Blackjack Read Free Page B

other, a larger row of instruments with read-out dials. Next to the graphs and meters on each side stood a stack of CDs, all neatly labeled by the same process that slid them out every few minutes.
    The room itself was underground and windowless. Theonly sound was the whisper of the machines used to keep the computers at a constant temperature.
    On the monitor: projected views of crime scenes, all slaughter-homicides.
    Five people were present, their eyes fixed on the screen.
    “What makes those Pentagon pussies so sure this guy knows any more than they do?” The speaker was a double-wide male—not especially tall, but almost frighteningly massive. His body lacked sharply defined muscle; it looked more like extruded power, stretching the man’s skin to its limits. Even his black-and-gray hair appeared to be a tightly plastered cap.
    The man was wearing a T-shirt, with a hard-plastic shoulder holster hanging under his left arm. The MAC-10 it carried looked like a toy against its bulky human backdrop.
    “It won’t hurt to hear him out. Just let him take a look at what we’ve got, Percy.” The speaker was a slim, blond man, neatly dressed in agency-issue standard. Every aspect of his appearance was bland.
    “He’ll go along with our conditions?” a thickly built but very shapely woman with a mane of tiger-striped hair asked. She was wearing a one-piece spandex outfit, a pair of long, thin knives strapped to the outside of one thigh. That same thigh’s muscle-flex was clearly visible as she swung one booted foot up onto the table.
    “He’s already on his way, Tiger,” said a doll-faced Asian woman in a white lab coat. She held a clipboard in one hand, studying it closely through oversized round glasses. “That’s confirmed, Tracker?”
    The man she addressed simply nodded. He was an American Indian, with high, prominent cheekbones, red-bronze skin, jet-black hair, and dark, hooded eyes.
    “Excellent, Wanda,” the blond man said. “He’s supposed to be the leading authority on serial killers. Not only solveda number of significant cases, but predicted their moves as well. The FBI wants nothing to do with him. Probably because he’s publicly mocked their alleged ‘profiles.’ ”
    “This has got nothing,
nothing
to do with serial killers, damn it!” Percy barked out. “What the hell’s wrong with these wimps? They want to
study
this thing? That ain’t the answer to the problem.”
    “What
is
the answer?” Wanda asked, a wisp of a smile playing across her lips.
    “The answer?” Percy grunted his disgust. “Same as it always is. We find it; we kill it. No different from what
it’s
been doing all over the world. Am I right?” he demanded, opening his arms in a gesture meant to involve the whole room.
    Only Tiger nodded in agreement.
    A light glowed on a console in front of Wanda. “He’s here,” she said. “Everybody ready?”
    Only the blond man responded. To Wanda, only the blond man mattered. She leaned forward, her mouth close to a tiny microphone, and whispered, “Bring him down.”

    THE FOUR-INCH-THICK , bunker-style door opened slowly and silently. A short, husky man entered. He was in his fifties, with close-cropped hair, wearing slightly tinted glasses. His stride was that of a man heavily endowed with “no need to prove it” self-assurance.
    Everybody in the room had been told what to expect: a top-tier professional, the best at what he did.
    Tracker scanned for egotism; Tiger for her version of the same weakness. Percy performed a lightning-quick threat assessment, all three warriors operating on autopilot.
    The blond man and Wanda simply waited.
    The man did not enter alone—he was air-sandwiched between two others. One stepped ahead of him, the other close behind. Both were dressed in simple gray jumpsuits and matching watch caps. One carried a submachine gun in a sling, the other held a short-barreled semi-auto, blued against glare. Their faces were so alike they could be