Jake said, "You still want in.>"

  Graham nodded.

  Jake wondered about the doc. Could he rely on him to pull that trigger, to fire at someone if the need arose.^ Or would he freeze and get himself killed.^ Shame to let one of the Boys snuff all that medical talent. But if it served to get Angel out . . .

  Would he trade the doc for An gel.>

  In a New York minute.

  Jake yawned and glanced at his glowing watch face in the darkness.

  Twenty-eight long hours since he'd got word Angel had been snatched. He glanced over at Graham in the driver's seat and saw him staring down at the pistol in his hands.

  "I thought you said you had a 'little' stash of weapons," Graham said. "That was more like a small arms depot."

  "What can I say, Doc.> I'm naturally modest."

  Graham shook his head. "I still can't believe a private citizen can get hold of that kind of firepower. I mean, there are laws—"

  Jack had to laugh. These citizens were a riot. "The laws only prevent you from buying guns. Not me. I've never bought so much as a single bullet from a licensed dealer. Last thing I want to do is leave a trail from a gun shop."

  "Great," Graham said wearily.

  "You call it gun control if you want, but I call it victim disarmament—because if it goes much further it will be only you law-abiding citizens who can't get guns."

  "Does that include disgruntled postal workers.^"

  Jake glanced at him, surprised. The man had actually made a joke. "Give yourself an eight point five on that one, Doc."

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  He yawned again—long day. In the wee hours of this morning they'd rented a room in a nameless motel on Route 9 south of Absecon and he'd slept, but not well. After that, he'd taken Graham into the woods to his stash—actually a one-man, single-piece fiberglass bomb shelter he'd buried deep in the pines after cleaning out Sarge's gun room. So deep in the pines that he needed a GPS unit to find it.

  He'd given Graham a Glock, shown him how to use it, and let him get some target practice. The man was a great neurosurgeon, but quite possibly the worst shot Jake had ever seen. Drop him in the woods with Jake's entire arsenal and unlimited ammo and still he'd starve to death.

  But he was game, you had to give him that. And after a few fifteen-round clips of 9mms, he'd lost his fear of the Glock's noise and kick.

  The next step had been wheels. One thing AC had no shortage of was cars. The casinos had built multistory palaces to house the cars of all the gamblers driving in from New York, Philly, Wilmington, Baltimore, and D.C. Borrowing one had been easy. Between hits, Jake had educated himself in the fine art of car theft. Never knew when you might need wheels in a hurry.

  Only a matter of sixty seconds to slim-jim the door lock, rip out the key cylinder, insert his own, and bin0o —new wheels.

  Well, not exactly new. Jake had chosen an older car, a 1985 Riviera, figuring it would be less likely to have an alarm system.

  So now they sat two blocks down from the First Class Restaurant Supplies office, waiting. First Class sat on Mediterranean in the mostly black neighborhood in northwest AC between the rail terminal and White Horse Pike. A mix of warehouses, plumbing supply places, burned-out row houses, bars—a Bronx look, but shaved down to two stories.

  "How do we know he's coming.^" Graham said.

  "Fredo.> Oh, he'll show up. First Class is his gig and he's got to stay on top of the operation. He starts screwing up there, Mr. C'll have him out on his ass, nephew or no nephew."

  NIGHTKILL

  233

  Just then Fredo's black limo pulled up to the front entrance.

  "And speak of the devil," Jake said.

  The limo stopped by the front door of the First Class building. Jake watched Vito Cangemi get out, followed by Fredo. They crossed the sidewalk and Cangemi held the front door as Fredo strolled through.

  The limo pulled away.

  "Pardon the expression," Jake said, "but follow that car."

  "Why.> Fredo's in the office."

  "We don't want Fredo. Not yet. But it's time we announced our presence."

  Graham started the Riv and eased out onto Mediterranean.

  "Get behind him and stay close," Jake said as he climbed into the backseat. "Be ready to pull alongside when I tell you."

  He figured the limo driver would either cruise around or head for a coffee shop until he got beeped to come back. Fredo was playing it smart: A limo sitting out front of First Class was like a neon sign flashing, Fm here! . . . Fm here!. . .

