“Do you realize how much that’s going to cost?”
“Pocket change for you rich fucks.” By now, Frost was thoroughly enjoying twisting the blade. If he’d found out one thing in his life, it was that the richer these bastards got, the tighter they got. “What is it y’all like to say? Consider it a good business decision.”
Frost had no idea of knowing that McCallister had already decided it was a good decision. Actually, he would have paid far more, had it been necessary. “All right,” he replied, trying to sound defeated. “You drive a hard bargain. Chastaine will probably kill me, but I’ll take care of it with accounting.”
“I can promise you this, McCallister. If these two assholes you’re sending down cause me or my team to get fucked up and I live through it … you won’t have to worry about Chastaine killing you.”
At that, he hung up on the man. Almost immediately, his phone rang again. He didn’t recognize the number, but he immediately recognized the name. Intrigued, he told the PDC to accept. “Hello?”
“Forrest Frost?” The voice on the other end of the line had a strong Southern accent, but more dignified and refined than the typical “bubba” drawl.
“Yes.”
“I was wonderin’ if I might have a minute of your time.”
“I’m kinda busy here, so you got thirty seconds.”
“I think you might find it the most profitable thirty seconds of your life.”
Frost’s eyebrow raised in piqued curiosity. “Well, in that case, you have my undivided attention.”
***
McCallister stood quietly on the balcony of his high-rise Manhattan luxury suite. He couldn’t help but smile. Whatever else you could say about the redneck bastard, he had balls of steel. After all, McCallister could make another phone call and have a dozen assassins headed to Alabama in the morning. Frost would more than likely be dead by this time tomorrow evening. He might take a lot of them with him, but people like that were expendable anyway. Who was he to make threats? The nerve of that Neanderthal! He thought much too highly of himself!
Yet, as he surveyed the galaxy of lights a thousand feet below him, he knew that Frost had good reason to consider himself in such high regard. The megatropolis anchored on its northern end by New York City sprawled to the south and west, a seemingly endless array of skyscrapers and stratospheric monoliths covering dozens of city blocks and reaching thousands of feet into the night sky. For two hundred miles, uber-urban sprawl spread from the Bronx to Philadelphia all the way down to D.C.-Baltimore. The region known now as the Mid-Atlantic Geo-Metropolitan Area, or MAGMA, blanketed five states and almost a billion people. And among this melting pot of humanity, was every type of scum, degenerate, and piece of slime that existed within the ranks of the human race. It seemed the tighter you packed people together, the more they wanted to rob, rape, and kill each other. Maybe it was the claustrophobic sense of encroachment. The more people around you, the more you coveted that which belonged to your neighbors. And now, with everyone vying for an ever-shrinking piece of the pie, there was even less to go around: less room, less opportunity, less jobs and less patience. It was an ever-boiling pot of violence, crime, poverty and despair.
Of course, all of that was down at the street level. Years of vertical construction had created layers of social status based upon the altitude at which you lived. The ground-level entrances to McCallister’s luxury apartment building had long since been sealed up, except for a couple of delivery entrances, heavily guarded by the paramilitary contractors responsible for security. Otherwise, access to the building was available only through the aerocar landing decks on several floors throughout the building. Thus, if you couldn’t afford to fly, you couldn’t afford to live here. You belonged stuck down at the surface level in the nightmare of hovercar battery fumes, endless noise, and gridlock.
Safely perched atop the building like a great eagle, high above the garbage and rot, he reminded himself just how necessary men like Frost were, and why he put up with their arrogance. They were part of the buffer that separated him from the hordes of barbarians below. These were the men who got their hands bloody so he could live a life separate from the filthy and depraved. They kept order and they prevented chaos. They were a necessary evil and yes … they were as much a part of the business as janitors and accountants.
He picked up his brandy and drained the snifter. The night air was turning cool. It was time to retire inside. He retreated to his study, closing the two ornate French doors behind him. He didn’t bother to lock them. There was no need.
After all, what harm could come to him, high in his castle in the sky?
Chapter 9
Pushing the stick forward, Tiger took the mortally wounded Gus down to treetop level, looking desperately for some place to set down. They were over a residential area, and the streetlights of a subdivision rushed past them at a dizzying speed. A Yankee town, probably. Tiger’s instincts were to find a more isolated area, and then slip away into the night undetected, but he knew he no longer had that option. He was running out of time. If he didn’t land it soon, the Gus was going to land itself. He preferred to avoid that scenario if any way possible. Besides, Jocko needed medical attention. He prayed it wasn’t already too late.
When the engine coughed again, the decision was made for him. Spotting a cul-de-sac just ahead, he took aim for it. It was the closest thing to a runway available. Beside him, the Lunarol had taken affect and Jocko had grown quiet. The space-age synthetic
