I gave him a cold smile. “We aren’t turning our backs on you now; you realize that, don’t you?”
“Yeah, well, I kinda figured I’d blown that easy out when I told you about it. So, it’s time to answer your question, Gilling.” McKesson walked to the back of his dusty sedan and popped open the trunk. He lifted something heavy from the back.
I shoved my hand into my jacket pocket and gripped my gun. I realized I’d lost the last shreds of my trusting nature at some point over the preceding days, if I’d ever had such a nature to begin with. By the standards of a normal person, I was paranoid. But as I kept telling myself, I had good cause.
McKesson came back lugging a large metal case. It was about four feet long and made with ugly, green-painted metal. It was unmistakably military in appearance. He put it down at our feet and snapped open the latches. As we watched, he opened it. An even uglier piece of equipment was inside. It consisted of black metal tubes and green conical tips.
“This is what I brought to the party,” McKesson said.
I detected a hint of pride in his voice. For the first time today, I was impressed with him. “Some kind of rocket launcher?” I asked.
“Yeah. An RPG-seven with optical sights and an armor-piercing head. Soviet-made. It’s a bit out of date, but it’ll do the job.”
“What job is that?” Gilling asked.
McKesson looked at him with his eyebrows riding high. “What if we can’t get inside those cubes with Draith’s burglar routine?” he asked. “Or what if this imaginary machine of yours is really big? How were you planning to damage something the size of a house?”
Gilling pursed his lips and nodded. Now we were both impressed.
“Where the hell did you get such a thing?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “Drug dealers have big budgets for toys these days. And sometimes evidence sits around inside a cage in the station basement for a long time.”
I shook my head. “You really like to bend the rules don’t you, Detective?”
“I like to get the job done,” he said. He sealed the case back up again. “We’ve only got three shots. We have to make them count.”
Gilling and I set up the next part of the mission while darkness fell around us. We’d decided to work at night to attract less attention from the road, which was about a mile south of us. Creating the rip down in the depression where we’d met Robert and the slugs seemed as good a spot as any. The glimmer and flash of the rip itself would be invisible from the road down there.
While Gilling was paging through his book, looking for an inspiring bit of poetry to chant, McKesson came close.
“I’ve got something else,” he said quietly.
I looked at him expectantly. He eyed Gilling, then lifted his hand, cupping something within it. I was reminded of a drug deal pass-off. I took the object and examined it. Whatever it was, it was about the size of a doughnut and wrapped in aluminum foil.
“What’s with the wrapper?” I said, beginning to peel it open.
“Don’t,” he said suddenly.
“Why not?”
“It’s an object. Rostok said it’s dangerous.”
“How dangerous?”
“Very. He said not to use it until you wanted to destroy something big.”
I nodded. Another bomb. I carefully crushed the aluminum foil over the object and slipped it into my pocket. I’d never handled an object that was directly destructive before. I had respect for such tools, however. I thought of the rag doll that fired gusts of intense heat. That thing seemed to kill anyone who used it. I wasn’t sure what Gilling had done with the doll, and I didn’t care as long as he didn’t give it to me.
“Did you add the foil?” I asked.
McKesson shrugged. “It used to wrap my lunch. I don’t like touching objects I don’t know how to handle. It’s your baby now, but you have to give it back to Rostok when we complete this mission.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Rostok said you will.”
I thought about that while we watched Gilling make his final preparations. He used five buckets of organic material to fuel his rip. Each bucket contained a gallon of lard. He’d proclaimed it was almost as good as blood—which was still the best, apparently. Gilling explained the fuel would burn quickly and brightly, but wouldn’t last long. I hoped we wouldn’t need much time, and I liked the idea of our trail closing quickly behind us. With luck, it would be the last chance the Gray Men had to come after us.
Gilling did his chanting and read from his book of Charles Baudelaire’s French poetry. McKesson rolled his eyes.
Quand la Vengeance bat son infernal rappel,
Et de nos facultés se fait le capitaine?
Ange plein de bonté connaissez-vous la haine?…