Extracto
Chapter One
The church was dark until John Fortunato struck the match. The point of light revealed rows of votive candles in red glass sleeves. John touched the match to a wick.
"God keep you, Jamie Doolan," he murmured.
He blew out the match and watched its wisp of blue smoke curl upward.
The vast blackness of the church seemed to swallow the flicker of light from the candle. But as a cloud passed away from the moon, the stained-glass figure of a resurrected Christ was illuminated high above him.
John had intended to light the candle and go. Now, cradling the camera he'd brought with him, he took a seat in a pew and regarded the image of the risen Savior. He never tired of looking at it. The mosaic of leaded glass was what he held on to: his image of God.
Of redemption.
His grandfather, Michelangelo Fortunato, had created the window. Had built the Church of the Resurrection. Then the immigrant artisan had gone on to construct a fair part of the town of Elk River around the limestone church.
John had likewise left his mark--not upon the town, where all could see, but somewhere none would ever know.
John stepped out of the church.
Another cloud bank rolled in, drawing a curtain across the moon. The loss of its light didn't bother him. Darkness was an old friend. But he felt a sudden chill, a sense of menace, in this night that made his heart beat faster. To his surprise, long-dormant combat instincts came bristling back, and he wished he had his M-16 in his hands again instead of the Nikon around his neck.
John knew his hometown as well as he knew the lines in his face and the scars on his soul, and every instinct he had told him that something was very wrong that Sunday night.
He began to walk east from the church. He stayed on the park side of Riverfront Drive. The expanse of Riverfront Park on his right was dark and peaceful: a chorus of cicadas provided the respiratory buzz of a landscape at rest.
But to his left, toward town, something was definitely wrong. A predator was waiting out there . . . waiting to spring. As he drew even with Lincoln Avenue, the town's main commercial street, John stepped behind the statue of the Great Emancipator that dominated the park.
From behind its pedestal, he let his eyes follow Lincoln's bronze gaze out over the sleeping town. He didn't see a soul on the street, but still his uneasiness grew.
In any normal time, he would have felt foolish, peeking out from shelter as if he expected to be attacked. Elk River, Illinois, was Heartland America, the kind of picture-postcard small town where you could walk the streets at night and not be afraid.
Or it had been until just last week.
Now, the town was entering the second week of a strike against its major employer, Pentronics Systems. Over 3,500 workers, 95 percent of the company's workforce and a fifth of Elk River's population, were off the job and on the picket line. Negotiations had broken off the first day of the walkout and showed no signs of resuming. If anything, the dispute promised to become uglier. The possibility of violence was on everyone's mind, had people on edge, watching their backs.
Staying in the shadows, John continued on to the next street, Washington, then turned north, quickly crossing Riverfront Drive. His destination was the storefront office of the Brotherhood of Manufacturing Workers, Local 274, at the corner of Washington and First, and the closer John came to the union office, the stronger his feeling of foreboding became.
The Pentronics walkout was being led by Tommy Boyle, the president of Local 274 and John's closest relative. John was on his way to talk with Tommy about creating a photographic record of the strike. Even though it was late, he knew Tommy would still be on the job.
He was edging up to the corner of Washington and First when he heard a voice curse.
"Fuck." A male voice. Angry. Maybe anxious, too.
John stopped dead in his tracks.
He heard a door being rattled forcefully, and another curse. Then soft footsteps moved off to the west along First Street. John stole a look around the corner.
A large man dressed in dark clothes was moving toward Lincoln Avenue. The man walked swiftly and silently, turning his head from side to side as if looking to see if he was being followed. John was sure that the man had been trying to get into the darkened office of Local 274, but he didn't know why. Or which side he was on.
John ducked back around the corner just before the man turned to look behind him.
Tommy would want to know what he'd seen, John knew. So he turned and made his way back toward Riverfront Drive. Since Tommy wasn't at the deserted union office, John thought he'd have to be with his picketers on the line outside Pentronics Systems.
The plant was a half mile west of the Church of the Resurrection. He'd have to retrace his steps. But just as he'd turned onto Riverfront, John heard the sudden mechanical roar of an engine. He knew it was a car, but the image that immediately came to mind was of a Cobra attack helicopter coming in for a strafing run.
