Vigilante Page 4

  Nolan didn’t care. It was still an additional layer of defense he hadn’t been expecting to have, one that was superior in every way to anything he might face.

  Branford’s voice rang out from the Cube, and Nolan looked up to see the old man standing at the rear entrance. “New billboards are going up tomorrow,” he reported. “Got proofs of ’em here if you wanna see.”

  Nolan thanked Arjay again and left him to his work. Returning to Branford, he found three screens inside the Cube had been illuminated with the light-gray billboard mockup images, which were identical to the first billboards in every way, except that the message had been changed. Where the first design had said “THERE IS A BETTER WAY,” this second series of ads proclaimed “I WILL SHOW YOU A BETTER WAY.”

  Nolan nodded. “Looks good. Question is, will they work?”

  “Already got regular coverage from every major national news outlet. Every time a new ad appears someplace, the reporters go nuts trying to track down the source. There are even some sites online that are treating it like one of those viral marketing games.”

  “Good,” replied Nolan. The billboards were serving their purpose. After this second phase, a third and final message would be rolled out for all with eyes to see.

  “Did the egghead say anything about—” Branford started.

  Nolan shook his head, cutting him off. “I didn’t ask.”

  Branford glowered. “I know you promised him he wouldn’t have to make any weapons, but you’ve got to have something to defend yourself with out there! It doesn’t have to be a lethal instrument, just a defensive one. And I’m not letting you go through with any of this unless you’re carrying something more than body armor.”

  It was a bold statement, and Nolan wondered if Branford was willing to back it up. He’d never known the old man to bluff, but Branford wasn’t in charge of this operation, and they all knew it. This was Nolan’s project, and the buck stopped with him. Even so, Nolan had served under Branford’s command for two tours of duty, and some subliminal effect of spending time with him again made Nolan feel like he was still the man’s subordinate. At least a little.

  “I’ll ask him,” Nolan replied at last. “I promise.”

  9

  Yuri Vasko adjusted his glasses as he tread and retread over the same section of carpet, his feet every bit as angry as his head. Even the strains of Tchaikovsky’s “Serenade for Strings in C Major” emerging quietly from his side-table stereo did little to cool his outrage.

  He ran his misshapen right hand through what was left of his brown hair, then pocketed it and cursed the appendage for being so useless. It ached in response and he stopped pacing for a moment to take a deep breath and push away the pain. His assistant, Marko, stepped forward as if worried, but Vasko brushed the younger man away, upset he’d shown even a moment of weakness.

  Three men stood in his office, on the opposite side of his desk, waiting and watching his movements: two burly gentlemen who were on his payroll, and a frightened messenger sitting on a chair between them, who’d been sent by that swine, Nimeiri.

  Nimeiri had sent this very young, very dark-skinned Sudanese man on his behalf, to demand three times his usual rate for a substantial shipment of cocaine that had come into his possession.

  Ninety thousand! Does he think I’m made of money?

  Life was difficult enough as it was without his business associates trying to wring more money out of him for the same services they’d always provided.

  It’s that accursed crime bill! he thought. They’re all peeing their pants, terrified it’s going to put us out of business.

  Vasko stopped his pacing to stare out the picture window behind his desk. Below, the early evening streets of Manhattan were dotted with hundreds, maybe thousands, of pedestrians. Office workers headed home. Construction workers digging up another street for no obvious reason. Families taking in the big city sights.

  It was innocent and pleasant, and Vasko wondered what it would be like to be one of those people, living a simpler life as an office clerk or a retail salesperson. His wife and daughter lived a simpler life than he, as removed as he could make them from his business. But they enjoyed the luxuries they had because of what he did, which ultimately made them as far from normal as he was.

  His attention was drawn to an oversized billboard being erected on the side of a high-rise across the street. At first he thought the sign was going to advertise some new Broadway show, and was about to make a mental note to remember the name, when it turned into something else altogether.

  Two workers began to unroll the long digital printout that made up the sign, securing it in place on the billboard foot by foot until the complete image emerged: a slate-gray background topped by a huge hand that was completely white, with fingers stretched out. Layered over the hand was black lettering in a big blocky font.

  “I WILL SHOW YOU A BETTER WAY,” it proclaimed. And that was it. It offered no further details or information. Not even so much as a phone number.

  Another of those signs, Vasko mused. Ridiculous. Absurd.

  He’d followed the recent news stories about these odd billboard ads that had been popping up all over the country. Identical, every one, all bearing the same hand and the same simple message. Major news agencies had tried for weeks to track down the company or individual paying for the billboards, but they were handled through a front company that led reporters in circles, impossible to penetrate.

  And what were the ads supposed to mean? “A better way”? A better way to what?

  The chair holding the young man behind him creaked when he shifted his weight in it, and Vasko’s thoughts came back to the here and now. He returned his attention to this messenger, this boy-man. Vasko tilted his head to one side, examining him.

  “You have . . . family?” said Vasko in his thick Ukrainian accent.

  The boy nodded. He couldn’t have been more than twenty, Vasko thought.