  The limo made a right onto South Carolina Avenue. Looked like he was heading for White Horse Pike. That was bad. Too many cars there. But he swung around and started driving up North Carolina, back toward Mediterranean. Making a big loop.> Maybe Fredo wasn't planning to stay long. If that was true, Jake knew he'd have to make his move soon. Pulling the blanket off the Ingram Mac-10 on the seat beside him, he seated the thirty-shot clip and worked the slide to chamber a round. Crude little weapon. No skill involved. Like spraying with a fire hose—and about as accurate. But the Colombians loved these things and Fredo would know that.

  "Time to suit up. Doc," Jake said.

  He pulled on his own ski mask, adjusted the eyeholes, and checked to see that Graham was wearing his. Everything looked set. He scanned the area. This section of North Carolina was mostly warehouses and they were the only two cars moving.

  "Okay. This is it. Make your move, just like I told you."

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  As Graham accelerated and pulled alongside the limo, Jake rolled down the window, leaned out, and opened fire. The Mac-10 jumped and roared in his hands as the limo's rear side windows dissolved into countiess fragments that fanned out behind it in a glittering contrail. He peppered the passenger compartment, sending slug after slug into the upholstery, the minibar, the TV. Two one-second bursts and the clip was empty. The limo swerved and slammed against the cars parked along the curb.

  "Get out of here!" Jake shouted.

  As Graham floored the Riv, Jake leaned out the rear window and gave the limo driver the finger, leaving no doubt more than one guy was involved in this hit.

  "I—I—I can't believe I'm doing this!" Graham babbled as Jake slipped back inside and rolled up the window.

  "Believe it. Doc."

  "I must be insane! I could get arrested! I'll lose my medical license!"

  "You could lose your life, Doc."

  "Yes," Graham said, softly. "I could get killed. And for what.> What's all this supposed to prove.>"

  "It proves Jake Nacht wasn't blowing smoke when he said he'd hired guys to hit Fredo."

  "All right, but we just shot up an empty car. Isn't that pretty dumb.>"

  Jake leaned over the front seat. "Doc, it doesn't matter—these particular hit men might not be the brightest bulbs in the box, but Fredo will now be ready to jump out of his skin. He might swagger around and laugh at how stupid we are, but he'll also get a look at what thirty steel-jacketed .45 caliber slugs did to the place where he'd been sitting minutes before. He'll be very scared. He'll be even more scared after we botch a few more hits. So scared he'll head for a safer place to stay."

  "The place where he's keeping Angel.>"

  "You got it."

  NIGHTKILL

  235

  "And then what?" "Then we stop botching."

  Jake turned on the cell phone when they got back to the Jeep. Within minutes it began to ring.

  "Hello.>" Jake said after the third chirp.

  A bilingual stream of obscenities gushed from the receiver. Jake waited for Fredo to run out of gas, then said nothing. This appar-endy was more than Fredo could stand.

  "Hey, asshole!" he screamed. "Did you hear me.>"

  "Fredo.>" Jake said sofdy. "Is that you.> So sorry to hear your voice."

  Fredo laughed but it sounded forced. He probably had an audience for the call. "Yeah.> I'll bet you are. Your boys missed, Jakey. Missed big-time. What'd you hire? A bunch of amateurs.^" Another laugh.

  "I guess you got them, then," Jake said.

  Fredo didn't answer.

  "You did get them, didn't you, Fredo? Because if you didn't, you can expect another visit real soon. Maybe even tonight."

  "Nobody takes potshots at me, Nacht. When I get my hands on you I'm gonna—"

  "You're gonna what? Break my legs? Cut off my fingers? I won't even feel it. Try to think of something you can do to me that's worse than what's been done, Fredo."

  No response from Fredo, so Jake went on, rubbing it in, enjoying it.

  "How's it feel, Fredo? I know where you are but you can't find me. I can hurt you, but you can't hurt me. You've got businesses, a reputation, a life ... a lot to lose, Fredo. I don't have a thing."

  "You can die, Nacht!"

  "I fully intend to. In fact, I'm looking forward to it. I believe I told you that. And I told you how I was going to die, didn't I."

  m

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  "Your girlfriend might like a few more years," Fredo said. "Ever think of that?"

  Jake closed his eyes and strained to keep his voice calm. Thank you for brin0in0 her up.

