Free Blackjack by Andrew Vachss Page A

the pier, hands in the pockets of a coat that trailed to his ankles, so voluminous it could almost be a wraparound cape. The coat was a distinctive bright white with a high collar and wide raglan sleeves. At his feet, Cross had a small satchel, roughly the size and shape of a doctor’s bag. His back was against a wood pylon.
    The van pulled to a stop. Man and machine eyed each other, waiting.
    The side of the van opened with a hissing noise—a hydraulic panel, not a hinged door. Tracker jumped lightly to the ground and approached Cross, his hands open at his sides. He bowed slightly.
    “I am Tracker. Will you come with us?”
    Cross returned the bow, perhaps an inch lower, maintaining eye contact. “You’re not the one who talked to me on the phone.”
    “That one is inside. Where you should be … so that we can explain our offer to you without observation.”
    “Down here, you don’t have to worry about stuff like that. Looking into another man’s business could get you killed.”
    Tracker shifted his body slightly, checking the area, sweeping with his eyes. “The … thing we’re after, you wouldn’t see it coming.”
    “The thing
you’re
after. Not my problem, then.”
    “It will be, I promise you. Very soon, too. If we meant you harm, you’d be gone now. I have approached you respectfully, have I not?”
    After five seconds of utter stillness, Cross walked toward the van, deliberately allowing the Indian to move in behind him. He walked ponderously, as if his coat was a suit of armor.
    Cross climbed inside the van, took the seat gestured by the Indian, and found himself directly across from the blond man.
    The blond man smiled his thin smile, asked Cross, “Can I take your coat?”
    “No.”
    “I didn’t think so. I assume you won’t be offended if I don’t offer to shake hands. Our records indicate considerable expertise in improvised weaponry. I’m told you can kill a man with a sharpened credit card.”
    Cross gave him a contemptuous look. “There’s women who can do that with a dull one.”
    Percy laughed.
    Tiger crossed her arms under her heavy breasts, arched her back, and spit out: “Maybe you should try a woman you don’t have to pay for. Provided you can find one, that is.”
    Cross turned to her. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to offend you. There’s something about this guy I don’t like, and I let it make me say something stupid. That’s not professional. I was wrong.”
    Tiger’s expression changed, but she watched closely to see if she was being played with. And finally decided she was not. She uncrossed her arms, leaned a bit forward.
    “That’s okay,” she smiled, “I don’t like him, either.”
    The blond man remained profoundly uninterested in all this—he was well accustomed to people not finding him likable.
    “Sorry for the demonstration,” he told Cross, “but we didn’t have time to approach you through the usual channels.”
    “You want to hire me, then?”
    “That’s exactly what we want.”
    “What’s the job?”
    “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to show you rather thantell you. That means a drive to our HQ, but it’ll be easier that way. Quicker, too.”
    Cross shrugged, flashing back to the cold truth of what Tracker had told him: if these people wanted him dead, he’d have stopped breathing some time ago.
    But that possibility cut both ways. Now that he had the satchel he carried inside a closed space, he knew his crew was safe, no matter how this ended. If things went wrong, he wouldn’t be leaving even a scrap of DNA behind.
    “Call it up,” the blond said into the microphone.

    BACK IN the War Room. Everybody was there, including Percy. He doesn’t get out much, unless there’s something requiring combat skills. Or kills.
    The blond man made the introductions. Nobody shook hands.
    “Why him?” Cross asked Tracker, jerking his thumb at the blond man.
    “Why not?”
    “Because it’s personal for you,” Cross said.