Blackjack Read Online Free PDF

didn’t—”
    “That’s right.
You
didn’t hire me. The people who did,
they’re
smart enough to listen to what they paid for.”
    “What are you saying?” Wanda asked, using a tone indicating that she really wanted to know.
    “I’m saying that there has to have been more of those killings, and all with a connector of some kind. Like one of those video games where there could be a thousand playing at any one time, all over the world. That’s the part nobody’s been listening to. Up till now, I’m thinking.”
    “But doesn’t that fit? He couldn’t have done the Canyon Killings. And he had to know we know. In fact, didn’t you actually
say
that doing that interview was just a game to him?”
    “There’s more than one kind of game,” the consultant answered. “The part where you blew it was not asking enough questions.”
    “What questions?” the blond man asked, as close to angry as he ever allowed himself to get.
    “Questions such as why would they put together a team like
you
folks for signature killings that happened such a long time ago? You’re not exactly the Cold Case Squad. So I’m thinking that this
is
about the Canyon Killings, but that those aren’t even close to being the only ones. Like I said, the kind of game I’m trying to tell you about, it’s a game where there’s got to be more than one player.”
    “You mean the killer had—?”
    “Try
listening
instead of showing me you know stuff,” the consultant cut off whatever the blond man had wanted to say. “I don’t mean some little ‘team,’ like the Hillside Stranglers, or another
folie à deux
creature like Bernardo-Homolka. Not even Nietzsche-freaks like Leopold-Loeb. I mean a gamewhere the players don’t even know each other. But it’s a game where they sure as hell keep score.
    “And please
don’t
start babbling about some cybernonsense. That’s just the plot of a bad novel. However the players in
this
game are keeping score, they had a way to share info centuries before anyone could
spell
‘Internet.’ ”

    A MAN some know as “Cross” scaled a back-alley fence as calmly as another man would climb a flight of stairs, then gingerly began to lower himself over the far side. Halfway down, he heard the low, menacing growl of a dog he had no desire to meet. Retreating immediately, he then skirted the area, carefully circling past the dog’s continuing threats.
    He’s really worked up. Sensing I’m close. So why didn’t he attack as soon as I stepped over the fence?
The question had to be answered, so Cross quickly extracted a night-vison monocular. One glance showed him that the dog—from its size and shape, a Rottweiler—was heavily chained, with sufficient play in the heavy links to allow him to protect
one
house against intruders.
    Cross nodded his understanding—this was a neighborhood where the only time you’d be concerned about your neighbors was if one of them decided to pay you a visit. He turned his attention to his objective—the back of a six-story tenement.
    Chicago is a city of alleys, and it didn’t take him much time to find a new approach. A quick, light jump and Cross had the bottom of the fire escape in both hands. He pulled himself up to the first floor, then moved noiselessly upward, his expression that of a commuter on his way to a boring job.
    Mentally counting the stories, he located the specific window he was looking for, breathed deeply, exhaled, andwaited. After a full minute passed without incident, Cross pulled a roll of duct tape from his voluminous black coat.
    He applied the tape to the window glass, smoothly creating an X-pattern until the entire pane was coated. After another careful aural scan, Cross smacked the glass with the palm of his black-gloved hand. The faint crackling sound was barely audible.
    Cross picked at the tape-covered glass with his fingertips for a long minute, then carefully peeled it away in a single sheet, leaving only some small shards at the edges