  “My mother, father, and sister still live in Sudan,” the young man spoke up. “I work for my uncle to earn money to bring them here to live.”

  Vasko’s eyebrows jumped slightly. “Nimeiri is your uncle?”

  The young man nodded again and almost offered a smile, but seemed to think better of it. “Uncle is a very powerful man. He commands much respect. I hope to be like him someday.”

  Still Vasko studied the boy. “Family is everything. Yes? What could be more important?”

  “Nothing,” replied the boy, a bit uncertain that he was giving the right answer.

  Vasko smiled lightly. “Nothing indeed. Absolutely nothing. Family is everything.”

  He turned to Marko and gave a nod so subtle that no one but he could have perceived it.

  Vasko walked around his desk and bypassed the young man and the two goons, instead heading for the door at the opposite end of his office. He opened it and held it open, motioning for the three men to join him.

  “Come,” said Vasko. “Please, come.”

  He led the way to a nearby elevator and ushered Nimeiri’s nephew inside, with Vasko’s two men close behind. He pushed a button and they began to descend rapidly.

  When the doors parted, they were on the ground level, and Vasko spoke as he wound his way through the building toward the loading dock in back.

  “I want your uncle to know that I understand how important this transaction must be to him, to send his own nephew to deliver his offer,” he said. “I want him to know that I value family as much as he does. You look like you haven’t eaten in a week; let’s get you properly fed before sending you back to your uncle.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said the young man uncertainly as they continued to walk. “I will be sure to let him know of your kindness.”

  “Good,” Vasko said, smiling again at the boy. He stopped at a sliding garage door that was closed. “Now let’s see that your uncle gets that message.”

  He hit a button on the wall beside the garage door and it rolled upward to reveal the re
ar of a cement mixer. Vasko’s two big men grabbed the boy under his arms and dragged him to the back of the heavy truck and forced open his mouth.

  Nimeiri’s nephew tried to scream, but it happened too fast and his yell was muffled by a rush of wet cement over his mouth, gagging him and pouring down his throat. He thrashed but Vasko’s men held him firm. Tears flowed like a stream, his face turning blood red as he struggled and fought to get oxygen into his lungs until finally going limp.

  Vasko motioned for the truck to power down. The young boy’s eyes were still open wide, though Vasko knew he was dead. He pulled a small knife out of his pants pocket and cut off one of the dead boy’s thumbs. This would be sent back to Nimeiri, along with seven of his best men, who would shoot as many people in Nimeiri’s organization as it took for him to get the message.

  And that message was simple: Nimeiri was out of business, effective immediately.

  In the meantime, Vasko ordered the young man’s body placed aboard one of the twelve cargo ships that he owned and chunked in the Atlantic, where it would rapidly sink thousands of feet to the ocean floor.

  10

  The weeks passed methodically and tediously. Ready for the rush of action, Nolan instead spent his time in training, honing his reflexes, his senses, and his skills. He worked with the new equipment Arjay was producing, learning the subtle feel of each device until it was second nature. After he awoke and before he slept each night, he spent an hour on his knees, praying in his personal living space; Branford and Arjay gave him all the room he required to prepare for what was about to begin.

  The billboards had become a nationwide phenomenon; they were the water-cooler topic for many an office, and theorizing on what the signs meant—and more importantly, what was going to happen in New York come July—was virtually a national pastime.

  Some in the media speculated that it could be a setup for a terrorist plot, that the terrorists might be trying to use Americans’ own innate curiosity against them. But the government dismissed this, reporting that they had no intel or chatter suggesting that the terrorism threat level was any higher than normal.

  By the last week of June, tens of thousands journeyed to New York City, filling hotel rooms, restaurants, cabs, and sidewalks. They came from all walks of life, all parts of the country and the world. They came to sate their curiosity and feed a growing obsession. They were compelled to witness for themselves whatever it was that the billboards promised would happen.

  So when a very hot and sticky July first arrived at last, Nolan was unsurprised to see that the crowd gathered in Times Square came close to rivaling the masses that converged on the same spot every New Year’s Eve. It wasn’t quite that big yet—not shoulder-to-shoulder down there. But the crowds were growing by the minute, and not just in the Square. Thousands watched Liberty Island from the edges of the Financial District, and Jersey City across the bay. Countless others stood at the foot of the Empire State Building, and filled Rockefeller Plaza. In some places, the crowds spilled out onto the streets, resulting in shouted responses from the city’s infamous cab drivers.

  Nolan saw all of this from his vantage point atop the tower standing at One Times Square, where he crouched at the edge of the roof and surveyed the sea of humanity far below. From there, Nolan could easily pick out the native New Yorkers bustling about, garbed in business black, not bothering to hide their frustration over the gawking tourists blocking their every move. Yokels who came to witness what would probably amount to nothing.

