another twinge.
Christ, the Oxy is wearing off already! Should I take more? No, it’ll just slow me up. It doesn’t hurt, Taylor. There is no pain. It’s just an illusion.
He drove away and felt more pain, hacking and stabbing at him. It was no illusion.
Where the fuck are you, Doc? I need you, man.
* * *
Wes was waiting outside the Uzbek’s restaurant, and they both took a good look up and down the street. It was a habit they’d both gotten into and not easily forgotten. The man you failed to spot was always the one who was waiting to put a bullet in your back when you weren’t looking. The eatery couldn't have been more different from Walt Harris' stylish establishment. The exterior was luxurious, and yet the overall effect was more like a second-rate Las Vegas casino; too much plastic, too many bright lights, and a heavily muscled thug standing outside the door. He had the build of a super-heavyweight wrestler, and Taylor noticed the faint bulge under his coat, which meant he was carrying.
Interesting. What’s he guarding the place from? Food critics?
He stopped them as they went to open the door.
"You have a reservation?"
"We're here to see Mr. Babayev," Wes replied.
The man shook his head. "Is not possible. Not without appointment. You come back."
Taylor felt better, for the worst of the pain had disappeared. All he wanted was to see this through while the good time lasted, before he needed the next fix.
Christ, already, am I some kind of junky?
He put that thought away and concentrated his charm on the doorman. "Friend, it really is important we speak to your boss. Do us all a favor. Tell him we’re here. He’ll want to talk to us."
The big man stood back, his arms folded as he stared at them with his best effort at an evil glare. Taylor and Wes took it to be a tip that the guy wasn't a pro. Why people forewarned a potential opponent you were about to get violent was beyond them, or maybe it was the Special Forces training that had made them sneaky? Taylor nodded, and Wes stepped toward him and to the right. The big guy went to block him and bunched a huge fist ready to swing, just as Taylor moved to the left and rammed a rock hard fist into his kidneys. As he went down with a shout of agony, Wes finished the doorman with a hard left into his solar plexus. Then he knelt down next to the fallen giant.
"You don't look well, pal. You just take a rest. Sit there while we go talk to your boss." He looked at Taylor and grinned. "The old one-two, it never fails."
“Let's find Babayev before the sleeping giant awakes."
When they entered the restaurant, it was obvious why the Uzbek wanted to take over a better business. Although he wouldn't have problems like violence, such as he'd inflicted on Walt’s place, it was clear that either his food or his service, probably both, left a lot to be desired. There were only two tables with diners, and none of them looked especially happy. A man they assumed was the headwaiter approached them. In fact, he was the only waiter.
"Do you have a reservation, Gentlemen?"
Yeah, like you’re so crowded tonight, and you’re not sure you can find us a table.
"We're here to speak to your boss, Babayev."
The man shook his head, smiled, and started to speak, but Wes interrupted him.
"While we have a chat with Babayev, you'd better help your buddy outside. He's sick."
The man's confident expression drained away. He hesitated for a few moments, and then rushed outside. They continued threading their way past empty tables, and at the rear found a door marked ‘Manager’. Taylor turned the handle, opened it, and they went in. An older man, with the swarthy complexion they remembered so well from Afghanistan, was sitting behind a huge desk. It was covered in pieces of paper and junk, as well as a huge pistol, which looked as if he used it as a paperweight, among other things. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, and although seated, his body dwarfed the large desk, and there was little doubt he'd be pretty big when he stood up. He was broad-shouldered and muscular, with a face as hard as rock. He suddenly got to his feet, and Taylor realized the guy must have topped out at around six feet three. He wore a well-fitting suit, although very outdated. The kind of thing old time Soviet politicians used to wear, all money, too many yards of cloth, and a total absence of good taste. His clean-shaven but swarthy face had two fine parallel scars, which tracked down his left cheek from under his eye to below his chin. Babayev wore his black hair shoulder length, swept straight back and held down with some kind of hair oil. The overall effect was of an old-time Soviet gangster. The kind of men who’d morphed into the Russian Mafiya after the fall of communism.
He regarded them without expression for a few moments, looking them up and down with his small, piercing black eyes. They were like polished gemstones. Then his thick, sensuous lips parted in a smile, revealing badly discolored teeth, although some had expensive gold fillings. The half smile seemed fixed in place. When he spoke, it didn't alter, as if he’d had a course of Botox injections, but this guy would never need Botox, his face was already as solid as granite.
