“Okay,” he said.
“This is really what you want?” Simoon said.
“Yeah.”
For a long moment, neither of them moved, and then with sudden violence, Simoon plucked out the earring and slammed it into his palm. By the time the metal touched him, Ellen was sitting beside him. Simoon was gone.
“Hey,” Bugsy said.
“I’m sorry,” Ellen said gently. “For what it’s worth, you were right. It couldn’t have gone any other way.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“Its not like that for me and Nick, you know,” she said. “I couldn’t do what you did. I can’t walk away from him.”
“Okay,” Bugsy said.
They were quiet. The dog barked again, its voice muffled by distance and the fallen snow. Ellen patted him on the shoulder and stood. Simoon’s last tears had dried on her face, but Ellen only looked a little weary.
“Come by and pick up your things anytime you want, okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll do that,” Bugsy said.
Cameo nodded and turned away. He watched her walk, the thickening snow moving her away faster than mere distance could. She stopped, looked back. He could see the frown on her lips. When she called out, it was like a voice coming from a different world.
“You aren’t a monster,” she yelled. Bugsy raised a hand in thanks, and Cameo nodded and went back to her walk. To her apartment. To Nick the Hat and wherever that weird little psychodrama was leading. But without him.
He sat for a while, letting the chill sink deep into his bones. A jogger huffed by, wrapped in a turquoise track suit, white iPod cords dangling from his ears. A siren rose and fell and faded in the distance. Bugsy opened his hand.
It was a nice enough earring. Not spectacular, not cheap. Inoffensive. He tossed it up and down a couple times, measuring its weight by the impact against his palm, then stood, walked to the edge of the path, and launched it out into the snow. He didn’t see where it fell.
Afterward, he treated himself to a bookstore and some coffee.
Kongoville, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
“I know he’s in the Sudd, but get the word to Weathers somehow,” Noel instructed Sun. “The gold will be in place in a few minutes.” He hung up his phone.
“What do we do about Jaako’s share?” Mathias asked as he loaded his share of the gold into suitcases.
Noel shrugged. “Well, it’s not like he had a widow or orphans to care for. Divide it equally between us.”
“And what about me?” Mollie muttered. Noel had tied her to a support pillar in the warehouse.
He squatted down in front of her. “Mollie, my dear, you have the necessary instincts for a life of crime, but you have to learn one key lesson. Never betray your associates. Unless you’re clever or lucky enough to kill them all you will find yourself… well, in your current situation.”
“You’re probably just going to kill me,” she said, and she couldn’t quite hide the quaver.
“No, your power is too useful, and I may need it again. I’m very annoyed about Jaako because his power was quite unique, but I’m not going to trash another power on something as pointless as vengeance.” He stood and felt his knees crack. “Now let’s finish this.”
Mollie opened a doorway into Cumming’s apartment. His gold was delivered. Noel’s was sent through to the abandoned farmhouse in the Hebrides. Mathias was pushed through into the winestube in the Grinzing. He shrugged at Noel’s raised eyebrow. “I own it,” he said.
“What about mine?” Mollie asked again.
Noel took an ingot off the remaining stacks, and laid it in her lap. “Here. A little grubstake.”
“That’s not fair!”
“I’m not killing you or your hillbilly family. You should be grateful. Now open the door to the yacht.”
“No,” Mollie said. Silence stretched between them as they matched stares. She broke first, unable to hold his gaze. “You… you won’t kill me. Not in cold blood.”
Before Noel could disabuse her of this notion, Mathias intervened. He came between Noel and Mollie, and knelt down next to her. “You’re a little girl. Very young. Very foolish, but you could have a big career. I would help teach you if you wanted to work with me. I’ve been a criminal for forty years. I’ve met many criminals. This man
…” He gestured at Noel. “He’s a killer. They aren’t common. He’ll do what he says.”
Mollie audibly gulped. The doorway into the hold of the yacht appeared. Noel was relieved. He hadn’t really wanted to reformulate the plan, but Mathias’s words echoed in his head, and felt like a weight on his chest.
But I’ve changed. I’m not that person any longer.
And he looked down at the gun in his hand. He didn’t remember drawing it.
Bahr al-Ghazal Base
The Sudd, South Sudan
The Caliphate of Arabia
The painted children’s chanting raised the hairs on the back of Tom Weathers’s neck. The bonfire capered high, throwing yellow flames and brown smoke spires into the face of the dense Sudd night. His eyes watered to the smoke of the pungent dried acacia he’d hyperflown in for the ritual. The fire cackled as if it had a life of its own.
He imagined Noel Matthews inside that fire. Twisting. Screaming. Charring. Melting. But he knew that couldn’t be. Matthews was a fucking teleport. Tom would have to finish him fast. Yeah, you think you’re so smart, Meadows, you fuck, he thought. But I got your number. Sleep is for the weak anyway.
He surveyed the circle of small faces, human and otherwise, all shades turned orange by firelight, eagerly watching him. He could feel their hunger: to strike out at the world that threatened them. That made them hurt. Could see it in the feral glitter of their eyes, hear it in their chanting: Death, death, death to imperialists! Death, death, death!
The same rage and desire burned in his own chest, bared and painted in violent smears and jags and drenched in glittering Sudd sweat. “Yes, death,” he cried out, throwing his arms up over his head, baying like a wolf at the moon. “It’s time for justice. Time for righteous payback! Down with the oppressors. Bring them death!”
The twisted children howled in reply.
His cell phone rang.
Tom’s ring tone came from Jefferson Airplane’s “Volunteers of America.” Grace Slick screaming, “Up against the wall, motherfucker!” Appropriate as the sentiment was, the interruption pissed him off.
He dug in the hip pocket of his faded blue jeans, pulled out the phone, and flipped it open. When he saw the caller’s name he waved his hand at the circle of chanting children. “Wait one. Got to take this.” Turning away from the bonfire, he hunched over and pressed the phone to his ear. “Heilian? This isn’t a good time-”
“No,” she said in her best clipped secret-cop colonel voice. “You must listen now. The Nshombos’ private yacht. Get there at once.”
Dr. Nshombo’s Yacht
Kongoville, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
A few lights stretched wavering yellow fingers across dark water. The big yacht itself showed few lights, though its white hull gleamed like sun-bleached bone.
With a loud thump Tom landed on the hand-polished hardwood deck a few yards aft of the superstructure. Damn, he thought, misjudged a bit. As he straightened a voice shouted in angry French from his left.
Thrusting a hand into his pants pocket, Tom turned. A Leopard Man in mufti-slacks, a dark T-shirt with a Miami Vice sports coat over it, the inevitable blackout shades, and leopard-skin fez-was hauling a Micro UZI
