Jack. That’s the hell of it.”
Fisk said, “Well, I don’t!”
Taggart rested a hip on the edge of the desk. “Tell me something, Jack, just to satisfy my own curiosity. How’d you get on to us?”
Jack looked steadily at him. “The ATF men, Dean and O’Hara. They were pros. They weren’t drugged. I couldn’t see the cultists sneaking up on them and catching them unawares. But the MRT, fellow cops they knew and thought could be trusted, you could have walked right up and gotten the drop on them. They didn’t know the truth until it was too late.”
“That’s not bad figuring.”
“After that it was just a matter of the way things went down. You people were always in the right place at the right time to do some damage. When I found out that your outfit reported the Oliver crash first, it all added up.”
“Too bad you didn’t know that we had a crash all planned and ready for you.”
“Yeah, too bad. I didn’t think the whole unit was dirty, either.”
“For what we’re getting paid, we can’t afford not to be.”
Hardin said, “That’s enough, Cole. You’re talking too much.”
“Why? What difference does it make?”
Jack said, “Dead men tell no tales, eh?”
Taggart nodded. “Not this side of the grave.”
Hardin made a dismissive gesture and crossed to the front desk. “Any messages for me, Sharon?”
“Yes, sir. Sheriff Mack called to remind you about that confab over to Sky Mount tonight.”
“Damn! I most forgot about that.” Hardin glanced at his watch. “Still got time to make it. Let’s go, Cole, we got to saddle up. We got that meeting with the county boys to map out security arrangements for tomorrow’s Round Table.”
Taggart’s laugh was a short, humorless bark. “That’s a good one.”
“We don’t show, some folks might get the crazy idea that we thought there wouldn’t be a session tomorrow.”
“I see what you mean. Can’t have that.”
Hardin spoke to the dispatcher, “Sharon, you’re in charge here while Cole and I are gone.” He turned to Fisk. “You hear that, boy? Trooper Stallings is in charge, and if she gives you an order it’s the same as if I did, so you hop to it and do like she says, savvy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Pettibone will be by to pick up that one,” Hardin said, indicating Jack. “Don’t take any chances, Sharon. Make sure his hands are cuffed behind his back when you make the transfer. I want you to supervise it personally, you hear?”
“You can count on me, Bryce.”
“He’s got to be able to talk and he can’t be too busted up. You listening, Fisk?”
“Yes, sir. Uh, sir? How much is too much?”
“He can’t look like he’s been beaten half to death
when he’s found later. Otherwise, have your fun. I know you’re going to anyway.”
“Aw, Uncle Bryce, you know I wouldn’t do nothing without your say-so.”
“Lieutenant Hardin, boy.”
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Hardin. Sir.”
Taggart went to the front desk and handed Jack’s gun to the dispatcher. “Add that to your collection, Sharon.”
She opened a drawer on the side of her desk and placed the gun inside. Hardin frowned, said, “That’s another thing, Cole. That weapon’s evidence that Bauer’s been here. You can’t keep it.”
Taggart said, “Good point. I’ll get rid of it when we get back.”
“Good.” Hardin fastened cold eyes on the bikers in the holding cell. “We got some more house cleaning to do when we get back. Take out all the trash.”
Sharon Stallings said, “When’ll you be back?”
“An hour or so, no more.” He and Taggart crossed toward the garage door. Hardin went out.
Taggart paused in the doorway, turning to look back. He said, “Adios, Jack. No hard feelings — at least, not on my side. I wouldn’t blame you if you had some, considering. That’s your prerogative.”
Hardin called to him from the garage. Taggart said, “Coming.” He went into the garage, closing the door behind him. After a pause came the sound of an engine starting up and then the car driving away.
Fisk licked his lips. They were already wet and glistening. His eyes were focused and intent above a loose, sloppy smile. He made a big show of cracking his knuckles. He said to Jack, “You don’t look like so much now.”
Jack was silent. Fisk went on, “Where’s all your smart remarks?”
Sharon Stallings rolled her eyes. “For Pete’s sake, Fisk, quit jawing and get on with it.”
“I’m taking my own sweet time. I’m gonna enjoy this.” Fisk squared off, looming above Jack in the chair. “Uncle Bryce said not to leave you half killed. He didn’t say nothing about no three-quarters, though.”
He punched Jack in the face. The impact snapped Jack’s head back and sent the roller-mounted chair with Jack in it wheeling backward until it crashed into a wall.
Jack’s face was numb where he’d been struck but he could feel something leaking from his nostrils, and the taste of blood was copper-tangy in his mouth. Rowdy and Griff crowded the front of their cell, clutching the bars and staring. Sharon Stallings watched, chewing gum. That was the detail that stuck with Jack: her chewing gum.
Fisk ruefully eyed his big fist. “Dang, I like to’ve skinned a knuckle on that one!”
The smaller biker, Griff, said, “You dirty dog! You’ve got to have a guy tied down before you beat on him…”
Fisk grinned wetly, waving the other’s complaint away. “Shut up, runt. You had your hands free when I gave you your whomping.”
“You hit me with your gun first!” Rowdy said, “Let me out of here and try me on, farm boy!” Fisk said, “You already had your turn. I’m just getting warmed up on this one.”
He clouted Jack with a vicious backhand to the left side of the face. Jack saw it coming and tried to roll with it. It was a swivel chair so he was able to rotate the seat away from the blow, but even so it rocked him from head to heels. The chair toppled over, falling on its right side to the floor with a crash. Fisk giggled. “Whoops!”
Sharon Stallings stood up. She showed some animation now, spots of color burning in her cheeks. “Fisk, you better not break that chair—”
Fisk grabbed a chair arm in each hand and by main strength yanked it and the man chained to it upright. He drove a hard right into Jack’s belly, burying it deep. Jack doubled up as the chair zoomed backward, crashing against the front of the cell.
Fisk crossed to Jack, grabbing the chair and spinning it around a half circle so that he stood facing Jack with his back to the cell. A thin line of spittle drooled down the corner of Fisk’s mouth, wetting his chin. His hot, moist breath was on Jack’s face. He launched an uppercut that collided with Jack’s chin. The chair wheeled backward into the side of the squad room desk.
Sharon Stallings was outraged now. “Fisk! The desk!”
Fisk stalked Jack, closing on him, his hulking form looming larger. Griff and Rowdy stood pressed against the bars of the cell. Jack made eye contact with Griff and tilted his head in a slight but perceptible nod. Griff blinked, eyes narrowing.
Fisk never saw the nod because he was too busy leaning over the chair and winding up to deliver another haymaker. Jack kicked him between the legs.
Fisk went, “Whoof!” He doubled up and grabbed his crotch with both hands. He wavered, swaying. Cold sweat filmed his leaden, gasping face.
Jack got both feet on the floor and spun the swivel seat around so that he was facing the side of the desk with his back to Fisk. He brought his feet up, bending both legs at the knees, and pushed off from the desk as hard as he could.
The chair with Jack in it went slamming into Fisk, knocking him off balance. Fisk backpedaled to keep from falling. Jack dug his heels into the floor and kept working his legs, driving the chair into Fisk and pushing him
