Watch Dogs by John Shirley Read Free Book Online Page B

Washington Park in Black Viceroy territory. On the inside, that’s mostly what it was. Floor after floor with apartments missing their doors, every inch of wall, in halls and rooms, covered with spray-painted and markered tags, with graffiti of all kinds, but especially a lot of Black Viceroy insignias. Each room emptied out, the walls often broken open so copper could be torn out to sell to scavenger companies. Here and there in the hallways you might come across an old overturned doorless refrigerator or splintery bureau. Walk down those scarred up halls and your shoes crunched paint chips.
    But on the seventh floor of the old tenement, one apartment was different. The door to the apartment had been replaced—the new one was double layer steel—and the one-bedroom flat had been cleaned out and simply but comfortably refurnished. It was now one of Aiden Pearce’s safehouses—so Pussler claimed, after giving Wolfe the key and taking his leave, though Wolfe had seen nothing of Pearce since coming here.
    The windows were boarded up, but inside there was a working television, a radio, an operating bathroom, toilet paper, towels, plenty of functional electrical plugs with pirated power, a fairly new sofa bed and blankets, a closet in which leaned a nicely oiled pump shotgun and boxes of ammo; a PC on a desk, the PC, interestingly, not hooked up to the internet or wifi; a bedroom with a cot and a chest of drawers; a kitchenette with a microwave, its cabinets stocked with canned foods and freeze dried goods, instant coffee, pots and dishes and knives and forks. There was a small clothes washer, in the kitchenette, like something from a recreational vehicle, and a small dryer. There was even a bottle of damned good Scotch in a desk drawer.
    Wolfe was availing himself of that Scotch right now, as he brooded on his situation. It was late afternoon following the night of the Four Clubs debacle, and Wolfe was getting antsy. He was fed and warm and comfortable—and restless.
    He sat there on the sofa with a small glass in his hand, sipping the Laphroaig, looking at the television news with the sound turned off. He’d seen nothing, not a word, about his personal raid on the Four Clubs. He’d half-expected to see his face on television in a public service warning about an arch criminal with Verrick swearing he was a mad dog killer. But, nope. It was almost disappointing. More than that, it was worrisome. It suggested that Verrick was going after him some other way...
    Shouldn’t have tried to strike a deal with him, Wolfe thought. Stupid.
    He’d known instantly his former C.O. had no intention of following through on any deal. You get crazy ideas, sitting in stir in the federal Disciplinary Barracks. You got desperate notions and programmed yourself with them. Then when they didn’t work...what next?
    And where did Aiden Pearce fit into it?
    “Hello, Mick,” said the television to Mick Wolfe.
    Wolfe sat bolt upright, spilling some of his Scotch on the floor.
    Aiden Pearce was staring at him from the television screen. No doubt of the identity of this man. Those sharp emerald-green eyes, that dark-brown hair. Pearce’s face was filling most of the screen. It was gazing right at him.
    Pearce smiled. “Don’t be spilling that Scotch, Wolfe. Stuff’s expensive.”
    “What the hell? Why are you on television?”
    “Just something I can do. I’ve rerouted a webcam transmission to this television, just this particular television set. The set has been customized. I’m reaching you through a Local Area Network I’ve set up. There’s a special switching hub—but, never mind. We can talk about all that some other time.”
    “I could swear I muted that television.”
    “If I can put myself up here you don’t think I can unmute the television?”
    “Good point. Feels weird talking to you this way. Like hallucinating.”
    Pearce chuckled. “I guess it could feel that way. But I can’t just call you on a cell phone. Not