by Rob Jones
Kim, who was still holding one crumbling part of the manuscript in her hands, nodded in agreement.
Hawke moved to the door and after checking it was clear they jogged up the steps and returned to the main museum. The first thing he saw was a security guard across the lobby raising his handgun and ordering the attackers to lower their guns. Their response was to open fire on him with what sounded like at least three automatic weapons and perforate him like a teabag. His shredded body slammed back into the front desk and slid down into a bloody heap on the floor.
“Richards!” Melissa screamed. “Oh my God!”
She dashed over to him with the manuscripts still clutched against her body.
“Get down!” Hawke yelled.
Diving down beside the guard, Melissa tried pathetically to revive him, but Hawke and Kim had both seen enough gunshot wounds to know he’d have been dead before he hit the deck.
“She’s got the Book of Gold!” one of the men yelled, and pointed at Melissa.
Hawke saw the man first – slicked-back, black hair, a lean, tanned face, aquiline nose and dark eyes like sparkling, polished obsidian. He was holding a Beretta M12 submachine gun and without giving any warning he fired on the museum curator.
“No!” Kim shouted.
The rounds tore Melissa Miller to pieces and she released the manuscripts before collapsing on top of them. Before either Hawke or Kim could move, the man with the submachine gun ordered two more men forward. One of them booted the curator’s dead body over while the other snatched up the bloodied manuscripts. The man with the M12 fired short bursts over their heads to keep Hawke and Kim pinned down in the archive room stairwell.
“Who are they?” Kim said.
“Hard to tell,” Hawke said. “The M12s are used by over twenty countries, including the US.”
Another guard ran forward and fired on the gunmen. He killed one of them before the others turned their guns on him. The guard was faster than his colleague and returned fire while diving for cover behind the front desk. The robbers’ bullets streaked along his right leg just as he vanished behind the desk.
Hawke pointed at the gunmen. “Heads up – they’re pulling out!”
The men blasted a hole in a large window at the front of the museum and leaped through it. After jogging down the steps leading to the street they turned north and started to sprint away from the destruction.
Kim, who was still holding the first section of the ancient text in her hands, gave Hawke a concerned glance. “They have the other two parts of the manuscript, Joe!”
“In that case it looks like the chase is on!” he said.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Are you crazy?” Kim said. She stared at the dead bodies strewn over the museum lobby before facing the Englishman. The wounded guard behind the desk called out for help. “Let the cops deal with it, Joe!”
“I don’t think so. This was no ordinary museum robbery – those guys wanted the manuscript specifically and they killed to get it.”
“So you’re just going to chase them all over Boston?”
Hawke looked at her like she was insane. “Of course.”
She shook her head. “Do you even know the city?”
“Of course not, but that’s never stopped me before,” he said, snatching up the dead guard’s gun. “You stay here. Keep those papers safe, help the wounded guard and try and keep this thing quiet if you can. I’m going to make sure those bastards don’t slip away.”
“Just hang on a minute, Hawke. You heard what the President said back in the Oval Office. While we’re in the US, I’m the ranking officer in charge of... dammit!”
Before she finished her sentence he was gone. He knew this was definitely what President Brooke meant by maverick bullshit but he had no choice. Checking the guard’s gun as he charged out of the museum, he emerged into a flat day of low, gray cloud and a thin drizzle. The subdued hum of late morning traffic drifted on the air. Buses and cars shuffled forward in the rain.
He scanned the scene for any sign of the men, and then caught sight of three of them as they weaved in between some buses. Their next move was to dart behind the enormous IMAX theatre.
Hawke dashed down the steps of the museum with the dead man’s gun gripped tight in his right hand. A woman in a heavy red coat and wooly hat saw him and gasped. She ducked inside the Harbor Garage and pulled a phone from her pocket.
Great, Hawke thought. And now the place will be crawling with cops too...
Sprinting behind the IMAX he raised his gun and prepared to fire, but there was no sign of the men. He saw a fire exit door swinging in the damp breeze and ran to it. Slick with rain on the outside but dry on the inside, it was clear the door had been open only a few seconds.
Stepping inside, the world changed again. The cold air of the day was replaced by the gentle warmth of the theatre heating system, and the low hum of the cars and buses was now replaced by the sound of an orchestral score and people enjoying themselves.
Gun raised in the aim, he moved swiftly inside the theatre until he was immersed in the Amazon rainforest, which now loomed high above him in magnificent 3D on the massive screen. The IMAX customers were flying over the lush jungle in a helicopter, whooping with joy as the chopper swooped over a cliff and dived into a valley. Color splashed all over the screen as dozens of parrots burst through the canopy and flew toward them , but the former SBS man down in the shadows of the aisle was focused on the enemy right here in Boston.
He heard a scream – and this time one of fear. He had reached the end of the aisle and was now right beneath the screen. He saw the men moving stealthily across the apron at the base of the giant screen on their way to the northern exit, but their plan to evade him had backfired when one of the ushers had seen their guns.
Their response was savage. The lead man raised his M12 and fired at the usher; the muzzle violently flashed in the darkness. The young woman screamed again and then clutched her stomach and collapsed.
