Vigilante Run. Don Pendleton

he got approval to seize a large enough chunk of the city’s southwest quarter. It had been done before. One of Kohler’s competitors, another major property concern, had successfully muscled out two dozen established businesses in the city to erect a high-priced luxury hotel that had yet to turn a profit. With that precedent set, Kohler expected only token resistance to his new mall. If legitimate companies could be shown the door in the name of higher tax revenues, who would care about a handful of drug addicts and gang members living in the city’s biggest slum?

      Listen to any radio or television newscast in Syracuse and the words “There was a shooting today” or “There was a stabbing today” would be immediately followed by the phrase “on the south side.” Every American city had such a place, if not more than one—an overwhelmingly poor ghetto wherein most of the local crime and the criminals committing it could be found. What better place to clear away for dynamic economic development, for commerce? Kohler couldn’t imagine why everyone in the city didn’t embrace the idea.

      There was squawking from the local activist groups, of course. These included wealthy liberals consumed with guilt about their own success, neighborhood sign-wavers belonging to political action and protest organizations, and a scattered few local politicians who had refused to join Kohler’s unofficial payroll. They wouldn’t stop him. Those who couldn’t be marginalized or ignored could simply be eliminated. Kohler maintained certain “business contacts” for that purpose.

      Those were not the only problems. There were those who said the city’s depressed economy—the natural outcome of a state whose taxes consistently ranked it among the highest in the nation—couldn’t support such a large project. They didn’t see the opportunities for tourism that Kohler and Diamond promised. They didn’t see the sales tax revenues his consumer and community development center offered. There were those who claimed the city was still reeling from his competitor’s failure to successfully implement the competitor’s own pie-in-the-sky dreams of consumer paradise.

      It didn’t help that the failed project—a tremendous mall expansion included absurd plans for everything from a water park and amusement center to a monorail linking the expanded facility to downtown Syracuse—was irrevocably coupled in the minds of locals to a series of bizarre publicity stunts.

      Kohler had himself helped sink the project to make way for his own plans, though he regretted just how well it had worked. His own operatives had signed on for the supposed jobs that were created during the project’s opening stages, doing everything from enforcing mall curfew policies to cleaning up area subsidized homes in a bid to perform community service busywork. He made sure that his operatives were among those kept most discreetly in his employ—those who had criminal records. Then he leaked the records to the local newspaper, whose editorial board gleefully reported both the busywork and the felonies. The resulting public relations nightmare put an end to Kohler’s competitor’s dream of revitalizing the city. That left Kohler in what was supposed to have been the perfect position to take up the slack.

      The problem was that Kohler’s own project was losing money every day and didn’t seem likely to break even once ground was broken and construction started. The business plan simply wasn’t viable, and Kohler knew it. He could not and would not accept failure, however. That left him with only one option—supplementing his business plan off the books with income from another source.

      Kohler was a realist. He had no family. He had no gods. He had only one goal, and that was to enrich himself. He was perfectly at ease with this fact. If it meant he had to consort with a certain class of people, so be it. They were necessary as long as they were useful. They were also easily removed once they stopped being useful.

      It was with this thought in mind that Kohler told his secretary to admit Gerald “Pick” McWilliams. It was extremely unusual for Mr. McWilliams to show his face in the Kohler Towers. It was, in fact, forbidden, as far as Kohler was concerned. Only a matter of extreme urgency could bring McWilliams here. Only the severity of Kohler’s financial situation prompted him to permit such an intrusion.

      McWilliams came dressed in a thrift store tweed suit that was at least a size too large for him, complete with a polyester tie as thick as a scarf that had to have dated back to the 1970s. The secretary admitted him without a word, and McWilliams almost managed to restrain a leer. Under other circumstances, Kohler would have had trouble blaming the man, as he’d hired Lori specifically to look good. She was blond, she looked great in a tight white blouse, and she never wore skirts longer than midcalf. She was even a passable typist. Mostly, however, she simply guarded the portal to Kohler’s domain and impressed anyone who came calling.

      “Pick,” Kohler said without preamble, “what the hell are you doing here?”

      McWilliams was a mouse of a man, thin and gaunt, missing a few teeth and suffering from questionable personal hygiene. He was Kohler’s go-between to the CNY Purists, a crude but effective local gang that had proved to be very useful in the less legal aspects of Diamond’s operations. McWilliams was easily intimidated, which was why Kohler tolerated him.

      Roger Kohler was formidable enough in his own right. He stood three inches over six feet tall and had the thick build to show for the hours spent in his private gymnasium. He was also a third-degree black belt in karate, the knuckles of his hands scarred and thick from punching bricks and breaking boards. Though his silver hair was growing sparse, Kohler’s granite-hard features left no doubt that he was a man in his physical prime who had no qualms about crushing anyone who got in his way. Kohler permitted himself the visual fantasy of throwing an edge-of-hand strike into McWilliams’s throat simply for being beneath him.

      “Mr. Kohler, sir.” McWilliams practically bowed and scraped as he spoke. “There’s a…a problem with the shipment.”

      “A problem.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “With the shipment.”

      “Yes, sir,” McWilliams confirmed again.

      “Would you mind telling me, Pick, just what the fuck I pay you people for? ”

      Kohler came around from behind the desk, grabbing McWilliams by his wide lapels. “You and your friends have exactly one job to do, and that is to see that the product reaches Ithaca by Sunday! You have exactly five days to meet that deadline. If you do not, we have a serious problem. I will most certainly kill you, but I will have to get in line behind the Chinese and I’ll have to do it before they kill me! ”

      “It’s not my fault!” McWilliams whined, making no attempt to protect himself as Kohler shook him like a dog worrying a chew toy. “They hit the cook house we were using. All the product’s gone and the place was blown to shit! We lost a lot of guys, man. You don’t know!”

      Kohler paused and released McWilliams, straightening his own suit as he took a deep breath. “That,” he told McWilliams, “is precisely why I pay you and your fellow miscreants. These things happen. Straighten it out. Have a turf war, or something. Do whatever it is you people do. I don’t care who you have to kill. Just do it. Make the problem go away and make damned sure the shipment is all there, on time, by Sunday. Otherwise I swear I’ll break every bone in your body before Chang and his people get to me. ”

      McWilliams nodded so hard that Kohler thought the unctuous little man’s head might snap off. The middleman scuttled away without another word, leaving Kohler to consider his empty office, his empty bank accounts and his very full schedule. He decided, then and there, that outside help was in order. He paused to bring up a few relevant files on his computer, including everything he had on McWilliams and his key associates. Then he accessed several of his confidential files. If the Purists couldn’t get the job done, he would bring in someone who could.

      While he was at it, he’d see to it that McWilliams was erased simply for annoying him one time too many. McWilliams’s medical records contained an interesting fact. He’d pass that along in the spirit of cooperation. With luck, his new consultant could speed up the process and Kohler could get his business ventures back on track all the sooner.

      Despite what he’d told McWilliams, he knew