  This slender tower, crammed into the narrow space between Seventh Avenue and Broadway, had, over the course of its history, been home to the New York Times, Douglas Leigh’s electric billboards, industrial engineering firm Allied Chemical, an art deco restaurant, and a number of retail stores. In more recent years, it had been largely vacant, serving as nothing more than a giant canvas for a dozen or so billboards and the famous giant LED screen that tourists loved. Capping the tower was the world-famous rooftop where the ball was lowered every New Year’s Eve.

  It was an astonishing thing to see so many thousands of people gathered below, watching and waiting. Almost as if a parade might begin any moment, all eyes were peeled, innumerable camera lenses were pointed in all directions, and there was a loud buzz rolling like waves through the crowd. As Nolan inhaled the same air that they breathed and listened to the dull roar of their conversations, he felt the rising heat generated by so many bodies in close proximity to one another. It was intoxicating and overwhelming. He felt not unlike an ancient general watching the preparation for a battle from afar, the troops awaiting the trumpets that would signal a formal declaration of war.

  If very many more were added to these numbers, Nolan decided, the city would not hold them. Some held signs and banners declaring their desire to see something happen, to witness this “better way” that Nolan’s billboards had promised. Of course there were plenty of crazies milling about as well, offering everything from “free hugs” to “free sex,” and suggesting that they could show the world “a better way” all by themselves.

  His vision enhanced by one of Arjay’s toys, Nolan spotted one group of a dozen or so marching in a picket line, complete with wood-handled signs hefted over their shoulders. He couldn’t tell what they were protesting and he didn’t care; as long as people lived and breathed, they would find some inane thing to boycott. He had no problem with their desire to make a difference—even if a lot of them based that desire on misguided ideals—but historically speaking, picket lines and boycotts had no lasting influence on the shape of society. They were a poor tactic, usually assembled in a last-minute panic, that at best might achieve some modest level of change. A change that always proved to be temporary.

  The NYPD was woefully unprepared for this day, having underestimated how many people would venture into the city on July first, the day that the mysterious billboards spoke of. He saw only a few black-clad officers running interference between the heat of the visitors and the native New Yorkers. With so few cops and the outdoor temperature climbing, it was only a matter of time before tensions escalated. Something would happen. Someone would start something. Rule of law would collapse. Which was exactly what Nolan was waiting for.

  He kept reminding himself that this was not a performance. He was not doing this for show. He intended to do something that was needed and that was good—but he did require an audience for it to have the desired impact. So he crouched at the top of the Times Square building with all of Arjay’s fancy cutting-edge equipment and waited for the inevitable. Praying all the while that everything would work toward his plan.

  “Got your head on straight?” said Branford through Nolan’s earpiece.

  Nolan knew what the general was asking. To an outsider looking in, any tactical maneuver in the field was all about physicality. Strength, speed, agility, aptitude with weaponry. But anyone who’d spent any time at all in combat knew success was primarily mental. A good soldier relied on planning, training, muscle memory, his body instinctively knowing what to do before his brain ordered it to happen. If you were distracted or overcome by unwanted emotions, you were dead.

  Branford was asking if Nolan was ready. If his mind was focused and prepared to act.

  “Good to go, General,” he replied.

  Within the hour, a pair of rival New York gangs had amassed, one group on Broadway, the other on Seventh Avenue. Arms crossing their chests, each group stood in a defiant posture, staring one another down with palpable malice.

  Each group was at least twenty strong.

  Forty against one, Nolan thought.

  “I think it’s time,” said Branford.

  11

  Two factions were about to break into open war in Times Square, right in the midst of thousands of pedestrians. Nolan needed a closer look.

  Weeks ago, he’d watched as Arjay demonstrated the custom-made eyewear that he’d designed for Nolan to use in the field.

  “Slide them on, just so,” Arjay had said, plac
ing the device on Nolan’s head.

  They looked not entirely unlike sunglasses, with wraparound lenses that were impossible to see through from the outside. The black frames were a bit larger than normal sunglass frames, and came outfitted with some extra hardware. Custom-fit to the contours of Nolan’s head, they would offer a full range of vision, including peripheral. Inside, they didn’t darken the world so much as enhance it. It was like looking at a live high-definition photograph, where light colors and dark shades were both enhanced and then blended together to create a sharper contrast and a more vivid picture. He had no idea how Arjay had achieved this effect, but the clarity was at least twice that of normal human vision. He could see every crack, crevice, and pebble in his underground surroundings, and it was astonishing.

  The glasses were also made to even out the luminosity of his surroundings, so that there were no dark shadows or blinding lights. Everything he looked at was seamlessly illuminated at the perfect brightness for his eyes to perceive every detail possible.

  Earpieces curved down from the sides and tucked comfortably into his ears. Nolan assumed this would give him some auditory enhancements when needed, as well as keep him in touch with Branford. Then there were a few buttons on either side of the frames. On the right, two buttons allowed him to zoom in up to one hundred times magnification, and zoom back out. Arjay was explaining something about electromagnetic polarization, but Nolan wasn’t listening. He was too busy examining the footprints of a mouse in the dust on the other side of the subway platform. Buttons on the left allowed him to switch to X-ray or thermal vision, which Arjay said would effectively let him see through walls.