We stream from the tunnels at dawn, 378 Snakes, seven Cobras and me, their Sapa Inca, Paucar Wami. In a wave we break across the east, the members of each phalanx slotting into his or her designated position, their orders clear, the Cobras of all seven triumvirates in constant communication with their underlings and me. The villacs spent the past several hours preparing me for the role of field commander, talking me through maps, schedules, statistics, lines of assault and defense. This is their battle—they’ve primed the Snakes, set the targets, issued instructions—but once we’re out of the tunnels, I’m in command. I have to accept responsibility in the field, react to turns in the fighting as I see fit, lead by example. The Cobras will be on hand to advise me but the priests will remain underground.
Ama’s by my side, as are the sixteen men and two women of the first phalanx of the first triumvirate—my personal bodyguard. They’ve been trained to serve the Sapa Inca and they take their job very seriously. Apparently it’s a great honor and only the cream of the crop are elected to the first of the first.
The primary targets are the gangs who’ve been roaming freely, falling on anyone who gets in their way. The phalanxes move on the weary members and put them out of action, wounding or frightening off when they can, killing only when necessary.
We set up in a van outside an abandoned police station and await word from our troops on the streets. Early reports are positive—most gangs break under attack. A few strike back but are swiftly crushed. Within an hour the streets have been cleared of predators. Time for phase two.
Nine of the phalanxes group into their triumvirates and link up, forming a core force of 158 Snakes (four died in the fighting) and three Cobras. They congregate in Cockerel Square, the heart of the east. Several gangs have used the Square prior to our takeover, so it’s stocked with supplies and weapons. The Snakes set about barricading the entrances and booby-trapping the surrounding buildings. The Square will provide pissed-off enemies with a fortress to target and storm. We’ll let them exhaust themselves on it. Those inside will repel as many as they can, for as long as they can, while a fourth triumvirate lies low outside, waiting for word to move in and break up assailants from the rear.
The eight remaining phalanxes go wherever the action takes them, patrolling, breaking up fights, quelling riots, guarding shops and banks, cracking down on looters. They have orders to be kind to women and children, keep the peace, stop the destruction of property, use force sparingly. Most are local kids, eager to protect their friends and loved ones. They’ll become the public face of the Snakes—four of my aides are busy contacting news crews to arrange interviews. We’ll make it clear we’re not to be taken lightly, but we’ll also insist that the innocent have nothing to fear. We’re here to help, not conquer. We’re the solution, not the problem. At least that’s the media line.
As word reaches me that Cockerel Square has been successfully taken, and that the first reporters are being shepherded through the blockades, I pass control of the van to one of my bodyguards and step outside to clear my head and prepare for the long day ahead. Ama follows. “Think you’ll cope?” she asks.
“It’ll be a miracle if I do,” I laugh. “I’m not cut out to be a general.”
“You’re doing fine.” She leads me aside, out of earshot of three young Snakes standing guard. “Have you thought this through? You’re getting in deep.”
“This is the only way I can stop the riots.”
“Maybe you should let them run their course. Do you think things will be better with these guys in charge? They’re imposing martial law. What happens when order is restored? The Snakes plan to control everything, who comes and goes, who owns what and whom. You’re handing them the east.”
“That’s one way of looking at it. I prefer to think I’m saving lives.”
“Perhaps you are,” she mutters. “I just wish there was some other way. I don’t want to see this city under the thumb of the villacs.”
“That won’t happen,” I promise.
“You can stop it?” she challenges me.
“Somehow, some way… yes. I haven’t figured it out, but I’m working on it. In the meantime I’ll do their bidding and let them think they’ve whipped me. It’ll all come out OK in the end.” Trying to sound like I mean it, not just to convince Ama, but myself as well.
By Friday evening the east is ours. The expected siege on Cockerel Square never materialized, and although a few ragged bands made hit-and-run attacks, they were easily repelled, without the loss of a single life. Two of the triumvirates pulled out last night and joined the others on patrol, leaving three phalanxes to hold the Square and propagate the myth that it’s our official base.
To my surprise, people have accepted us, freely offering support and assistance. I suppose any relief from the riots is welcome, and after all, many of the Snakes are known to them—friends, neighbors, relatives. They believe we’re their own. They don’t know about the scheming villacs. Maybe they wouldn’t care if they did. A drowning man rarely stops to query one who extends a saving hand.
