JACK SAT ON THE STEPS of the high altar with his cell phone antenna clenched between his teeth. He’d quit smoking eight years before, but he was seriously considering starting up again. He’d known the operation would be stressful. He’d even
predicted the attempted breach.
But that was on paper. Actually dealing with it in real life, he thought, the blood pounding in his head as he scanned the surrounding jewel-colored windows for snipers, was a-whole-nother ball of wax.
Maybe I pushed it too far, he thought, gazing at the flag-covered casket of the First Lady in front of him. Maybe they’d storm the place now, celebrities or not. He’d wanted to make a statement with the mayor, but he wondered if he hadn’t gone a little over the top on that one, too.
The pathetic whimper Andrew Thurman had made when Jack slid the Ka-Bar into his back still echoed in his ears. The saints on the holy windows seemed to stare down at him sternly, their strange dead eyes brimming with a malevolent disapproval.
No, no, no, Jack thought with a violent sneer. No way could he even think about going soft now. He knew what he had to do, and he was doing it. Killing the mayor had been nothing. Part of a formula that would end with his getting very rich. Besides, the prick deserved it, he reminded himself.
There was a time when Jack had badly needed the mayor’s help and had been left twisting in the wind. Hizzoner had it coming, Jack thought with a nod.
And there would be more killing before this was over, Jack thought. No doubt about that.
“Jack? Come in,” came a voice from his radio.
“What now?” he answered.
“Come back to the chapel right now!” the radio said. “One of the fish has fallen and claims he can’t get up.”
Jack shook his head with a snort of disgust. His guys were great come ball-crushing time. They had guts and were loyal and obedient to a fault. But have them make a decision on their own about the tiniest shit, you were asking for a confirmed miracle.
He keyed the Motorola.
“On my way,” he said, getting to his feet.
Not again, Jack thought when he arrived at the rear chapel rail.
Another big shot was slabbed out on the marble floor.
Chapter 74
REAL ESTATE TYCOON Xavier Brown’s eyes were rolled way back in his head, his open silk shirt showing an expanse of snow-blind white belly. The talk show woman, Eugena, was sitting almost on top of him, compressing his chest with the heels of her hands, saying, “Hold on, hold on, Xavier.”
“What the hell did you do to him?” Jack said to Little John.
“Nothing,” Little John answered defensively. “That’s just it. Fatty got up, complained his arm was hurting him, and then boom, down he goes. Beached whale.”
Jack knelt next to the talk show lady. He had to admit, even given how much he despised these worthless, privileged wimps, it was a little weird. He was starting to respect some of them—like Eugena.
“How’s he looking?” he asked her.
“Very bad,” Eugena said, continuing CPR. “His pulse is very weak. If he doesn’t get to a hospital, he’ll die. No, I don’t know that for certain, but it’s what I think.”
“Damn,” Jack said, standing directly over Brown. Another snag. Potentially a very costly one. What to do to protect his investment?
Jack snatched up his phone and hit redial.
“Mike here,” came the detective’s voice. Jack had to admit the cop was good. They just sent out the mayor carved up like a Halloween pumpkin, and the cop sounded like a concierge at a four-star hotel. You know it, pal. The hijacker is always right.
“You got a problem,” Jack said. “Hot-shit honcho Xavier Brown’s stock has just taken a sudden nosedive. I think his ticker’s having trouble keeping up with all the fun and excitement. Tell you what, Mike, I’ll let him out of here before his aorta explodes, but you have to pay his ransom first.”
“We don’t have it all together yet, Jack,” the detective said. “You have to give us more time.”
More time, is it? Jack thought. Wonder why. To figure out another way in and take us out, perhaps? These dolts couldn’t help sticking to the dusty playbook, could they? No wonder he was going to get away with this.
“Go ahead and send his money first then,” Jack said. “Or then again, don’t. But tell his people they better decide quick. X. Brown is looking like the next time he makes it into the Wall Street Journal, it’s going to be on the Obit page. I’ll be watching the account. I see my money, I open the front door.”