Fear City by F. Paul Wilson Read Free Book Online

few quick shots—making sure to include the Benz’s license plate in one—then leaned forward to study the group.
    Though clearly an Arab, the stranger didn’t seem part of the jihadist clique. Dane knew body language and this guy kept himself a step back, physically and categorically, from the other three. As if he were better than they. They in turn acted deferential, almost like supplicants.
    And then he knew.
    â€œChrist, they’re looking for money.”
    Two years ago the mystery Mohammedan had set up a sting to trap the hijackers who’d made off with the money the jihadists had been planning to use to buy teenage sex slaves. Jack had known about the sting and had involved Dane, and he’d be forever indebted to Jack for that.
    Because that was the night Dane had become convinced that another player was operating behind the jihadists. Not controlling them, per se; more like whispering in the ear of whoever back home was giving them orders. He’d sensed it for some time, but that night had crystallized it. And this Arab in the thobe could very well be connected to those unseen players.
    The four of them seemed friendly enough, all smiles and nods as the mystery man slipped back inside the car and the other three headed for the door to the mosque. He must have picked them up this morning before Dane arrived. He wondered where they’d gone, what they’d talked about. Up to no good, no doubt, but what exactly were they planning?
    He gulped the rest of his coffee and started the engine. Much as he hated leaving the jihadists behind—if they had fresh funding in their pockets, knowing what they did for the rest of the day might prove invaluable—he needed to see where this clown was headed, and maybe get a bead on his identity.
    Damn, he wished Jack were on board.
    He followed the Benz north on Kennedy, leaving a car between them. It looked like the Benz was headed for the Pulaski when the light turned amber and the jerk in front of him stopped instead of rolling through. Dane pounded the wheel in frustration as he watched the mystery Mohammedan glide away. Never catch him now.
    God damn , he needed Jack.

 
    2
    Tommy Totaro stood over the answering machine and stared at it. The LED indicator read 12.
    â€œWhat the fuck?”
    He’d walked in this morning on one of his twice-weekly swings by to check the mail and saw the message light on the machine blinking. That happened maybe once every three or four weeks, and even then the messages never totaled more than one.
    But a dozen?
    He started listening. Every call was from one of his policy holders, and every single one of them, one after the other, said the same damn thing: vandalism. Each of them screaming about twenty, thirty cars with dinged hoods and fenders and cracked windows and when was he gonna get out there and fix them? They couldn’t sell cars in that shape. They’d been paying their premiums, now it was time for Augie’s Auto Detailing & Repairs to deliver.
    Tommy dropped into the desk chair and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.
    Shit!
    What was he gonna do? He had no crews. He’d let them all go.
    As he sat there the phone started ringing. He let the answering machine pick up.
    â€œHey, Augie’s. This is Hal down at Morgan’s Used Cars. We had some assholes come through last night and…”
    He dialed the volume to zero and pounded his fist on the desk. This couldn’t be an accident. Somebody had targeted him. But who? The Genoveses? Had they gotten wind of the hurt he’d put on their windows contracts during his little midnight ramble with Tony C a couple years ago? This would be payback in kind.
    But no, they’d blame Tony for that. And anyway, that water was too far under the bridge. But he’d been targeted, no question.
    He looked up the number of one of the freelancers he used and called him. He didn’t like what he heard.
    â€œHey, no,