Ahead of him, the man he'd seen walking away from Local 274 came running out of Lincoln Avenue, turned the corner onto Riverfront, and headed straight for John. Just behind the man, like some dark, snarling monster torn from a nightmare, a lights-out black sedan raced out of the soft April night.
John did the only thing he could. He flicked on his flash unit and its battery pack, and heard the capactitator whine as it powered up the unit. He pulled off his lens cap, and raised his motor-driven Nikon to his eye.
The car overtook the runner with predatory ease, veering up onto the sidewalk to block his path. The runner desperately reversed his direction, dashing back the way he'd come. The car slammed to a stop with an assist from the brick wall of Riverman Savings. Before it stopped rocking, the back doors flew open and two hulks pounded after the runner.
No one had yet noticed John. If he went now, he could slip away unseen. Except he'd never be able to explain flaking out to Doolan.
He tripped the shutter. To his ear, the Nikon on full automatic screamed as it drove the 1000 ASA film through the camera. A fusillade of searing white light erupted from his flash unit. He caught one of the hulks cutting the chase short with a silenced handgun. The weapon's noiseless flash left the runner writhing on the ground.
John snapped frame after frame, wondering if he'd capture the moment when a man was murdered. A movement at the edge of his lens drew his attention back to the black sedan.
The front window on the passenger side was sliding down, and the first thing--the only thing--John saw was the barrel of the gun pointed at him. He aimed the Nikon at the car, keeping the camera stationary while he ducked down and to the left. His flash unit popped off another series of electronic firecrackers.
The idea was to draw the gunfire to the light and blind the shooter at the same time.
Some idea. The SOB shot the strobe unit off his camera. The Nikon spun from John's grip, but the strap looped around his arm and he pinned it at his elbow.
The next two shots missed. Badly. The shooter had caught the glare from the strobe. John sprinted across the street toward Riverfront Park. Behind him, he heard heavy footsteps followed seconds later by car doors slamming, the snarl of an engine, and screeching tires.
Now, he'd become the runner.
But he was into the trees--and the sheltering darkness--before the car could catch him. He heard footsteps crashing through the bushes behind him, and shots were fired blindly, some of them coming chillingly close.
He needed a hole in the ground, and he had one. He raced down a path to a shadowy stand of trees and shrubs where he bent down. Even in the dark his fingers quickly found the release that secured the camouflaged lid to the tunnel entrance. He lifted it, slithered into the hole he'd dug years before, and lowered the lid from below.
He was safe--as long as his tunnels stayed secret.
Chapter Two
The sniper lit up Davey Morowski.
One minute poor little Mo was walking point, and the next you could see daylight through him. Seemed he never should've been able to stand up to so many rounds for so long. That fucking machine gun just kept hammering him, and Mo just stayed on his feet, jerking and dancing backward. Like he could bow away from death.
Platoon Sergeant Jamie Doolan didn't know why the sniper had been dumb enough to light up the point man instead of waiting for more of the squad to come into view. He didn't know why the sniper stayed with Mo so long when he had to be dead after the first few rounds, even if he was still upright. Doolan didn't know and he didn't care. Stupid or just plain green, the fucking dink had given the other seven men in the squad, all bunched up behind Doolan like dumbasses, time to dive into a gully and save themselves.
"Doolan, hey, Doolan," Sp4 Timothy Washington whispered, "what's this crazy fuckin' cherry doin'?"
Doolan didn't take his eyes off the tree line. He was looking for the machine gun that had just smoked poor Mo, and Washington was asking him stupid questions. Shit, there were three cherries in First Squad--that's why he was humpin' with them--but he didn't have time to baby-sit them now.
But Washington wouldn't give up.
"Look at 'im, man."
"Who, goddamnit?"
"Johnny Fortune."
Fortunato? Of the three cherries, he was the last one Doolan figured would flake out. He turned to look and was surprised to see Fortunato right next to him, right between him and Washington.
He was sitting there with his back against the gully wall and his eyes closed. Peaceful. Like he was taking a nap, didn't have a fucking care in the world. All the others were looking around everywhere, eyes bugging out, heads jerking back and forth, expecting to get their shit scattered any second now. And Johnny Fortune was taking a snooze. Jamie Doolan was dumbfounded.
He didn't see any blood on Fortunato, hadn't thought the sniper had hit anyone except Mo. Still, he asked.
"You hit?"
"He freakin' out, that's what," Washington said.