Hawke fired on the men and the entire audience started to panic. Innocent people trapped in a confined space with a danger like these men was the scenario he feared most. He had to push the gunmen out of the IMAX and away from the public as safely and fast as he could.
He returned fire knowing he had no chance of hitting them, but the attack forced them to retreat further into the back of the theatre. Now, fearing a terrorist attack, the IMAX management ended the film and slammed on the houselights just in time for Hawke to see the men slipping into the folds of the massive safety curtain and disappearing behind the screen.
A voice boomed over the in-house public address system. “Do not panic. Everyone please move to the nearest exit in a calm and safe way.”
No one listened. Scarred by the recent terrorist attacks in so many cities, the men, women and children in the IMAX now stampeded for any exit they could find and a chorus of terrified, panicked screams echoed up to the roof of the cinema. Luckily, they were all bundling toward exits in the opposite direction to the one the gunmen had taken, so Hawke had a clear path to pursue his quarry. He checked how many rounds were left in the guard’s pistol, smacked the magazine back into the grip and continued the chase.
He ran across the apron and leaped up onto the stage area in front of the screen. Behind him the audience were now yelling and pushing each other out of the way even more aggressively than before as they fought to reach the exits, but the Englishman slid into the curtains and vanished from the disarray unfolding in the main screening room.
Gun raised, Hawke ran backstage away from the bedlam behind him. Quiet now – deadly quiet. A gust of cold air emanated from a narrow corridor to his left. He ran along it and then jogged down a flight of concrete steps until he reached the northern exit. He moved swiftly outside and was met by the sound of police sirens as they slowly closed in on the Wharf District Park.
“There he is!” a woman shouted.
Hawke turned and saw the woman in the red coat who had seen him ea
rlier. She was now ducking down behind a parked taxi cab.
He shook his head and sighed. You see me, but not the three goons with machine pistols...
He searched for the fleeing men, but there was no sign of them so he jumped on the hood of a Ford E-350 to get a better view. There they were – moving back in a defensive formation on their way north.
A few moments ago the Ford had been a bagel van but now it was turned rapidly into a sieve as the goons fired on Hawke with their M12s and drilled the vehicle full of hot lead.
He dived off the roof of the Ford and crashed into the sidewalk. He raised the pistol and returned fire. The men were still trying to move north along Old Atlantic Avenue, but Hawke’s fire had forced them east. Now they were sprinting along Harborwalk toward the New England Aquarium.
A dead end.
He scrambled to his feet and dashed down the Central Wharf through the drizzle. A fog was blowing in from the ocean and ahead of him the postmodern architecture of the aquarium was shrouded in gloom.
He followed the men inside the aquarium, determined they would not get away with the other sections of the manuscript. If Ryan Bale said it was significant and ECHO needed it, then it was significant and ECHO needed it. He had learned never to doubt the young hacker and he wasn’t about to start now.
He burst into the lobby area and scanned the darkened space for the gunmen. Screams came from somewhere up ahead to his right. He jogged forward, gun raised into the aim once again. He slowed his breathing and steadied his hands. Relaxed his trigger finger. The guard’s gun had a heavier trigger pull than he liked – maybe a little over two pounds, but he was used to it by now and knew how it would react when he fired it.
He reached a room several storeys high. At the bottom of it was a large pool full of truck-sized rocky islands covered in penguins. Hanging above one of the islands was the reconstructed skeleton of a whale, and through its enormous ribcage the former British commando just caught sight of the men as they moved through the shadows of a viewing gantry to the east of the penguin enclosure.
One of the men stopped to fire on Hawke and the M12 filled the silent enclosure like a Howitzer in an elevator. The sound of the bullets tore through the peace and quiet and sent the visitors into a frenzy. The penguins honked and dived into the water for safety.
Hawke desperately scanned the enclosure for a way to the men but the only option involved going all the way around the information desk. By the time he made the trip the men would be long gone.
Unless...
He leaped over the wall and crashed down on the first rocky island in the center of the pool. Without stopping, he jumped from the first island to the second island and then launched himself at the whale skeleton. Swinging on the skeleton like Tarzan on a vine he cleared the last part of the pool and landed with a smooth parkour roll on the viewing gantry.
Following the sounds of terrified people and automatic fire, he soon reached the tropical gallery. The men saw him close on their tails and loosed a savage fusillade of fire on him to keep him back.
Their bullets raked across the tropical tanks and exploded one of the glass walls. Water burst out of the tank and flooded the gallery with countless fish – catfish, rainbowfish, swordtails...
Hawke leaped over a puddle of Siamese fighting fish and charged toward the men. They had obviously decided that getting rid of the insane Englishman was harder than they had initially thought, and the leader ordered their retreat. Now they were clattering down a narrow flight of steel stairs beyond the tropical gallery’s fire door.
By the time he got to the bottom of the steps they were outside again, and this time he emerged to see them climbing into a small boat on the north side of the aquarium. A dead man was lying on the wharf and Hawke knew at once how the men had secured their transport.