Even more surprising is the eagerness of the gangs to flock to our cause. For decades the east has been a mishmash of divided loyalties, gangs resisting the temptation to merge. Even Ferdinand Dorak was unable to bond them. The gangs here feared and respected him, and paid their dues, but they never united behind him. He could crush any gang he liked, but another would always spring up in its place, and he was never able to bring the disparate bands together.
That time-honored standard, which has dictated the way of life here for sixty or seventy years, changed overnight. As soon as the Snakes set about spreading the word—that we’re powerful, that we plan to be to the east what the Troops are to the rest of the city, that we’ll fight off the likes of Eugene Davern and his Kluxers—gangs made a beeline for Cockerel Square to offer their allegiance. Ama thinks it’s rooted in fear of the Kluxers, the Troops and Stuart Jordan’s forces. The east is under threat and she believes the gangs have decided it’s time to fight as one, at least until the threat has passed.
I suspect the villacs have more to do with the mood swing. I remember Dorak boasting to Capac Raimi about how he created Ayuamarcan leaders and sent them among his foes with orders to bend them to his will. Maybe fresh Ayuamarcans are at work in the east, and some of the gang leaders have only recently come into being with the sole purpose of persuading their followers to heed the call of Paucar Wami and his Snakes.
Whatever their motivation, I welcome the new arrivals warmly, dropping in on the Snakes in Cockerel Square every few hours to make speeches (hesitant at first, but I get the hang of it quickly), promising a new future where those of the east stand among the city’s elite. They cheer wildly, keeping any worries they may harbor to themselves.
I’ve become a highly visible figure, putting myself about, touching base with all the phalanxes, handing out essentials to the needy at food and clothes stations, scowling at the cameras (Paucar Wami doesn’t smile), vowing to build from the roots up and lead the east into a new, glorious era. I haven’t given any interviews, but eventually I will, making the final transition from mythical killer to public man of the people.
It felt surreal at first, but it’s amazing how swiftly you can adapt. I’ve been head of the Snakes for less than forty-eight hours but feel like I’ve been doing this for years. I should be alarmed at how naturally I’ve settled into the role of leader, and how that plays into the villacs’ hands, but I don’t have time. Being in command leaves you with little opportunity to brood about problems of your own. You have to put your head down and get on with it, and somewhere in the middle of all the decision-making you lose your desire and ability to think about yourself—which may be exactly what the blind priests planned.
A spokesman for Stuart Jordan calls at eight, hoping to arrange a meeting, and after that it’s nonstop, one flunky after another, promising the world if the leader of the Snakes will meet with the police commissioner in an attempt to put an end to the violence. What Jordan really wants is to jump on the bandwagon and take credit for the cease-fire. We stall him diplomatically and promise to get back to him soon. In fact we’ve no intention of having anything to do with Jordan. His days are numbered—someone must be held accountable for the riots, and Jordan’s as suitable a patsy as any—so we’re holding out for the new man.
While desperate officials jam the lines, I take to the streets for the carnival that is gearing into life. Now that it’s relatively safe, people want to celebrate. They’ve survived the worst outbreak of violence in forty years and witnessed the birth of a new era, where those of the east boast an armed force of their own and need no longer walk in fear of the Troops or any other force. Party time!
The street parties burn far into the night, and it seems as if everyone in the east is dancing in the middle of the roads, lighting bonfires in open squares—carefully supervised, unlike the wild fires of the riots—setting off fireworks, drinking and eating too much, making love in cars and on rooftops. The Snakes blend in with the revelers, accepting their thanks with polite smiles, refusing alcohol, drugs and other gifts, alert to the threat of a sneak raid by the Troops, Kluxers or police.
Ama slips away as the festivities are hitting full swing, to be with her “father.” She promises to return in the morning but I tell her not to bother. “Tired of me already, Sapa Inca?” she asks, eyes twinkling.
“The great and mighty Paucar Wami has no time for pleasures of the flesh,” I grunt pompously, then grin. “Come if you want, but there isn’t much you can do. If you’d rather spend time with Cafran, I’ll understand.”
She nods. “I’d like that. It’s hard work running an army. If you’re sure you can stumble along without me…”
“I’ll manage somehow.”
She kisses me quickly. I want to make something more of the kiss, but keep my hands by my sides. “Take care, Al,” she says. “The coup’s gone like a dream but you’re bound to hit a glitch somewhere. Don’t trust any of these bastards.”
