by Mark Alpert
But Frazier hesitated. He was confused. The unconscious patient on the gurney looked nothing like the man he’d seen on TV.
His head had been shaved. He still had his wispy yellow eyebrows, but his scalp was bare. His skin looked like clay, pale orange and gritty. His eyes were closed, and an oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth. But the oddest thing about him was a stubby metal catheter that jutted from his scalp, just behind his left ear. A long curving tube connected the catheter to a plastic bag full of milky fluid, which hung from an IV pole above the gurney.
Frazier had received training in battlefield medicine, so he was familiar with IV tubes and catheters, but this apparatus was different. Instead of trickling the fluid into the patient’s bloodstream, it was dripping the stuff right into his brain. As Frazier stared at it, he raised his left hand and fingered his own scalp. There was a small scar under his buzz cut, just behind his left ear. The doctors had done the same thing to him six months ago, drilled a hole in his skull so they could flood his brain with CRISPR.
He shook his head. He was getting distracted. He needed to concentrate.
He examined the long tube that ran down to the president’s shaved head. Near the bottom was the access port, a hollow piece of blue plastic that jutted from the tube. According to the instructions Colonel Grant had given him, Frazier was supposed to fit the tip of the syringe into this port and push the plunger. Then the poison would flow into the man’s brain. Grant had said it would only take a minute, and then Frazier should simply detach the syringe and get the hell out of there. And within four hours, the president would be dead.
But before Frazier could do it, something went wrong.
It happened in an instant. As Frazier stared at the blue piece of plastic, everything around him seemed to come unglued. The room spun in vicious circles, slowly at first, then faster. He grabbed the bed rail of the gurney, but he could barely stay on his feet.
No! Not now!
He was cracking up again. His mind split down the seams and disintegrated. His brain burst open and all the memories inside it scattered across the room. They swirled around him like confetti, like a billion bits of colored garbage.
Goddamn it, focus!
Frazier closed his eyes and tried to think. He strained to catch the memories swirling inside him. After a few seconds of struggle, he had some success—he could remember his name and today’s date and what he’d eaten for breakfast that morning. He could also recall the specific instructions that Colonel Grant had given him, all the details about the syringe and the access port. But he couldn’t remember why he was doing it. Why kill the fucking president?
He closed his eyes tighter and rummaged through his mind. This man on the gurney was his commander in chief. When Frazier had enlisted in the army, he’d sworn an oath to obey the president’s orders. But Colonel Grant was his immediate superior, and he’d told Frazier that the oath wasn’t valid anymore. He said the situation had changed in the past few hours, something very important had happened, and now Frazier had to swear allegiance to a new leader and follow the new orders Grant had given him. It was for the good of the country, he’d said, the future of America.
But what was the important thing that had happened? What had invalidated the oath? Frazier couldn’t remember. It was driving him crazy.
Fuck, it doesn’t matter! Just follow the instructions!
Frazier opened his eyes. Struggling to keep his balance, he reached for the tube and the access port. He flicked the protective cap off the tip of the syringe and grasped the hollow piece of blue plastic. But then he glanced at the face of the man on the gurney, and he saw that it wasn’t the president anymore. It wasn’t even a man.
It was a woman, a nurse. But not the nurse who’d been caring for the president. It was the fat bitch from the hospital in Springfield, the emergency-room nurse who’d refused to treat Andy.
She was asleep, lightly sedated. Her skin looked like clay, pale orange and gritty. Her eyes were closed, but she sneered at him from behind her oxygen mask. Someone had shaved her fat head and wedged a funnel into her scalp. Thick white slime streamed through a tube and dribbled into her skull.
Frazier dropped the syringe. He wasn’t going to inject the poison into her. No, that would be too easy. Too impersonal.
He was going to kill her with his bare hands.
“Bitch!” He clamped his fingers around her neck and squeezed. “He was my brother, my little brother! Only nine fucking years old!”
Her eyes flew open. She was groggy but terrified. Frazier smiled when he saw that look in her eyes. It was so satisfying.
And it was familiar too. He’d killed her once before, eleven years ago. Just a week after Andy died, Frazier had tracked down the nurse and surprised her outside her house. He’d chased her into the woods and shot her with his hunting rifle, the Remington he’d gotten for his fourteenth birthday. And as she lay wounded in the mud, he’d choked her to death. He’d punished her for what she did to Andy, and now he was going to punish her again.
She tried to scream, and Frazier felt her larynx vibrate under his hands. At the same time, he heard someone yell, “What’s going on in there?” A moment later, two men in black uniforms charged into the room and pointed their assault rifles at him.
The next second was a blur. He didn’t even think, he just let his enhanced nerves and muscles act on their own. He let go of the bitch’s throat, leapt toward the guards, grabbed one of their rifles, and shot both men with it. Then he rushed back to the gurney, turned the rifle around, and bashed its stock into the bitch’s shaved head.