"What do you want?"
Before he answered, Taylor spared a glance for the second man in the room, without doubt another Uzbek, not as tall as Babayev but from the same mold. A tough, hard man, and unlike his boss was covered in tattoos. They were on his cheeks, his neck, and his hands. Probably all over his body as well. Taylor had seen them before. They were prison tattoos. The kind of thing Russian criminals used to identify themselves in the old days of the Soviet Union when they'd ruled Uzbekistan. When communism ended, they were taken up by the Mafiya as a means of recognizing each other. The guy was too young to have known the communists, so he was almost certainly Mafiya, likely by way of Spetsnaz, the Russian Special Forces known for their cruelty and brutality. Surprisingly, he was blonde, and his hair cropped short. Dyed most likely. His eyebrows were jet black, so it was obvious his attempt to look cool had misfired. But they didn’t laugh. He looked tough enough, and Taylor knew Wes would have noticed the same qualities in the man. It was the stamp of the military elite, unmistakable in anyone who'd been there, done that, and got the T-shirt. Taylor tore his gaze from the younger man and stared at his boss.
"We want you to leave Walt Harris alone, Babayev. This is just a friendly piece of advice. Leave him alone, or you'll find you're not the only ones that can deal out the pain."
The big Uzbek laughed. "What is this? I haven't done anything to Walt Harris." He shook his head. “I cannot believe you come here and threaten me over such a small matter.” When he stared back at Taylor, his gaze was cruel. “Unless of course you have some evidence?” Then he shook his head and belly laughed. “No, of course not. If you had anything, you would have gone to the police. I'm a businessman, doing my best to earn a modest living. It is true, I would like to buy his restaurant, but that is all. Just a business transaction, nothing more.”
Taylor noticed his laugh didn’t reach his eyes.
"Forget the bullshit and leave Walt be," Wes snarled. "Maybe you don't realize it, but things work differently here in Boston. You’re not in fucking Uzbekistan now, Toto."
The big man's eyebrows rose, as he tried and failed to work out the meaning. He shook his head. "You've been checking up on me, yes?"
"We always check up on the scumbags, Babayev. You never know when that kind of knowledge can come in useful."
And then his fuse finally ran down. The big man's calmness deserted him, and his entire posture changed. He leaned forward, his expression menacing, and tapped Wes on the chest.
"You think you can come here and threaten me?" He looked Wes up and down. "I've met people like you, in Afghanistan, when we crossed over to help our Muslim brothers. What were you? Marines?"
"We’re just guys that can cause you a world of hurt if you fuck with Walt Harris."
Babayev shook his head at Wes’ stubbornness. "You don't understand. During the Soviet occupation of my country, we took on and defeated the KGB when they tried to eliminate our resistance movement. Then we crossed over the border and helped the Mujahedeen in their fight, which ended badly for the Russians. Are you any better?"
Wes didn't move. He was still as a rock. "We've kicked some KGB ass, yeah."
Babayev stared at him for a moment, then pressed an intercom button on his desk. “Kobe, Hasan, get in here.”
Almost instantly, the door opened, and two men hustled into the office, more Uzbeks, without a doubt. They were almost clones of Babayev's tattooed bodyguard, who still stood implacably behind his boss. The new men were big, confident, and their prison tats were evidence of a life spent in pursuit of activities that were less than lawful.
"These men are annoying me," Babayev said quietly. "Toss them out."
The man nearest to Taylor rushed at him with arms outstretched, seeing the smaller, slighter white man as easy prey. Before the hands seized him, Taylor delivered a precise kick into his groin, and the guy tumbled to the floor, whimpering in agony. He watched while Wes dealt with his opponent. The man was more cautious, as he was up against someone who was built like a chunk of black granite. Obviously, some kind of a martial arts proponent, he stood off and delivered a blistering series of strikes, which Wes seemed hard pressed to block. The Uzbek grinned and pressed his attack forward. This time, Wes simply sidestepped and delivered a stunning right cross, catching the man on the point of his chin. He went straight down, unconscious. Babayev's bodyguard recovered fast, and his hand flashed inside his coat. When it came out, he was holding a large pistol. Without warning, he opened fire. Wes grunted in surprise as one of the rounds ripped through the side of his body, but both former Seals were no strangers to gunplay. They snatched out their own pistols, Wes' Glock and Taylor's Sig and returned the fire. Their training hadn't included any lessons in shooting to wound. Neither had there been any prizes for aiming wide. Each man fired a single shot. Wes' round hit the man's guts with a meaty 'smack', and the second shot from Taylor drilled through his nose. It was so fast, he didn't have time to register surprise, and when he toppled back, his dead expression was still an angry snarl. From long experience, Wes whirled to cover the door, and Taylor aimed the barrel of his Sig at Babayev. The explosions of gunfire had been deafening in the small space, and the room stank of spent powder. Yet the Uzbek still sat calmly behind his desk, making no move for his own gun, which Taylor knew would be within easy reach.