With desperate, angry eyes, he watched them as they moved out into the harbor. One was holding the manuscipt under his arm while the other steered the boat to the east. The third man smacked a fresh magazine into his M12 and then fired on Hawke. Sweeping the gun from side to side, he blasted holes in the wooden wharf poles and the rounds gradually snaked their way toward the Englishman.
Hawke dived for cover inside another boat and leaned over the portside to return fire. The men were getting away, and he had seconds to get the boat started or it was all for nothing.
CHAPTER SIX
He yanked the pull cord on the four stroke Yamaha but it tore off in his hand and he nearly toppled out of the boat. Cursing, he removed the engine cowling and the choke linkage. The bolts holding the top assembly were loose enough for him to undo with his fingers and then he pulled off his belt and wrapped it around the assembly.
He pulled the belt and the engine spluttered to life. Lowering the outboard into the water he started out across the foggy harbor in pursuit of the men. They were now no more than ghostly shrouds in the sea mist, but he knew where they were headed. Their boat was too small to go out to sea and their direction of travel was pointing them to Boston Logan International Airport. They clearly had somewhere they would rather be.
Hawke increased speed and slipped his belt back on. Looking up, he was getting closer. With three of them in their boat, the gunmen were heavier and slower in the water, but Hawke was alone and faster. Now, he raised his gun and aimed at the outboard motor on the rear of their boat. One good shot ought to do it, but shooting from one boat to another on restless water wasn’t exactly the easiest thing in the world to do so he slowed his breathing and squinted down the sights.
His shots crackled in the gloomy fog and then he heard the reassuring sound of a ricochet. He fired again and this time he saw a small explosion on their stern. One of the men leaped over to put the fire out and check the damage and this time Hawke got him with a single shot. He fell silently into the black water and after a subdued splash he was gone. The men made no effort to stop for their fallen comrade and pushed on into the mist as fast as they could with their damaged vessel.
But his attack on the boat had been successful, and now they were slowing down. Hawke smiled but his celebration was too soon. The men had changed direction and now ahead of their boat he saw the outline of Long Wharf North rise into view in the fog. They hadn’t given up yet and had changed their escape plans.
The two surviving gunmen clambered up over some mooring poles and as Hawke’s eyes followed them along the wharf he suddenly knew what those plans were: the ferry.
He cursed as his boat ploughed through the icy water yard by yard. It seemed to take forever and now the ferry was pulling out into the harbor on its way across to the airport. Soon they would be on board and crossing the harbor on their way to the airport while he was still buggering about in this tiny little boat.
He changed plans too, and pushed the tiller hard to change the direction of the boat’s travel. The little boat tipped gracefully to starboard in the water and now he was slowly coming up behind the much larger vessel. On the stern he could see some young people holding coffees and pointing at all the police lights illuminating the wharf district in impressive blue and red strobes behind him.
He was almost at the ferry now and sliding around all over the place in its wake. Fighting against the force of the ferry’s powerful wake, he slowly brought the boat up to the rear of the larger boat and grabbed hold of the portside pontoon ladder. The people at the rear of the boat were watching with amusement as he struggled to get some purchase on the stainless steel ladder’s side rail. Slick with the fog and seawater, his hand slipped off several times as he struggled to keep the boat level, but on his third attempt he finally made it.
He raced up the ladder and reached the stern deck. The coffee drinkers weren’t so amused when they saw the Smith & Wesson stuffed into his belt and they fell over each other to get out of his way.
Hawke barely noticed their terror. Pulling the weapon from his belt he stalked forward along the portside wraparound deck and raised the pistol into the aim. With each step he took
he swung he muzzle into every nook and cranny in his search for the two surviving men and the stolen manuscript.
The ferry slowly grumbled through the freezing, fog-filled harbor and now Joe Hawke had reached a door near the bow. He stepped inside into the warm and was met by several alarmed ferry workers. He was inside the wheelhouse and looking directly at the captain.
“Oh, my God!” the old man said, reaching for his radio.
“I’m not here to harm anyone,” Hawke said. “So just relax.”
“Who are you?” the captain said, still staring at the gun in the Englishman’s hands.
“That doesn’t matter, but I’m in pursuit of two men who just stole something of great value from the Boston Metropolitan Museum.”
“You could be anyone,” one of the younger men said.
“True, and you’re just going to have to live with that,” Hawke said. “If I wanted to hurt you you’d all be dead by now, no?”
The men exchanged a weary glance.
“I guess so,” the captain said.
Hawke lowered the gun. “Happy?”
The captain sighed. “Not exactly, but it’s better than it being pointed in my face.”
“So what now?” the younger man said.
“Turn the ferry around,” Hawke said.
“We can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. The men are trying to get to the airport. If you look to the stern you might notice Boston’s a funny blue color. That’s the police lights.”
The young man peered outside. “He’s right, Hank.”
“So if you turn the boat around the thieves are out of luck, right?”
The captain made a call on his radio and then started to turn the ferry around. He made a passenger announcement and then the boat was facing west again and sailing directly toward the enormous bank of flashing blue and red lights all over the wharf.
“So what now?” the captain said to Hawke.