Her skull shattered. Blood and brains splashed onto the pillow, and a stream of piss jetted from her crotch.
Then Frazier looked closer and saw a cock beneath the hospital gown.
What the hell?
His head was clearing. He blinked a few times and took a deep breath. His perceptions came back to normal as he stared at his victim. It wasn’t the nurse after all.
The president was dead. An alarm was ringing.
Still holding the bloody rifle, Frazier bolted out of the room.
THIRTY-THREE
Jenna and her father ran under the highway that led to the Triborough Bridge. Bullets pounded the steel span above them, and the buzzing of the helicopters echoed everywhere, but Jenna raced ahead and dragged Abbu along with her, following Hector and David as they sprinted toward the Harlem River.
The road above them was a major highway, more than two hundred feet wide, so it gave them plenty of cover. The NYPD, though, wasn’t so fortunate. Most of their officers were at the checkpoint on top of the highway, where the toll plaza used to be, and that was the FSU’s primary target. The helicopters strafed the checkpoint mercilessly, firing their guns as they flew past the bridge’s towers. Some of the bullets struck the baseball fields to the north of the highway, and Jenna could hear the rounds pinging into the dirt.
As they approached the river, the highway above them narrowed. The Harlem River span of the Triborough Bridge had only six traffic lanes and was less than a hundred feet wide. They were more exposed here, and there was nowhere left to run. The bridge arched over a weedy field and a fenced-off lot at the river’s edge, and beyond that was the slate-gray water that separated Randalls Island from Manhattan. The sun had set and the shadows under the bridge had darkened, but the FSU’s helicopters turned on their searchlights. We can’t stay here, Jenna thought. Sooner or later, they’ll find us.
She slowed to a walk, then doubled over, panting. Her father lay down in the weeds nearby, while Hector and David stopped next to the fence at the water’s edge. The helicopters’ guns had fallen silent—they’d probably slaughtered all the cops at the checkpoint—and a moment later Jenna heard a change in the sound of their engines. The wind picked up and the beams from the searchlights grew brighter. The helicopters were landing. One of them touched down a few hundred yards to the south, and a dozen men in black uniforms jumped out of the aircraft.
David was pointing at a section of the chain-link fence, and Hector was pulling at the bottom of it, creating a gap between the mesh of steel links and the ground. “Chica, what do you think we’re doing? Get your papi over here and make him crawl under this.”
She rushed back to her father. He was so tired, she had to practically carry him to the fence and shove him underneath it. Then, after they’d all slithered through the gap, Hector took the lead and guided them across the lot.
It was a boatyard. At least a dozen boats had been taken out of the water and placed on metal cradles, so their hulls and engines could be repaired. Some were large and some were small, and they were in various states of disrepair, but all the boats had something in common: each was painted blue and white, and each had the letters “NYPD” emblazoned on its sides.
Jenna hurried after Hector. “This is the police department’s boatyard, right? The place that Commissioner Hayes mentioned?”
“Yes, and that’s the marina.” Hector pointed at a pair of docks that extended from the boatyard into the river. “Let’s take a look at the boats over there, the ones tied to the dock. Maybe we can find something that suits our needs, eh?”
They stayed low and moved quietly. Although it was quite dark now, the FSU officers weren’t far away. All the vessels moored to the closer dock were big harbor-patrol boats, at least thirty feet long, but at the end of the farther dock was a small, simple, brownish boat that sat low in the water. It was about the size of a rowboat, but it had a large outboard engine at the stern.
Jenna grabbed Hector’s arm and pulled him toward the small boat. “That one would work. Once we’re away from shore, no one will be able to see us in the dark. I think it’s a Boston Whaler, actually. Looks like a thirteen-footer.”
He stared at her curiously. “You know about boats?”
“I grew up on Coney Island, and my father liked to fish. So, yeah, I picked up a few things.”
They lucked out. The Whaler had enough room for all four of them, the key was in the engine, and the gas tank was full. Best of all, it was equipped with oars and oarlocks, so they could pull away from the dock without making any noise.
Jenna untied the lines and took the wheel, while Hector manned the oars. The FSU officers were less than a hundred yards away now, but several trees and the boatyard fence blocked their view of the marina. Within a minute the Whaler was in the middle of the Harlem River. Silent and unseen, they floated with the current, which steered them into the narrow strait between Randalls Island and the Bronx.
One of the things Jenna knew about boating in New York was that all the city’s waterways were just brackish extensions of the Atlantic Ocean. The currents depended on the tides, which sometimes pushed the water inland and sometimes pulled it out to sea. The rivers around Manhattan could flow one way in the morning and in the opposite direction by the afternoon.
Now the currents pushed them from the Harlem River to the East River. They were headed toward Rikers.