"So. You think you can come here and do this, and get away with it?" His stare was icy, and Taylor had no doubt that for many of his victims, this would have been the last thing they saw before the final bullet. "You come near my place again, and you'll need a machine gun to defend yourselves. That man you killed, I can have twenty more like him inside ten minutes," he snapped his fingers, to make the point. "So I advise you to get out now while you still have your lives."
Wes turned back from the door. "That was a taster, Babayev. Stay away from Walt Harris. You go near him, and it'll be bad for your health."
He nodded to the body stretched out on the floor, just in case the man was in any doubt, but he made no reply. Wes nodded to Taylor. They were done.
When they went through the restaurant, the few diners they'd seen on the way in had disappeared. The headwaiter had dragged the doorman inside and was helping him to a glass of water. Both men shot them venomous glances as they walked past, but they were able to walk outside into the night air without any problem.
"Maybe we'd better get out of here before he calls up that army he talked about," Wes murmured. "You heading to the Law Center in the morning?"
"Sure, there may be some fallout from what went down here tonight, so we'd better be ready to handle it."
"What about Kate? You know you're breaking her heart?"
"I know, but I’ve got problems, Wes. The legs are not so good, and Doc Hermann has done a disappearing act on me. The last thing I want is to saddle her with a drug addict cripple."
Wes shot him a glance. "You back on that shit again?"
"That's my business, Wes."
"And seeing the best friend I have in the world slowly killing himself, while he's destroying the second best friend I have in the world, is my business! You’ve got to get help, Boss. It's the only way."
"Maybe so, but there's only one man in the world can help me, and he's got his own problems."
"Surely he can fix up to see you. He can't be that busy."
He explained how van Rhoos had caught the eye of the Pentagon, and they would stop at nothing until they took over his research. "It's not only that, Wes. He did fix up to look at my legs, but he didn't turn up. He's disappeared."
"Disappeared? He can't just disappear! He must have gone somewhere. Damn, that's a problem. And there's no one else can do it?"
He shook his head. "No, Hermann is a genius, and there are not too many of those kicking around."
"In that case, Boss, we have to find him. Where do we start?"
"I'll try calling him…"
The ring of his cell interrupted him.
"Taylor."
"Jack!" The voice was a whisper, but it was one he knew well. Hermann van Rhoos!
"Doc! I just said to Wes I'd call you…"
"I'm in trouble, Jack! They came for me."
His voice was still a whisper, a frightened whisper.
"Who came for you? Where are you, Doc?"
"I…" The line went dead.
"Doc! Doc!" Nothing.
Wes was watching him with a quizzical expression on his face. "What is it? What's wrong?"
He didn't answer for a few moments, as he tried to make sense of the call.
Who’s taken him? I’ve a good idea. The power and might of the US military has a long reach, and if they invoke all kinds of arcane national security clauses, they can always find a reason to take anyone.
He explained it all to Wes.
"What are we going to do? We have to find Hermann. Without him, you're truly fucked."
"Yeah, I know, but I owe him everything, and he sounded like a guy needing help desperately."
"So why don't we go to his lab in the morning, and see if we can pick up any clues?"
"We?"
"We," Wes affirmed. "That's the way it is, Boss. Since the old days, you know the rules. We look after each other. Besides, when I needed help, you were there for me. Did you think I would be any different?"
Taylor nodded. "Appreciated. I'll be there at 0900."
"Roger that. And don't forget what I said about Kate. You're wrong about her. You need to give things a chance. Why don't you go and see her now?"
"It's pretty late."
Wes snorted. "You think that'll make a difference? Just go see her, and we'll meet up in the morning."
As he drove away, he called Kate. She was obviously still awake and answered his call within two rings.
“It’s me. I thought I might drop in, if it’s okay.”
"Jack! I’d love you to come over. I'll put some coffee on."
