Palermo closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Exhaled slowly.
“We’re locking down till further notice, Marcton. Get word to Kendul. He’ll want to keep his eyes peeled for a similar attack on his Hunters. Maybe the Run happens later than usual, maybe not at all. But we need to regroup, figure this out as quickly as possible.”
Marcton nodded, joined the rest of the bustling Runners. Cleve stood to the side, grim-faced and sour, more affected by Derek’s death than he’d like to admit.
* * *
Carl Duncan woke up amidst the commotion, spat his wallet out of his mouth into his lap, said, “Having a little trouble?”
The entire crew – men, women, and children – was gathered around Palermo again, the building having been completely sealed up. Armed guards on every door, lookouts at all the windows. Palermo glared at Duncan hard, his breathing deep and steady.
“Just sayin’ ’cause it looks like you might’ve lost someone out there. Maybe a few someones. Hard to tell. But someone’s dead, that’s for sure.”
Palermo just stared and breathed for a moment. “Three down,” he said. Then: “Got one of yours, too, friend.”
Duncan looked around at all the hate staring back at him, wriggled in his chair. He wondered which of his friends it was. Decided he couldn’t let emotion affect what he and the others were trying to do.
He tongued the hole where one of his missing teeth used to be. Flinched at the pain. “So now you kill me, huh? Then what? What will that solve? You’re busted, uncovered. Yeah, we removed three of your pawns from the board, you got one of ours, big whoop. You’re cornered, motherfucker. Done.” He turned his head and spat a great gob of blood onto the floor.
“Killing doesn’t have to solve anything, Duncan. Sometimes it just has to be done. For no other reason than it brings great delight to the killer.” Palermo stepped forward, drove his fist into Duncan’s face once, hard. He considered the effectiveness of the action, then repeated this four more times. Duncan’s nose crumpled. Palermo leaned down, got right in Duncan’s face, locked eyes with him. “Still awake?” He slapped Duncan across the cheek twice, rousing him. “I want you to see the hammer that’s about to cave your face in.”
Duncan just grunted, nearly insensible. He mumbled something. Palermo leaned back, reached his hand out behind him, still looking at Duncan. Marcton handed him a large metal hammer. Palermo hefted its weight, brought it around to bear.
He moved it in front of Duncan’s line of sight, smacked his face again till his eyes focused on the hammer. “See it? Do you see it, you little piece of shit?”
Duncan dribbled more blood onto himself and closed his eyes. “Just fucking do it. You’ll be joining me soon enough. Soon enough… Just know that it was Bill Krebosche. His friends and family did this to you. For what you did to them. To us.”
He could see Palermo’s mind was whirling, searching, but evidently the name meant nothing to him.
Right before Duncan lost consciousness, Palermo brought the hammer down. Duncan felt the first two blows, then nothing else ever again.
* * *
When Carl Duncan had been pulled out of his car and dragged inside Palermo’s warehouse, William Krebosche dropped his binoculars, hung his head, and closed his eyes. He was lying flat on his belly in the deepening snow, four hundred feet away in a field close to the tracks upon which Palermo’s caboose sat. From his vantage point a little while later, he saw two men – one of the Runners, and one of his uncles – get killed. He saw the two remaining Runners scramble back to the warehouse, watched as guards appeared at all the windows, knew the place would be securely sealed now. Duncan would no doubt be dead soon. But that was OK. Krebosche just needed to remember all this. Needed to remember it had actually happened. Then, Duncan’s sacrifice would be worth it.
To ensure this, he’d been whispering the details of the events as they’d unfolded into a digital voice recorder tucked into the inside pocket of his parka. His memories had begun to fade minutes after he’d spoken, and he knew from experience that not only would he need to record the events themselves, but he would need to remind himself that the recording device held these memories. For this purpose, he had written CHECK RECORDING DEVICE: V. IMPORTANT on the backs of both of his hands, so he could not miss the message. Only parts of his past recordings made sense to him afterward, but he hoped that what he’d gotten tonight would be enough.
It was certainly more than he’d ever gotten before.
Krebosche stood up, brushed himself off, and thought of how he would break the news of his uncle’s death to his aunt. Never a good way to tell someone their loved one has died. But this was necessary. They all knew it was necessary. And they all knew the risks going in.
Now it was up to Krebosche to make it all worth it.
N I N E