“I won’t.”
“Keep me in touch with what’s going on, and call when you need me.”
“You think I can’t get by on my own?”
“You’re a man,” she chuckles. “Of course you can’t.”
I laugh, watching her go, wishing I could keep her.
I run into the glitch quicker than Ama could have anticipated. In the early hours of Saturday I grab some much-needed sleep. I’m stiff when I wake and spend twenty minutes exercising on the floor beside my bed, limbering up. After checking with my Cobras—all’s well—I indulge in a leisurely breakfast. After that I take to the streets with my bodyguards. Many who left at the height of the riots are returning and I ensure they don’t feel threatened. I also arrange meetings with some of the looters who’ve been stripping shops and apartments bare, and ask them to return the goods they stole. I don’t come down heavy—I have to keep these people on my side—merely ask that they consider the long-term profits over short-term, and vow to bear it in mind if they do me this favor. Most cooperate, and by afternoon news cameras are focusing on the incredible sight of thieves returning their plunder to its rightful owners.
It’s evening when the glitch hits. I’m watching a news program, enjoying the positive coverage, when the anchorman cuts in with a report of violence in the center of the city. Although it hasn’t been confirmed, it appears that several of the Snakes attacked a group of diners leaving a restaurant, killing eight people. At least three of the eight were Kluxers.
As my brain races, a radio reporter makes an excited announcement—the lobby of Party Central has been firebombed by the Snakes. The death toll hasn’t been established, but several Troops perished, along with a number of civilians.
“Sard!” I bellow, startling the Snakes in the van. Sard’s a Cobra. Although they’re not supposed to reveal their names, I made them tell me, so I could address them directly without having to remember and repeat their triumvirate numbers all the time. Sard responds to my call immediately, poking his head into the van. “What the fuck are the Snakes doing at Party Central?” I roar.
“Sapa Inca?” he frowns.
“I just heard on the radio that we’ve attacked Party Central. And there was a report on TV that we’re killing Kluxers too.”
“But Sapa Inca, you authorized the strikes.”
My eyes narrow. “Get out,” I snarl at the Snakes. They obey without question, clearing the way for Sard. I tell him to close the door, then grab him by the lapels of his leather jacket and jerk him forward. “When did I tell you?”
“Early this morning, before dawn.”
While I was sleeping. The priests must have sent the real Paucar Wami to issue fresh orders to the Cobras. Those sons of…
“What did I say?” I growl.
“You sent the phalanxes of the fourth triumvirate to take the battle to our enemies,” Sard answers proudly. “I’m not sure what their targets were—only the Cobra of the fourth knows that—but you said we’d hit fast and hard, where it hurt, and warned us to be ready for a backlash.”
“Did anybody question the logic of attacking the two most powerful forces in the city at the same time?” I bark. “We haven’t even consolidated our position here!”
The Cobra shrugs. “You’re the Sapa Inca. We don’t question your orders.”
“Brainless fucking…” I mutter vile curses beneath my breath, but they won’t change anything, so I snap out of my rage and consider this mess from a cold, unemotional standpoint. “Recall them,” I tell Sard. “I was mistaken. The thrill of victory rushed to my head. I want them back before they do more damage.”
“I can’t,” Sard says, staring at me oddly. “You told them to leave their radios and phones behind. They’re incommunicado.”
“Fuck!” I kick a stand stacked high with TV sets, then kick it again, smashing the glass of the set lowest down. “Find them. Send your men and…”
I stop when I see him shaking his head. “I don’t know where they are. We could search, but those of the fourth have been trained to lie low and cover their tracks, the same as the rest of us. The odds—”
“Screw the odds. Take a phalanx, split it into pairs, and hunt them down. Look everywhere. Don’t stop to draw breath. When your men flag, replace them.”
“As you wish, Sapa Inca,” he says, bowing his head.
“Sard!” I shout as he backs toward the exit. “Will you do me a favor?”
“Of course, Sapa Inca.”
“Start using your brain.” He blinks uncomprehendingly. “I’m not a god. I’m prone to error like everyone else. The next time I issue an order that makes no sense, that strikes you as the dumbest fucking thing you’ve ever heard, tell me.”
“But we’ve been taught that to question the Sapa Inca is to invite death.”
“Are you afraid of death?” I ask quietly.
