This was just like The Old Job. Every adjustment mark feared 4:30 AM. The ones with brains would be ready. By 4:45 they had the door sighted in. By 5:00 they were all hell on edge. By 5:30, more of whatever kept such people half awake was imbibed, and they went to bed, no doors getting kicked in until midnight at the least. Now, it was generally more of an interview. But, some people had that old kind of power and the swag to remain unadjusted.
He took—did not make, had not made, but TOOK—a left off Washington onto MLK. There it was, in the dawn of night, a stupid autocar with its flashers on, stopped, having made a civic arrest of the passenger, who, it seemed, was drunk. Adjuster Brule eased his charger around that cuck car, as he named them in his mind. Lisa and Plane Jane had been left safely at the door of their apartment, a door he watched open, admit them and close. It was midnight now, his lonely, seeking soul rampant as it was, calmed by the heavy glug of his classic car.
She glided around an autobus, as it let off a few African dignitaries come in late from the airport. Their detail, the two rental goons, did not do such a bad job, eyed him appropriately, and ushered their charges across MLK to the hotel.
“Ten after midnight,” he spoke to his lesser self, “No time like go time. Easy, now…” and he cut his phone.
Around the block one time, “Don’t run over the kid on the bike… That’s it. Nice and easy, son…”
The clock on the dash read 12:14. He was not permitted to adjust, had no warrant, and was officially on vacation. This was not even Internal Affairs. He was off the books, here, just west of Perdition, where he liked it. But, but?, something stunk about this. He had been given the assignment to complete before 12:30. It felt wrong, felt like a set-up. His car was windowed in to the parking garage between 12 and 12:15.
Shrugging at the menacing unknown. He dropped his wrist phone into the belt box [1] below his slight, ever so slight, but inconvenient, gut. He unclipped his earbud, that disc that kept him one with the Eye in the Sky; his ever act recorded by whoever ran his bosses at UA. This went into the slide of the belt box.
Like that, Adjuster Brule was Drake again; alone, on patrol, on the Old Job, with the lamp and the 9MM—how he hated the feel of that Glock in his hand—like a block it was. He had no lamp (the one on his wrist locked away) and had something better than a pop-pop-pop Glock-block to slide into his business hand.
The screen of the parking gate lit green and the mechanical voice of some computer guy welcomed him, “Greetings to our Nigerian friends, from the George Washington Hotel, your vehicle is welcome on P-7.”
‘Slick,’ he thought, ‘this was well thought out. Refrigeration. Go figure that this off the grid mobster fell into my wheelhouse because of refrigerant billing? Some HVAC guy squealed? Goes to show that you never know. This bastard has some kind of server he’s cooling up there on F-14? Command thinks he’s making counterfeit rounds. Cash was so much more cool—or was it?’
He eased the car up and around to P-7, ‘It’s only 12:17, 13 minutes to play.’
There was not a soul in sight. He passed by six open spaces slowly, then backed into the one furthest from the stairs. ‘This feels all wrong.’
He cut the engine, put it in neutral, stepped out with one foot to give her a little push, and closed that door with an audible thunk, as his Black Delilah became a go-cart. This was like being a brat on Staten Island in the 1980s! His breathing eased as she slowly picked up speed. There had been an open spot at the bottom of the ramp between P-1 and P-2.
‘Easy on the brakes, Hot Shot,’ he warned the eternal rookie in his soul.
Tense seconds melted into a minute of suspense. Not a soul offended his easy glide down to P-1. The dash clock turned over to 12:19 as he eased in. He put her in park, slid out in the gray half dark, checked under his jacket, and felt his vest there.
His weapon, that reliable S&W .38 Bodyguard, rode on his hip, just below the belt, above the jacket where He lived; on His Master’s belt. The bead stead, piece, its sister, was just as reliable. They both worked downrange twice weekly. But, the back-up in the ankle holster simply never felt right. She was there, though, on Her Master’s ankle where an obedient slave girl should cling. That was only ten rounds. The reload was there in his left front pocket, for a maximum sub-military carry of 15.
‘Military—that might have been more fun. Too many bosses. All good, Hot Shot. You’re where you belong.
‘Inventory is endless in this line of work,’ he mused as he spied a manual car, an actual Jeep Gladiator that some rich boy must drive. That would be his hunting blind. He slid between his Charger and a lame auto SUV and along the back wall. The autocars did leave knee space along the back of the row. Nothing like automated liability programming to keep an operator’s options open.
His steel tactical pen was in his chest pocket for the right ice pick draw.
The yank knife was buckled to his belt over the left hip for a left side ice pick draw.
His Microbench quick dirk was in the front slacks pocket for a right-handed true draw.
The fedora went into the suit coat pocket over the spleen, which was still there.
‘As ready as can be—the suit jacket and slacks, oh well,’ he coaxed himself down, on his old tail bone, his low black shoes gripping the concrete, his hands, not as strong as they once were, but at least not ruined by some scrap job, holding the grill of the Jeep as he slid under it. Within a ten count he was nestled on his back, peeking out from behind that big tire, waiting for that feeling, that keening in his mind, that would tell him it was time to kick off.
‘All good—all good. That fat bastard in the penthouse thinks he’s not adjustable. He has no idea. Two roving security for 14 floors?’ the Adjuster’s threat inventory kicked into gear:
‘Building security, that’s one, can’t kill that poor son of a bitch. The floor man. The door man. The suite man. What, the hooker, the cook, the accountant—please. No wonder they’re setting me up. Rival operating system? Maybe a higher operating system?’
The door to the stairwell yawned open and then rang shut, bringing Drake completely into the zone, his zone, a place where others dare not accept the invite, especially not on the wrong side of night.
‘All good Hot Shot…’
Notes
1.) A belt box is a lead-lined Faraday Cage for safe storage of Adjustment Phones. Those large black wrist watches made it all official.
2.) The Smith & Wesson M&P Bodyguard 38 delivers a combination of accuracy and simplicity for personal protection needs. With its lightweight design, it is an ideal choice for concealed carry and personal protection. This Bodyguard model is a double action only with a 1.88in barrel, black ramp front sight with an integral rear sight, one-piece aluminum alloy upper frame, ambidextrous cylinder ...
