Vigilante Run. Don Pendleton

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      Rook had known for some time that the CNY Purists used the Whiteshirts to distribute drugs throughout Whiteshirt territory. The white supremacist philosophy of the Purists did not seem to get in the way of using an allegedly inferior race to extend their reach and their profits. The fact that most of the customers were of the same race as their subcontractor pushers was probably something the Purists thought greatly amusing.

      Rook didn’t care about most of that. He didn’t care about the politics, he didn’t care about the socioeconomic impact of crime in the city, and he didn’t care who was selling what to whom. That was a job for the police—a job they’d been failing at for some time. For years city leaders had resolutely denied that there were gangs operating in Syracuse, despite what everyone knew to be true. Rook could never understand how they thought pretending the problem didn’t exist would change reality.

      All that mattered to Rook was that hurting the Whiteshirts would hurt the Purists. The more Rook kept up the pressure, the more he hurt them, the easier it would be to hurt them again. He would go on hurting them, too, until he’d gotten them all or until he was dead.

       Jennifer deserved no less.

      The heavy metal door gave under Rook’s booted foot, swinging inward on rusted hinges. The interior of the club was dark and smoke filled, some of it cigar and cigarette, some of it pot, all of it illegal in a state that outlawed smoking in all public buildings. Rook almost laughed out loud as he considered administering the death penalty for this particular violation.

      He shot the first man he saw. In the darkness, with his pupils contracted from the outside light, he could barely see at all. He targeted shadows and movement, emptying both revolvers in an ear-stinging fusillade. He shot the bartender. He shot a waitress running for the back, where he presumed an exit through the rudimentary kitchen offered faint hope of safety. The revolvers clicked empty and he holstered them. Switching to his 1911s, he hammered slugs through furniture and people. There was no resistance and no shots were fired at him.

      It had been a slaughter.

      As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Rook counted a pair of Whiteshirts near the door and three more sprawled on the floor by the bar. The other bodies were collateral damage. Rook dismissed them. Anyone in the club was up to no good, regardless of their connection—or lack of it—to the Purists.

      Rook spun on his heel and made for the door. He knew he’d have to move fast. The cops were never far from this part of town. He needed to be a long way away before they arrived on the scene. In the meantime, another message—and another declaration of war—had been left for the Purists, courtesy of their hired help.

      P ICK M C W ILLIAMS , dressed in a gold shirt and khaki pants in an attempt to blend with the crowd, sat in the airport bar nursing a beer. He glanced around nervously and checked his watch again. He’d checked the boards. The man Trogg had called “Kohler’s guest” was late because his flight had been delayed. McWilliams had been waiting for almost two hours and was getting stiff and sore.

      McWilliams was trying in vain to signal the bartender from his booth for another beer when he saw the man enter the lounge. McWilliams had no physical description to go by, but this newcomer had to be the right guy. His eyes never stopped moving. He watched every corner of the bar almost at once as he stalked through it like he wanted to kill everyone. If what Trogg had said about Kohler’s brief phone call was true, the guy could kill everyone there, McWilliams thought.

      The newcomer zeroed in on McWilliams almost immediately, his eyes narrowing as he took in the biker’s out-of-date clothing. He made his way to the booth and sat without invitation, his hands hidden beneath the table.

      “Well. Aren’t you a piece of work,” he said. His voice was smooth, deep and quiet. It was the voice of a man who didn’t shout, who didn’t repeat himself. It was the voice of a man who was used to getting what he wanted the first time he asked.

      “Pick,” McWilliams said, extending a hand. The man’s gaze flickered to it disdainfully before centering on his face. McWilliams withdrew his hand, feeling like a sucker, and swallowed his pride. Getting angry with this dangerous bastard would only get his ticket punched.

      “Carleton,” the man said.

      McWilliams didn’t know if it was a first name or a last name. He did not ask. Carleton was maybe five-nine, five-ten, and nearly two hundred pounds. His hair was cropped close; his face was outlined by a severely trimmed mustache and beard. He was wearing a black button-down silk shirt, a subdued black-and-gray tie and black slacks under an expensive looking trench coat that might have been Armani. McWilliams didn’t know if Armani made coats, but he knew money when he saw it. This Carleton did well for himself and had a big Rolex watch on his wrist to show for it.

      “I was told someone would meet me,” Carleton said.

      McWilliams said nothing. He produced a large manila envelope and slid it across the table.

      “Next time,” Carleton said with a sigh, “slide it under the table.” He opened the folder while holding it out of sight between his body and the wall against which the booth was set. Looking up at McWilliams from behind small, round, wire-frame glasses, his gaze flickered left and right before coming to rest on the biker again. He said nothing.

      “What?” McWilliams finally asked.

      “I was just thinking that Kohler strikes me as a lot more professional than, well, you,” he said. “What’s a worm like you doing in his employ?”

      “I don’t work for him,” McWilliams said. “I’m with the Purists.”

      “I’m sure you are,” Carleton said, waving one black-gloved hand. His tone was clear. He didn’t know or care who or what the Purists might be. “Regardless, when Kohler contacted me he said he had a serious problem. If I had a serious problem, I would hardly send the likes of you to convey it.”

      “Now just wait a minute,” McWilliams began, finding his nerve. “Just who the hell do you—”

      Something jabbed him.

      “Ow!” McWilliams jumped in his seat. “What did you just do?”

      “Mr. Pick,” Carleton said, cutting off the biker before McWilliams could protest, “have you heard the expression ‘shoot the messenger’?”

      McWilliams started to go for the revolver in the back of his waistband, but his arms suddenly felt heavy and warm. He kept trying to reach for the gun, but his limbs wouldn’t obey. His head felt wobbly as he looked at Carleton, confused.

      Carleton smiled tightly. “Thank you for the information. Good day.”

      McWilliams could only watch as his visitor stood and strode out of the bar, the envelope in one hand. As the well-dressed man swept past a trash can at the entrance, he dropped something in it. McWilliams caught a glimpse of what he thought was a syringe.

      He was already slumping in his chair, his throat closing, his breath catching as he tried and failed to cry out. He struggled to draw air, feeling and hearing the croak that left his lips.

      Eventually, someone in the bar noticed him sitting there, flailing, and rushed over to try the Heimlich maneuver. By then it was far too late. Pick McWilliams was dead of anaphylactic shock before the EMTs were even called.

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