The Cobra snaps erect. “No, Sapa Inca!”
“Then use your initiative in future. Tell the other Cobras to do the same. I need people to challenge me when I make a bad call. Are you prepared to risk my wrath, even at the cost of your life?”
He nods solidly. “I am.”
I smile fleetingly, then point to the door. “Now go find those fools and pray they haven’t fucked everything up for the rest of us.”
As evening turns to night, reports of attacks by the Snakes increase. The three phalanxes are covering a lot of ground, hitting Tasso’s and Davern’s forces at random. Suddenly the news crews don’t care about thieves returning stolen goods. They want to know why the Snakes have overshot their boundaries, where we’ll hit next. In the space of a few hours we’ve gone from being saviors of the east to would-be conquerors of the north, south and west. And nobody likes it.
I tell my media-friendly front men to issue blanket denials—we know nothing of the attacks, they’re the work of a splinter organization, we don’t condone them—then get busy trying to prevent the catastrophe poised to engulf us.
I send messengers to track down the villacs, so that I can talk about this with them, but the few who speak English can’t be located and the others merely babble meaninglessly in response to my call for answers.
As the airwaves fill with the news that a highly ranked Troop was butchered at home, along with his wife, three kids and visiting mother-in-law (comics will have a field day with that in the coming weeks), I dial Ford Tasso’s number and hope that he’s still in Party Central, not on his way over in a retaliatory strike.
The phone clicks and Tasso snarls before I have a chance to say anything. “You better have a great fucking explanation for this, Algiers.”
“It isn’t my doing.”
“You lead the Snakes, don’t you?”
“They’re following Paucar Wami’s instructions, not mine. The first I knew of this was when the story broke on TV. I’m doing all I can to call them off.”
“What do you expect me to do in the meantime? Sit here, twiddle my thumbs and wait for you to sort this shit out? Do you know how many people I have urging me to stamp you out like the arrogant little upstart you are?”
“I can imagine,” I chuckle humorlessly.
“I’ve held them off because I wanted to check with you first, make sure you weren’t being set up by some sneaky bastards disguised as Snakes.”
“I’m definitely being set up,” I groan, “but by sneaky bastards on the inside. The priests are behind this. I don’t know what they’re up to, but they seem to want you and Davern to attack the east—which should be reason enough not to.”
He sighs heavily. “You’re asking a lot.”
“I know. But if you send the Troops in, you’ll play into the villacs’ hands. Stall your men. Give me time. Please.”
He’s silent for five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Finally, “I want to send someone to discuss this with you.”
“Who?”
“Frank.”
“When can he be here?”
“He’s in the field. It’ll be midnight before he’s back. By the time I brief him… How does three a.m. sound?”
“Perfect. Send him in by Blesster Street. I’ll have an escort waiting.”
“You’d better,” he growls, hanging up.
I dial the number Eugene Davern gave me. He answers on the second ring with a curt “Yeah?”
“It’s Al Jeery. I want to talk.”
“The time for talking’s past. You had your chance. I’ve got nothing to say except see you on the street, nigger.”
“Don’t be a fuckhead!” I snap. “Negotiate with me now and we might walk away from this stronger than ever. Cut me off and we’re both going down.”
He pauses suspiciously. “What are you talking about?”
“All I want is to make my home turf safe. I have no wish to go to war with you or the Troops. Even if I did, would I start one while I’m still trying to secure the east?”
“You might,” he mutters. “Nobody was expecting an attack.”
“Because it’s suicide. The bastards behind this only want chaos. They don’t give a fuck about any of us. I’m meeting a representative of Ford Tasso’s at three a.m. Send one of your men along. I’ll have him met at Blesster Street. Hear what I have to say. Hold your forces in check until then.”
“I don’t know…”
“A few hours, Davern, that’s all I’m asking.”
He considers. Davern’s new to this game, not as seasoned as Tasso. He’s smart but itchy, afraid of being made the fall guy. He could swing either way.
“OK,” he says abruptly. “I’ll send Wornton—if you can win him around, you’ll earn a fucking cease-fire. Otherwise…”
I hang up before he can change his mind, dial Sard’s number and discover he’s had no luck tracking down the rogue Snakes. I tell him to keep trying and suggest detailing another two phalanxes to the search. He advises against it—the fewer people we send, the less conspicuous they’ll be. I bow to his assessment—a leader has to trust his aides—then sit back and chew my fingernails, counting off the seconds of the most nerve-racking hours of my life.
