Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [125]
“Then who is going to do it?”
Jack paused, not quite believing what he was about to say. “I will.”
“You? Why should you do it?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because you don’t owe Vince anything.”
That wasn’t exactly true, but the fact that Vince had once stood up to a crazed hostage taker and negotiated for Theo’s release wasn’t the driving force here. “This isn’t about who owes what to whom,” said Jack.
Her eyes welled. “You couldn’t be more wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you understand? I owe everybody. I betrayed my husband. The lover I took turned out to be the man who murdered our daughter. Vince lost his sight trying to save McKenna from him. It’s time for me to step up and do something about it.”
Jack couldn’t argue with her feelings.
“I’ll make the delivery,” she said. “That’s final.”
Jack followed her through the revolving door, and they climbed into the back of the cab. Shada announced the address.
“Bengali Town?” the driver said. “Nothing much open up that way at two A.M.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Shada. “Hurry, please.”
Chapter Sixty-seven
The cell rang just as the Dark finished untying the ropes. He pressed the gun to Paulo’s forehead and checked the incoming number. It was Littleton calling from his encrypted line at Black Ice. The Dark took it, but only briefly.
“I’m not alone,” he said. “Call me back in ten minutes.”
He tucked his cell away and started retying the knots.
“What are you doing?” asked Paulo. “I have to use the bathroom.”
“You’re just going to have to wait.”
He pulled the rope snug and placed duct tape over Paulo’s mouth. “Just a precaution,” said the Dark. “Like I told you: Yell, scream, kick, and stomp all you want. We’re the only ones in this building.”
He tucked his pistol into his belt and locked the door on his way out. There was an emergency stairwell at the end of the hall, and the LED on his key chain provided sufficient light to find it. The lock on the fire door at street level was busted—probably the work of vagrants—making it easy to come and go. He stepped into the cold night and checked things out. Traffic was nonexistent, and the wet pavement glistened in the fuzzy glow of streetlights. Hanging out in front of the abandoned hotel could draw the attention of the police, so he walked to the corner and waited for Littleton’s call.
The neighborhood was in late-night lockdown, storefronts hidden behind roll-down security shutters or accordion-style metal doors. A stray cat scurried past him on the sidewalk and disappeared into a burned-out shell of a condemned building. Windows in the flats above the shops were dark, save for one. Standing on the corner, he could see right inside. A television threw more than enough light to reveal all to the outside world, and it was surprising how many residents lacked the sense to pull the bedroom shade. Not long ago that the White Chapel rapist had walked these streets. People had short memories. Most people. Not the Dark, especially not when it came to rape—the rape of his youngest sister.
Stop it, the Dark told himself, angry for having allowed his thoughts to turn to his own ugly past. He checked his watch. Four more minutes until Littleton would call back—an eternity when there was nothing to do but dodge his own memories. In his mind’s eye, he could see the tears on her face, the terror in Samira’s eyes.
Her clothes were torn, and when she finally stopped sobbing, he could hear the fear in her voice. She didn’t want to talk, but as he dragged the truth out of her, Habib could almost smell the other men—men she did not know by name, but from her description, the Dark knew it was al-Shabaab. Probably even men he had worked beside in Mogadishu. Habib took his sister to Abukar—Jamal Wakefield’s father—for justice.
“Do you have four male witnesses?” asked Abukar.
“Samira was raped,” said Habib. “The only witnesses are the men who did this to her.”
“Have these men confessed?”
“The punishment is death,” Habib said. “Why on earth would