A Perfect Machine(48)

Krebosche thought about it. His head spun. He didn’t know what to think anymore. But the thought that wouldn’t leave his head was: What if she isn’t dead? What if I really can see her again?

Palermo saw the wheels turning in Krebosche’s head, thought maybe this final card was worth playing after all. Not quite my final card, actually, he thought. Krebosche has no idea what Kyllo is, what he’s become. Neither do I, for that matter. Not really. But whatever it is, it’ll buy me time. And I’ll be among friends.

“Alright,” Krebosche said. “We’ll go see this Kyllo guy. But on the way, you’re going to explain what exactly you mean by ‘ascension.’ And if this is part of that trap I was gonna be walking into – the one where you were gonna take me to Adelina’s ‘real’ killer – you’d better rethink that. I see more than one person when we arrive–”

“I get it. I’m dead.”

“Yeah, you’re fucking dead.”

“I’ll have to get a message to my guys, tell them to go back to the warehouse. I’ll say the place they’re sitting on doesn’t need watching anymore.”

“Do it.”

“I’ll need my cellphone to send the text.” Palermo held his hands away from his body. “Right side pocket in my coat.”

Krebosche fished inside the pocket, drew out the phone. “I’ll do it. Tell me who to–”

That’s when Palermo went for the gun.

But, as Palermo had thought earlier, Krebosche was stronger than he looked, and even the element of surprise wasn’t enough for the older man to overpower him. Krebosche’s right hand chopped hard at Palermo’s left arm. The momentary grip he’d had on Krebosche fell away, and the gun was immediately back against his head.

“Do not try that again.” Krebosche fixed Palermo with a look so hard, he thought he was just going to blow his head off, anyway, warning be damned.

“Marcton,” Palermo finally said once his breathing had calmed.

“What?”

“That’s who you call. Marcton.”

Krebosche took a moment, straightened the sleeves on his coat, then tapped at the phone’s screen. “Found him. What do I say? And don’t think I’m stupid. I’ll know a code word if I hear it.”

“Just say, ‘Get off apartment. Go back to warehouse.’ That ought to do it.”

Krebosche scrolled through some of Palermo’s previous texts to Marcton, checking to see if the voice matched. If he wasn’t normally so brief, that in itself might be a code, a previously agreed-upon sign of trouble. But brevity seemed to be Palermo’s texting style. Krebosche was satisfied that it checked out. He typed the message with one hand, keeping an eye on Palermo the whole time. Clicked Send.

“I’ll just hang on to this, shall I?” Krebosche said. “One less thing for you to think about. Now, start the car. Let’s go.”

Palermo turned the key, pulled out once again into the storm.



* * *



In the Hummer, Marcton’s cell phone pinged.

“Check that for me, would ya, Cleve? Probably important.”

Cleve reached for Marcton’s phone where it sat on the dash. “Holy good fuck,” he said.

“What? Who’s it from?”

“Palermo.”

“Christ. Read it.”

“It says, ‘Get off apartment. Go back to warehouse.’” Cleve looked up from the screen. “Why would he think we’re at the apartment? He assigned two other Runners to that.”

“Yeah, he did,” Marcton said, slowing the Hummer down, pulling it over to the side of the road, popping it into Park. “It doesn’t add up. Palermo obviously knows who he assigned to the apartment, but he still sent that text.”

Cleve handed the phone to Marcton, who read the message himself. He texted back: Got it. “We gotta get those Runners off the apartment. Then we have to get there ourselves, but quietly, unseen.”

“Quietly. Unseen. In a Hummer,” said Cleve.

“Yeah,” said Marcton, smirking. “In a Hummer.”

“You got those guys’ number to call ’em off?”

“Call the warehouse, they’ll have it.”

“Why don’t you have it?”

“I don’t know, ’cause I fucking don’t, Cleve! Now call the warehouse!”

“Alright, Jesus,” Cleve said, dialing. “Just thought you were Palermo’s right-hand man and all that.” He held the phone to his ear.

“I am, Cleve, but he doesn’t always–”

Cleve held up a finger in a shushing motion, “It’s ringing,” he whispered, knowing he was bugging the shit out of Marcton.

But Marcton was in no mood for playing games. Cleve was obviously too stupid to realize how serious the situation was, but Marcton had been a high-ranking member for years longer than Cleve. Cleve was really only in the inner circle because of a good word Marcton had put in for him. Times like this, he regretted doing Cleve the favor.

He reached over, yanking the phone out of Cleve’s hand – which Cleve had fully expected. He laughed, and Marcton saw red – visions of smashing his fist into Cleve’s big dumb face over and again raced through his mind.