Repairman Jack [02]-Legacies

Fortunately, Muhallal had survived. Yoshio wanted the Arab alive. He was the only one besides the Clayton brother who knew why the Clayton house was so valuable.

He watched Baker rage at the night as the remaining man he had sent to guard the rear raced back to the front yard. Yoshio rolled down his window to hear what Baker was screaming.

"Who is this guy? I want him! I want him! Who are you, you fucker? Show yourself! Let's do it! You and me! That's all! No tricks! Just you and me!" Baker's voice rose to a screech. "Who the fuck are you?"

Good question, Yoshio thought. Who is this ronin!

Obviously, he was more than mere hired muscle. He was a man who was comfortable with violence but used it judiciously, and with style. He was a man experienced in his line of work and intended to stay in it for the long run—as witness this skillfully booby-trapped house. The house told Yoshio that the ronin planned far ahead and might well be prepared for almost any eventuality.

Which meant Yoshio would have to be especially cautious in his next move.

For Yoshio was determined to meet the ronin before Muhallal and Baker, by some blind luck, blundered into him and killed him. Yoshio was sure the ronin knew something, had learned something in that house.

He resisted the urge to gun his engine and follow him. He calculated the risks and decided it unwise to drive past the house right now. Baker or one of his thugs might empty a clip or two from their assault pistols at him. He had little faith in their accuracy, but a lucky slug might pierce his gas tank or—worse yet—pierce him.

No, he would catch up to them back in Manhattan.

Then he would learn what those two had discovered in the Clayton house.

20.

"Really, Jack," Alicia said. "I want to go home."

Or at least get out of the car. She felt queasy.

Instead of heading back to the city, Jack had continued east, racing toward the tip of Long Island. He'd taken them into the Hamptons, and then turned north until they'd come to the quaint houses and deserted marinas of Sag Harbor. Now they were pulling into the parking lot of something called the Surfside Inn. Alicia knew there was no surf in Sag Harbor; in fact, this crummy-looking motel wasn't even near the water.

"We can't risk heading back to the city," Jack said. "They're hurting, but I don't know what kind of reserves that Arab's got. He could have spotters waiting out on the highways, looking to follow us back home. So I say, let's take the long way home."

"All right, let's." She just wanted tonight to be over. "So why are we stopping here?"

"To spend the night." He held up his hand before she could speak. "Trust me. We head back in the morning, no one will find us. We try it tonight, there could be more rough stuff."

Damn him, she thought. He knows exactly what to say. The last thing she wanted was more violence.

"All right," she said, surrendering. "But can't we find a better place than this?"

"We're not exactly in season," Jack said. "This place is open, it's got its 'Vacancy' sign lit, and we'll only be here half a dozen hours or so. And best of all, its parking lot isn't visible from the road. Wait here."

Before she could object, he was out of the car and heading toward the office.

Alicia closed her eyes, trying to blank her mind. This was all a nightmare. None of this had happened. Soon she'd wake up and find it all had been an ugly dream.

She jumped at the sound of a tap on the window: Jack—holding up a key and motioning her toward a row of doors to the left of the car. With a groan, she got out and followed him. Her limbs dragged… her marrow had turned to lead.

Jack opened a door marked "17" and held it open for her. As she stepped inside, he followed and closed the door behind him.

Slightly better decorated than Jack's "country place," but just as mildewy. Flowered drapes matched the spreads on the two double beds, but not the rug.

"Which do you want?" Jack said.

"Which what?"

"Which bed."

"You've got to be kidding," she said. "We're sharing a room? Look, things maybe be tight, but I can spring for—"

"Money's got nothing to do with it. It's the safest way." He pointed to the beds again. "So, which one?"

Alicia pointed to the one nearer the bathroom. God, she wanted a shower—she craved a shower—but she had no clean clothes to change into, so what was the use?

"That one."

"All right," he said, sitting and bouncing on the other. "Then this one's mine." He lowered his voice to a Charlton Heston baritone. "But let's get something straight, young lady: I know you're mad crazy about me, but I don't want you getting any ideas."

He's trying to reassure me, she thought, and had to smile. "Somehow I'll manage to restrain myself."

"Good," he said. "Because I'm taken."