  "I assume you're referring to Angel." He saw Graham straighten in the passenger seat at the mention of her name. "You're not still trying to convince me she's alive."

  "Alive and well."

  She'd better be, Jake thought.

  How did he play this.> Show he cared a little—or show nothing at all?

  A little ... he'd show just a little. . . .

  "She was good to me, Fredo, and I'm not totally heartless, so if she really is alive, I guess letting her go might buy you something."

  Another laugh—harsher, more genuine than the others. "So! You do have a thing for her! I knew it!"

  "Don't get your hopes up, Fredo. If I hear she's back in Brooklyn, I maybe just have you killed and forget about your face in my lap. But don't think she buys your life. Nothing buys your life, Fredo. That's mine. I want it, and I'm gonna get it. See ya."

  Jake cut the connection and turned off the power. No more talking to Fredo tonight. Let him stew.

  "You really think she's alive?" Graham said.

  Jake nodded.

  "That part about letting her go—that was well done."

  Jake raised an eyebrow. "Was that a compliment?"

  "Yes ..." Graham seemed as shocked as Jake. "Yes, I believe it was."

  "I'll be damned."

  "On that we agree. But on the phone just now, I think you struck the perfect balance. You gave him just enough to make him hope that Angel might be an asset . . . not enough to be sure he can trade her, but enough to make it worth his while to keep her alive."

  NIGHTKILL

  23?

  "Right—and we've got to keep the upper hand. Can't let Fredo guess at even one-tenth of what she really means to me. He does that, all of a sudden, he^s calling the shots."

  He noticed Graham watching him. "You really do care, don't you.>"

  "That's right," Jake said, once again uncomfortable with the scrutiny. "You think it worked.^"

  Graham rubbed his eyes and sighed. "I pray it did. Otherwise, this is all for nothing."

  "Not quite. Doc. I meant what I said. Either way, Fredo winds up dead."

  "I thought you said you were a changed man."

  "I am. But I can't live the life that changed man wants to live as long as Fredo is walking around. So it's very simple: He's got to go."

  Instead of heading back to the motel after shooting up Fredo's limo, Jake hot-wired another car—a beat-up Honda Accord. He and Graham drove north separately, Jake in the Honda, the doc in the Jeep. They left the Jeep in Jersey City and took the Honda into lower Manhattan. They spent the wee hours cruising the Fulton Fish Market until Jake spotted a First Class truck.

  That was the problem with posing as a legit businessman—you had to make a show of doing some legit business.

  They waited till the truck was loaded, then followed it out the all but empty Holland Tunnel. As the truck hit the uphill ramp toward the turnpike, Jake used the Mac-10 to riddle its body and tires. It fishtailed back and forth and finally shuddered to a halt, but Jake kept firing. He saw the driver and his helper clamber out the far side of the cab and jump over the ramp railing.

  "Stop by the door," he told Graham.

  As the Honda pulled even with he truck's shattered driver window, Jake scratched the top of a flare and tossed it into the cab.

  "Go!" he said, and Graham zoomed up the ramp.

  As they reached the top he looked back and saw flames starting to flicker from the truck's windows.

  "Scratch one from Fredo's rolling stock."

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  The sun had been up for an hour by the time Jake pulled tiie Jeep into the parking lot of their motel. He managed to doze through the morning, but every time he woke up a litde, he saw that Graham wasn't sleeping. The man seemed in constant movement— even lying on the room's other bed, he squirmed and shifted constantly. Once, awakened by a soft tread, Jake cracked an eyelid and found him pacing up and down the narrow pass at the foot of the beds. Not a good sign, but Jake knew it wouldn't do any good to nag or coddle him. No way could the man, in just a few short days, pick up the seasoning to sleep even when his guts were in a knot.

  After sunset, Jake acquired new wheels—a 1988 Olds Ciera this time—and in the heart of night, at 2 A.M., began cruising the AC Expressway. Nothing there, so he took the ramp onto the northbound parkway. Another few minutes and he'd found his quarry. Up ahead, doing a cautious sixty in the right lane, was another of Fredo's First Class Restaurant Supplies delivery trucks, heading north for a pickup—either to Hunt's Point or the Fulton Fish Market. Didn't matter. It wasn't going to get there.