Hyde Wornton arrives first, wearing his trademark white fur coat, blond hair as immaculately combed as before. He casts an eye around the deserted police station I’ve appropriated for the meeting, taking in the charred rafters and gaping holes in the roof. “Don’t think much of your choice of HQ,” he sneers.
“It’s as good a place as any.” I nod to one of three chairs I’ve laid out in a triangle. He ignores me and eyes the exposed rafters suspiciously.
“You’re sure we’re safe?” he asks.
“You’ve no enemies here,” I tell him—a ludicrous lie that brings a smile to his lips.
“I should live to see the day,” he chortles, but relaxes and takes a chair. “Who are we waiting for?” he asks, digging out a knife to pare his nails.
“Frank Weld.”
He whistles. “Should be interesting.” Checks his watch. “I left two of my men at Blesster Street. If they haven’t heard from me by five, they’ll call Eugene and—”
“All I’m waiting for is Frank. It wouldn’t be polite to start without him.”
Wornton lapses into silence and concentrates on his nails. He’s less nervous than I am, which irritates me, but I can’t help it. I’m playing a new game, in which maybe hundreds of lives are at stake. Wornton cares only about himself, as I used to. I’ve let myself start to worry about others, which is a weakness I must hide from Wornton and Frank. They seize on weaknesses, like sharks.
Frank turns up at 03:21, drawn and ill-tempered. He stops in the doorway when he spies Hyde Wornton. “What the fuck’s he doing here?” he bellows.
“The Snakes attacked Davern’s men too,” I explain. “I need to clear the air with him as well.”
Frank glares at Wornton, who smiles back innocently, then levels his gaze on me. “I thought this was supposed to be one on one. I have no intention of discussing private affairs in front of that son of a bitch.”
“Watch your mouth,” Wornton snarls. “It’s not just niggers we string up.”
Frank laughs monotonously. “That’s the sort of scum you hope to strike a deal with?”
“I don’t like it, but I’d rather talk with him than fight him. If you want, I can see you one at a time, but I’ve got the same thing to say to both of you. It’d be a lot quicker if I took you together.”
Frank hovers uncertainly.
“For fuck’s sake, sit!” Wornton snaps. “The nigger’s right—if we don’t talk today, we’ll be at war tomorrow. I’ll face that if I have to, but I’d rather not.”
“OK.” Frank takes the third chair, moving it a couple of feet farther away from Wornton. “Impress me, Al.”
“First I want to make one thing clear.” I gaze steadily at Hyde Wornton. “Call me a nigger again and I’ll gut you, regardless of the consequences.”
Wornton opens his mouth to jeer, sees the real intent in my eyes, and closes it. “Touchy, aren’t you?” he pouts.
I face Frank. “Fifty-five Snakes are responsible for the attacks. They’ve been sent on a hit-and-run mission by the real Paucar Wami. I’m assuming he was put up to it by—”
“Hold on,” Wornton interrupts. “What do you mean, the real Paucar Wami?”
“You know I borrowed the name, that there was a serial killer before me?”
“I heard stories but I never believed them.”
“Believe. Paucar Wami was real and is real again. The villacs used him to lead the Snakes. I stepped in on the understanding that I was to replace him, but he’s still hanging around. He’s to blame for this mess. I had nothing to do with it.”
“This is bullshit,” Wornton growls. “How can this other fucker give orders if you’re in charge?”
“I’m not in charge,” I sigh. “Paucar Wami is. The Snakes rally to the image of the assassin. I’ve assumed his image, so to that extent I control them, but since the real Wami looks just like me, he can obviously step in when I’m not around and issue conflicting orders.”
Wornton raises an eyebrow at Frank. “You buying any of this shit?”
Frank nods slowly. “Ford explained some of the situation to me before sending me over. I can’t say I understand it all, but he’s telling the truth about Wami.”
“So why isn’t the other guy here?” Wornton asks. “If he’s the real leader, why aren’t we talking to him instead of this pretender?”
“Paucar Wami doesn’t talk,” I answer softly. “He kills. To most intents and purposes, I control the Snakes. I’m the one who can get us out of this mess. Strike a deal with me and I’ll do all in my power to call off the renegades. But if you charge in, I’ll be helpless. You’ll give the villacs what they want—a war—and regardless of who wins, we’ll all suffer.”
