But then something snapped into Krebosche’s features – a hardness that was not there before. As suddenly as a light being switched on. And Palermo had seen this look before. Was reasonably sure he’d had the very same look when he’d hammered Carl Duncan to death in the warehouse.
“No,” Krebosche said, raising the gun to Palermo’s head, pressing it hard against his skull. “I’m going to do this. Because you deserve it. Whether your stories are true or not. Adelina is fucking gone. Along with my sister. And now so are you. I doubt even you can survive a bullet at this range.”
“Please, wait!” Palermo said in a rush, ashamed of his fear, but unable to control it. His mind scrambled for anything at all he could say to save his life. He realized he had only one card left to play. “I lied, OK, I lied! Two of our number have ascended. Henry Kyllo is the second person. He knows where Adelina is, and I swear I can take you right to him. I don’t know why, but he didn’t disappear like she did. And he knows. He knows where she is.”
“More bullshit just to save your life. Forget it. You’re done.”
But again, nagging doubts in Krebosche’s mind… Five seconds went by – the longest in Palermo’s life. His eyes were closed tight, waiting for the gun to erupt.
Then the gun was removed from his head, but still hovered close. He opened his eyes, looked at Krebosche, sweat beads forming and rolling down his forehead.
His voice low and dangerous, Krebosche said slowly, “Why didn’t you mention this Kyllo guy before?”
“I was trying to keep as much from you as possible. You’d’ve done the same in my position.”
Krebosche thought about it. His head spun. He didn’t know what to think anymore. But the thought that wouldn’t leave his head was: What if she isn’t dead? What if I really can see her again?
Palermo saw the wheels turning in Krebosche’s head, thought maybe this final card was worth playing after all. Not quite my final card, actually, he thought. Krebosche has no idea what Kyllo is, what he’s become. Neither do I, for that matter. Not really. But whatever it is, it’ll buy me time. And I’ll be among friends.
“Alright,” Krebosche said. “We’ll go see this Kyllo guy. But on the way, you’re going to explain what exactly you mean by ‘ascension.’ And if this is part of that trap I was gonna be walking into – the one where you were gonna take me to Adelina’s ‘real’ killer – you’d better rethink that. I see more than one person when we arrive–”
“I get it. I’m dead.”
“Yeah, you’re fucking dead.”
“I’ll have to get a message to my guys, tell them to go back to the warehouse. I’ll say the place they’re sitting on doesn’t need watching anymore.”
“Do it.”
“I’ll need my cellphone to send the text.” Palermo held his hands away from his body. “Right side pocket in my coat.”
Krebosche fished inside the pocket, drew out the phone. “I’ll do it. Tell me who to–”
That’s when Palermo went for the gun.
But, as Palermo had thought earlier, Krebosche was stronger than he looked, and even the element of surprise wasn’t enough for the older man to overpower him. Krebosche’s right hand chopped hard at Palermo’s left arm. The momentary grip he’d had on Krebosche fell away, and the gun was immediately back against his head.
“Do not try that again.” Krebosche fixed Palermo with a look so hard, he thought he was just going to blow his head off, anyway, warning be damned.
“Marcton,” Palermo finally said once his breathing had calmed.
“What?”
“That’s who you call. Marcton.”
Krebosche took a moment, straightened the sleeves on his coat, then tapped at the phone’s screen. “Found him. What do I say? And don’t think I’m stupid. I’ll know a code word if I hear it.”
“Just say, ‘Get off apartment. Go back to warehouse.’ That ought to do it.”
Krebosche scrolled through some of Palermo’s previous texts to Marcton, checking to see if the voice matched. If he wasn’t normally so brief, that in itself might be a code, a previously agreed-upon sign of trouble. But brevity seemed to be Palermo’s texting style. Krebosche was satisfied that it checked out. He typed the message with one hand, keeping an eye on Palermo the whole time. Clicked Send.
“I’ll just hang on to this, shall I?” Krebosche said. “One less thing for you to think about. Now, start the car. Let’s go.”
Palermo turned the key, pulled out once again into the storm.
* * *
In the Hummer, Marcton’s cell phone pinged.
“Check that for me, would ya, Cleve? Probably important.”
Cleve reached for Marcton’s phone where it sat on the dash. “Holy good fuck,” he said.
“What? Who’s it from?”
“Palermo.”
“Christ. Read it.”
“It says, ‘Get off apartment. Go back to warehouse.’” Cleve looked up from the screen. “Why would he think we’re at the apartment? He assigned two other Runners to that.”