He smiled to himself. It was an instinctive response when you anticipated welcoming a drunk to your home, but he couldn't blame her.
After all, when I was there last night, I was pretty wrecked.
He parked around the back, walked to her block, and ran up the stairs. He used his key to open the door and went in. Kate wasn’t waiting for him, which was unusual. Then he found her in the living room, slumped in an armchair, red-eyed, and weeping. He ran to her.
“Kate, what is it? What’s wrong?”
She looked up at him. “It’s Walt Harris, you know, the restaurant owner. His wife just called me. He’s dead.”
“Dead! What happened?”
“She says it looked like a robbery gone wrong. He walked out the back of the restaurant to put out some trash, and somebody shot him dead. When the staff heard shots, they ran outside, but he was dead when they got to him.”
In that moment, he knew what had happened.
Babayev! The Uzbek is behaving as if he’s back in his own country, the Uzbek way, the Muslim way. Kill. If someone crosses you, if a neighbor looks like an obstacle to what you want, kill him. They kill each other, Shiites kill Sunnis, and Sunnis kill Shiites. Afghans killed Uzbeks and vice-versa. And they kill any foreigner who dares set foot in their country to attempt to alleviate the poverty and disease.
“I’m sorry, Kate. It’s my fault. I understated those bastards. I’d forgotten what they were like.”
“It’s not your fault. You didn’t pull the trigger.”
"Neither was I there to stop the man who did."
He felt like crap. He knew he'd let the restaurant owner down badly.
I should have done something, should have anticipated what the Uzbek would do next. Christ knows I’ve seen enough of those crazies in Afghanistan.
He heard Kate say something.
"What's that? I'm sorry, I missed it."
"I said Walt Harris' wife wants to see you and Wes. She knows you were trying to help him, and she doesn't blame you for what that animal did to her husband."
"Now? It's pretty late. What did she want to talk about?"
"Why don't you call up Wes and get him to meet us there. I'm coming with you."
He phoned his partner, and they agreed to meet at the house of Harris’ widow in an hour. When he ended the call, he sat and thought about where he'd gone wrong.
The only thing we could have done that we didn't was to shoot Babayev, and that would have been murder.
Wasn't that what they did in Afghanistan? Waste the bad guys so they wouldn't go around shooting the good guys? But over there it was a war, and in war, you have to push the envelope. Out in the Afghan countryside, there was no law. Except the law of the gun, just like it had been in the US before the new towns and cities were tamed. Here in Boston, that kind of killing would be labeled as murder. In a war zone, they'd call it by some fancy name, like, 'pre-emptive strike', or 'sanitizing an area to make it safe for the locals'. But the end result was the same. Shoot the bad guys, so they wouldn't kill the good guys. The problem was that the very people he'd hunted and killed in Afghanistan were now coming to the US. They had little or no respect for the rule of law, only a determination to kill anyone who stood in the way of their ambitions, whether they were financial or religious. How could they cope with the influx? Either American citizens would become the whipping boys for the crazies who increasingly infested the United States like rabid rats, or they'd have to start shooting first, the way they did in the Old West.
No, it isn't right, and it sure isn't legal. But if someone has a solution to the problem of people like Babayev, I’d sure like to hear it. So would a whole heap of other people, without a doubt.
"It's time to go."
He looked up. He'd been lost in a world of his thoughts. Trekking across the barren wastes of Afghanistan, tired, thirsty, hungry, and aching. The weapons and equipment seemed to weigh a ton, and underneath his camas, flak jacket, and a Kevlar helmet, the sweat was pouring down his body in torrents. Yet he and his men knew for a fact they were doing the right thing, by hunting down and killing the bad guys. And when those same bad guys entered the US, someone needed to take a good long look at the rulebook and maybe tear it up. Until that time, there'd be men like him and Wes, and goodhearted women like Kate Donovan, paying late-night visits to the widows of honest men who'd been shot down, murdered in cold blood by scum like Babayev.
As he drove out to the Harris residence, he suddenly remembered Doc Hermann. He had to locate him and find out what was behind that weird call. He'd remind Wes they were going to his lab in the morning and look for clues about his disappearance. And then he remembered that other call, from Ned Ryan.
What did Ned want? Nothing good, that’s for sure. I’ll soon find out. Ryan’s the kind of guy that when he set his sights on something, he keeps going until he gets it. He'll call, and soon.