Frank clears his throat. “What guarantee can you make? If we hold off, how do we know the priests won’t use the real Paucar Wami to send more Snakes to attack us?”
“I can’t make any guarantees,” I tell them honestly. “I’ll do all I can to curtail the Snakes but I could fail. If I do, the city goes to war and it will be horrendous. But if I’m not given a chance, we’re definitely screwed. It will be a war of the villacs’ choosing and they’re the only ones who’ll profit in the end.”
Frank lets out a long, uneasy breath and shakes his head thoughtfully. Wornton eyes him, smirking, then studies his nails as if they’re of far more importance to him than this meeting.
“The longer we wait,” Frank says, “the stronger the Snakes will get. If we’re to attack, it should be now.”
“The Snakes shouldn’t have hit you until they’d established a stronghold in the east,” I counter. “The normal rules don’t apply here.”
“What do you think?” Frank growls at Wornton. “Or do you plan to sit there all night, paring your nails?”
Wornton puts his knife away. “I never trusted a colored man before, but this one’s different. He wants to keep the blacks in the east, which is what we want too. Our reasons are different, but as long as our aims are the same, that’s what matters. Eugene has final say, but I’ll advise him to leave things be, at least for a couple of days. If Jeery can prove he’s in control, fine. If not…”
“Frank?” I ask.
“I don’t want to wait,” he mutters, then sighs. “But if the Kluxers are willing to hold back, I’ll discuss it with Ford. I can’t make any promises, but I think he’ll grant you a stay of execution.”
I let my head fall back and smile at the sky through the holes in the roof. I’ve done it! I’m not out of the woods—the Snakes have to be recalled, and I have to think of a way to stop others from obeying the orders of my father—but I have time to play with. I can go on from here and…
The self-congratulation dies prematurely as I spy a shadowy figure on the rafters. It’s too dark to be sure, but my gut tells me instantly who it is, and I guess what he’s here for.
“No!” I scream, leaping to my feet and whipping out my .45. Before I can target him, he drops and knocks the gun from my hand. He rolls away from me and rises smoothly. Turns and grins, his luminous green eyes sparkling with twisted delight. I dive after him as Frank and Wornton struggle to their feet. He waits for me to close and throws a lazy punch. I ignore the fist—not enough power to harm me—but then his fingers fly apart and dirt sprays from his hand, into my eyes.
While I’m momentarily blinded, the real Paucar Wami kicks me in the stomach and I crash backward. I’m up again a mere four or five seconds later, but that’s an eternity to a killer of my father’s caliber.
He takes Wornton first. The Kluxer has slipped out his knife and jabs at the assassin, keeping his cool, using his free hand to grab his chair by a leg, using it as a shield. Wami kicks the chair from Wornton’s hand, leaving himself open to attack on his left. Wornton seizes the bait and drives his knife at Wami’s heart. Wami shimmies, grabs Wornton’s forearm and rams an elbow into the Kluxer’s jaw, thrusting his head back, snapping his neck, dropping him to the floor, where he groans, alive but helpless.
Frank has drawn a gun, which he fires several times in quick succession, opting for volume over accuracy. Wami rolls across the floor, inches ahead of the bullets. Frank carries on shooting, getting closer each time. I wipe dirt from my eyes and start forward, scrabbling after my .45. Then Frank stops firing. I assume he’s out of ammunition, until his arm drops to his side and his pistol falls to the floor.
“Frank?” I pause, eyes flicking between my friend and my father, who’s come to a rest. “Frank, are you…?”
He turns slowly and the handle of the knife sticking out of his chest comes into view. “Al?” he says dully. “I think the fucker’s killed me.”
I stare at him, appalled. The fingers that were holding the gun rise and clasp the knife. He starts to pull it out, grimaces, drops to his knees. “Killed me,” he whispers, then collapses—dead.
I stumble across the room, ease Frank’s fingers off the knife and press them to my chest, as though I can extend my heartbeat to his and bring him back to life. “Sorry, Frank,” I mumble. “I didn’t mean for it to end like this.”
I’m dimly aware of Wami working on Hyde Wornton, finishing him off. Out of the corner of my eye I see him rip out the Kluxer’s tongue with his bare fingers. Wearily I turn away.