Johnny Fortune didn't open his eyes, didn't say a word. He just pointed, and that's when Doolan saw it: a trip wire running through the grass. Seven guys had dived into the gully and they'd been out-the-ass lucky enough not to trigger it. The sniper hadn't been dumb. He'd just thought he'd explode their asses for them.
"Don't move," Doolan hissed down the line to his men. "Look around for trip wires and mines. Just point if you see anything."
Elston and Burnside pointed. More booby traps. Fuck! Diving into these weeds, this gully, not setting anything off, they'd been luckier than a busload of gimps getting cured at Lourdes.
Washington was still staring at Johnny Fortune.
"You jist happen to notice that wire while your ass was divin' for cover?" he asked. "How the fuck you know that thing was there?"
Doolan stuck to the point.
"Better question is how the fuck do we get outta here? We call for air support to blast that sniper, who knows what shit Charlie pulls on us while we're waitin'?" A small shudder ran through him. "Got no fuckin' choice on this one. Tim, you watch the trees for the muzzle flash. I'm gonna shag my ass back onto the path--for just a second. Try to get that fuckin' dink before--"
Fortunato silenced Doolan by placing his index finger to his lips. Neither Doolan nor Washington could believe it. They gaped at him. Fuckin' cherry, still sitting there with his eyes closed, looking more unconscious than ever, telling them to shut the fuck up.
Like he shouldn't be disturbed.
Then before they could say a word Johnny Fortune popped up, whirled, fired the clip from his M-16 into the tree line, and was back in the gully before they heard the sniper's shriek.
"Fuck me," Washington murmured, "he dinged the dink."
Doolan stared at Fortunato. The cherry was only now opening his eyes. The platoon sergeant was sure he'd fired with his eyes closed. Then Johnny Fortune popped up again and was out of the gully and sprinting for the tree line.
When Doolan caught up with him he was taking off his goddamn pants. Fuckin' guy even shushed him again before he could get the first word out. Then he pointed to a hole in the ground that Doolan hadn't even noticed, he was so charged up.
The dink who'd gone down it hadn't had the time to pull the trapdoor closed.
Well, maybe he hadn't been able to; there was an awful lot of blood leading down into that hole. By now, Washington had crept up and, to Doolan's surprise, was giving Johnny his 16. Fortunato had already put his own rifle down one of the legs of the pants he'd removed. He put Washington's down the other. Then he tied his boots to the pant legs.
He'd made a decoy. Before he lowered it into the hole, Fortunato gestured to Doolan with cocked fingers that he should be ready to shoot.
Then he lowered the decoy into the hole in the ground. No sooner had the empty boots touched bottom than out popped a blood-drenched dink who slashed the crotch out of Johnny's empty pants with a bayonet.
It was hard to say who was more surprised, the dink or Jamie Doolan. They just gaped at each other.
"Fire, fuckhead!" Fortunato yelled.
So Doolan did.
Goddamn Johnny Fortune had done it again. He'd known the dink was waiting there ready to ambush the first grunt dumb enough to jump into that hole. He'd known it without any way of knowing. After he'd somehow been able to shoot the guy with his fuckin' eyes closed.
Platoon Sergeant Doolan intended to get some answers to this shit right goddamn now.
But, again, Johnny Fortune was too fast for him. He yanked the dink's body out of the hole, grabbed a .45 from Washington, and disappeared into the tunnel.
Doolan looked at the small, inky-black hole that had just eaten Johnny Fortune alive, olive drab underwear and all. It made him shudder.
Which was too fucking bad, because Doolan's pride wasn't going to let him do anything but follow Johnny Fortune right inside.
Chapter Three
The striking worker spat.
"Look at that prick up there." The man on the picket line outside the Pentronics Systems plant shook his head sourly. "Anthony Tiburon Hunt. Mr. High-and-Mighty. Makes me wanna puke."
Tommy Boyle, president of Local 274, Brotherhood of Manufacturing Workers, said nothing. He was already looking at the figure silhouetted against a window on the top floor of the executive office building.
"Lookin' down on us like ants he can't wait to step on," said another picketer.
"Bastard," a third added succinctly.
Tommy Boyle leaned his tall, hard frame against the front of his car and thought what a wonderful target Hunt made all backlit like that up there in his window. You couldn't miss him. Any marine who'd ever made it through