  Jake fell in behind the truck.

  "We're going to get caught," Graham said from the backseat. "We can't keep this up and not get caught."

  "Who's going to catch us.>" Jake said. "State cops.> I don't think Fredo wants them sniffing around his business. He hauls more than fish and vegetables in those trucks."

  "Well, they do patrol the parkway. I've seen them."

  "Sure. Looking for speeders. Relax. You're just strung out from lack of sleep."

  "I'm more than strung out. I'm dead on my feet."

  "Been a long twenty-four hours, hasn't it." Jake glanced over his shoulder at Graham, trying not to let his concern show. The man was like an overwound clock. Before long he'd be jittery as all hell. Speak to him and he'd jump. Tap him on the shoulder and he'd yelp and bounce off the nearest wall. The doc definitely wasn't

  NIGHTKILL

  241

  cut out for this sort of thing. But he wasn't backing down, and you had to admire that. Hopefully, the guy wouldn't go blooey before they found Angel.

  "Listen," Jake said. "We'll do this truck, then call it quits on this phase of the operation. We'll husde back to the motel and get a good night's sleep."

  "And then what.>"

  "And then tomorrow we start phase three."

  "What's that going to be.>"

  "I haven't entirely worked that out yet." Actually, Jake knew exactiy what phase three would be, but he didn't want Graham stewing over it.

  He checked the rearview mirror: nobody in sight behind him. He pulled out to the left: two empty lanes of blacktop stretching ahead of the truck. About what you'd expect at this hour of the morning.

  "Okay. This is it. You go for the tires, I'll put a few through the cargo area, and then we're outta here. All right?"

  "Right." Graham's voice quavered a litde. "Fine."

  "Just don't miss the tires. Get at least one of them."

  "I S2dd^ fine! Let's just get this over with!"

  Oh, yes, Jake thought. The doc's spring is wound about as far as it goes.

  He wished Graham were behind the wheel instead of him, but he didn't trust the doc's high-speed driving skills. The idea here was to put a few holes in the truck, knock out a couple of tires, and then scoot ahead to the next exit, where they'd left the Jeep in a movie multiplex parking lot. Timing was everything. If Graham missed the exit stop, they'd be stuck on the parkway for miles, sitting ducks for any state troopers who'd heard reports of a northbound Ciera shooting at a truck.

  Graham's shooting skills were still nonexistent, but Jake was going to get close enough to those tires so that even the doc couldn't miss . . . with a Glock. Jake was not going to give Graham the Mac-10.

  "All right," Jake said. "Here we go. Work the slide like I showed you and get ready."

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  He heard Graham chamber a round. Jake did the same with his Tokarev and gripped it in his left hand. Another check ahead and in the rearview—all clear—and then he gunned the Ciera.

  He pulled alongside the truck, got close, and yelled, "Now!"

  As he heard Graham's Glock begin to fire fi-om the rear, Jake stuck his arm out his own window and began firing over the Ciera's roof. He wasn't a lefty but he wasn't looking ft)r accuracy, just to put holes in the truck.

  "I got it!" Graham shouted. "I got a tire!"

  "Go ft)r another one."

  But too late. The truck was rolling across the shoulder, dropping quickly behind as the driver braked and slewed to a stop on the grass.

  "Good work!" Jake said. "End of phase two."

  "I did it! I shot that tire flat. I don't believe—" His voice faded, then: "Where'd he come from.>"

  Jake tensed and looked in his rearview. A car was racing up behind them, lights out. Damn good question. Where had it come from.> And who was inside.> He relaxed a litde as it passed under a light and he saw it was a Firebird. Good. Not a car favored by the Boys. They tended toward—

  And then he saw a tiny strobing flash from the Firebird's passenger side.

  "Duck!"

  As he slid down as far as he could without losing sight of the road, he heard the faint chatter of a machine pistol, but nothing hit the car. He put the pedal to the metal.

  "They're shooting at us!" Graham cried. "It must be Fredo!"

  No, not Fredo. He'd be back in AC. Must have sent a couple of guys out to follow the truck, just in case someone tried to shoot this one up. They'd been hanging back all this time with their lights out, waiting for something to happen.