I don’t think about revenge. It’d be pointless. Even on the off chance that I got the better of my father, what good would it achieve? Weld and Wornton are dead. Any hopes of a peaceful outcome have been shattered. This means war, bitter and bloody, and neither Tasso nor Eugene Davern will stop until all the Snakes—me included—are dead.
Wami concludes his business with Wornton and stands, wiping his hands clean. “I would have liked to work on him longer,” he says, “but time is of the essence.”
“You bastard,” I hiss, not looking at him. “Frank was my friend.”
“That is why I killed him quickly. I am always thinking of you, Al m’boy.”
I close Frank’s eyes, extract the knife and lay his hands over the hole in his chest, covering it discreetly. “You’ve pushed me too far this time. What makes you think I won’t fight to the death?”
“Actually, I think you might,” he answers. “Part of me thrills at the prospect. It has been many years since I tested myself against a worthy opponent. But the priests would surely destroy me if I won, and I am not ready for my final demise. So many countries to visit, so many people to kill. I hope you have enough sense not to force the issue, but if you attack, I will meet your challenge fairly.”
“Tell me why you did it.” My fingers are tight on the handle of the knife.
“The villacs told me to. The final part of our bargain. I am free now, to leave and torment the good people of the world as I please.”
“But why? What’s in this for them? They want to control the city. How can they if chaos is raging and their Snakes are annihilated?”
“The Snakes will not be harmed,” Wami chuckles. “You are clever, Al m’boy, but not clued in. The priests wish to run the whole of the city, not just the east. They must create an army greater than the Troops and the Kluxers. That could not happen if the Snakes remained in the east—it would merely lead to a three-way standoff. Now that their lieutenants have been slaughtered, Tasso and Davern will send in their forces for revenge, but the Snakes will disappear. The priests will lead them underground, leaving only the common folk for the invaders to attack.”
“They’ll take it out on them,” I mutter, seeing it now. “They’ll kill hundreds of gang members and any others who get in their way. But that won’t be enough, so they’ll wage war on each other.”
Wami nods smugly. “The titans will meet on the field of battle and fight to the death. The Troops will probably win, but their losses will be great. As they try to recover—”
“—The Snakes will reemerge,” I cut in. “Recruit new members from among the embittered survivors of the east. Maybe forge alliances with allies of Davern, men prepared to go to any lengths to get even with the Troops.”
Wami smiles. “You take a while to catch on but move quickly once you do.”
“Those whoresons,” I growl, thinking of the villacs. “They don’t care about all the people who’ll die.”
“Of course not,” Wami laughs. “Nor should you. Life is a game, and humans are the pieces on the board. That has always been your failing—you were never able to separate yourself from the common cattle. It holds you back, Al m’boy.”
Wami claps loudly, startling me. “I would love to stay and shoot the breeze, but the world calls. I do not know what the priests plan for you, but I imagine they are not finished. You might want to consider hitting the road with your dear ol’ pappy. In the unlikely event that the villacs do not ruin you, there will be many eager to string you up.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“As you wish.”
My father crouches, leaps, grabs hold of a low-hanging rafter and pulls himself up. “Wait!” I call before he vanishes forever into the night. There’s an itching at the back of my skull. I don’t know what it means, but I’ve got a feeling this isn’t as done-and-dusted as Wami believes. “Why are you in such a rush to leave?”
“The priests do not want me hanging around. They were clear on that point.”
“All the more reason to stay.”
“I do not want to anger them,” he mutters.
“But what if you could hurt them as they’ve hurt you?”
There’s a long pause. “You think you can turn the tables on the villacs?” he asks eagerly. He’s played along with them because he had to, but I know he hates the blind priests and would love to find a way to thwart them.
“I don’t have a plan yet, but I’ll work on one. Stick around a few days and I’ll cut you in on the action.”
“And if I do not want cutting in?”
I shrug. “If you don’t like the look of things, you can leave.”
Wami’s silent a few seconds. Then he reaches for the roof. My heart sinks, but lifts a moment later when he looks down again. “I will stay for three days. If you search for me, I will be found. But do not waste my time.”
With that he slips away, leaving me with the two corpses, on the brink of a total disaster, but with the slightest glimmer of hope at the back of my mind. Pushing regrets for Frank and fears for the future from my thoughts, I retreat to one of the small holding cells, immerse myself in darkness, and cast around desperately for a way out of this mess before the walls collapse and the vengeful hordes crash in around me.