* * *
After they rowed far enough away from Randalls, Jenna turned on the Whaler’s outboard engine. They were safe now. Although dozens of searchlight beams crisscrossed the island behind them, this stretch of the East River was empty and black, probably the darkest place in New York City. They’d escaped. They were free. They could cruise up the shoreline to Connecticut, or maybe go all the way up to Canada, beyond the reach of the FSU and the whole insane government.
But Jenna wasn’t really free, not yet. She had to find Raza first. She had to rescue him.
She gazed due east at Rikers Island, only a mile away. Powerful floodlights dotted the island’s perimeter and illuminated the long rows of buildings in the jail complex. Raza was in one of those buildings right now, most likely mistreated and definitely terrified. The thought of it enraged her. She couldn’t leave him behind. It was unthinkable.
I’m coming, Raza. Your baji is coming.
She looked at Hector, who’d pulled in the Whaler’s oars. He sat with David on the bench at the front of the boat, while Abbu slept on the rear bench beside her, his head resting against her left shoulder. Jenna nudged her father a little, but he didn’t stir. He was sleeping soundly—this was probably the first good sleep he’d had since he was arrested—so she didn’t have to worry about accidentally waking him up. She raised her voice over the noise of the outboard.
“Hector? Can you do me a favor?”
He leaned toward her. His head was only a couple of feet from hers, but she could barely see his face in the dark. “Anything, chica. The Almighty Latin King Nation is at your service.”
“I need you to help my father. Can you take him someplace safe? Maybe to the home of someone you know in the Latin Kings?”
Hector nodded. “Of course. I have plenty of brothers in the Bronx, right over there.” He pointed at the shoreline to the north. “But there are lots of Latin Kings in Queens too, over that way. They’d be happy to have both of you as their guests, for as long as you want.”
Jenna shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Hector didn’t understand. “I’m not going with him. I want to land somewhere on the shore and drop off you and my dad. Then you could take him to the safe house. Can you do that for me?”
He was silent for a few seconds. The Whaler rocked in the water, and the wind gusted over the boat, tousling his hair. “And where will you go after you drop us off?”
She decided to tell the truth. “To Rikers. I’m gonna save my brother. And get those vials of vaccine.” She turned her head and focused on David, who sat rigidly on the other end of the bench, his back straight and his hands on his knees. “You’re gonna come with me, David. You’re gonna take me to Raza. You know where the FSU is keeping him, right?”
David stretched his arm to the east and pointed at the tallest building on Rikers Island. He moved like a marionette, as if someone were pulling his strings. “As of two a.m. last night, Raza Khan was in Room Seventeen on the fourth floor of the Research Center. I still have the security card that gives me access to the center.”
“Good.” She turned back to Hector. “So, where should I drop you off, Queens or the Bronx? Which would be safer for my father?”
Hector paused again before answering. Clearly, he wasn’t happy. “Excuse me, but I think you’re overlooking something. When we discussed this plan with Commissioner Hayes, we all assumed that a team of police officers would raid the Research Center. You know, specially trained officers with military combat skills, probably several dozen men in all. Needless to say, what you’re proposing right now is very different.”
Jenna frowned. “Well, the NYPD just lost most of its officers. Including Commissioner Hayes. So we need to change the plan.”
“Jenna, you don’t even have a gun. What are you going to do, just stroll into the jail and ask for your brother?”
“Look, I’m gonna do this, okay?” She tightened her grip on the Whaler’s steering wheel. “I’ll go to the darkest part of the island to tie up the boat, and then David will get us into the complex using his security card. It’s a big place, so maybe we can slip through.”
“Well, at least let me go with you. If you run into one of the jail guards, you’ll need someone who knows how to fight. I can—”
“No.” Her voice drowned out the engine and rang over the water. “I want you to go with my father because I know you can protect him. That’s the important thing.” She squinted at Hector in the darkness, trying to get through to him. “Do you see now why I asked you for this favor? You’re the only one I can trust. I’m putting his life in your hands.”
There was a third pause, a silence that lasted for a full ten seconds. Then Hector sighed. It was a shrill, despairing sound, like the wind hissing over the river.
“Ah, mi querida. I can’t argue with you anymore.” He pointed south. “Go that way. To Queens. The Latin Kings are strong in Jackson Hei
ghts.”
Jenna trembled. She was so relieved and grateful, she felt faint.
“Thank you, Hector.”
* * *
She docked the Whaler at Steinway Creek, an inlet in a run-down, industrial part of Queens, a mile north of Jackson Heights. Hector helped her dad off the boat, and Jenna promised she’d come right back. Then she turned north and gunned the outboard.
The wind was blowing harder now and the East River was choppy. The Whaler’s bow rose and fell, bouncing on the waves, and the brackish water sprayed everywhere, soaking Jenna and David. She looked up and saw a thick blanket of low clouds spread across the night sky. They scudded overhead, rushing out of the southeast, erasing the horizon. She was less than half a mile from the long, low bridge that connected Rikers Island to Queens, but she could barely see it. Then the rain let loose, hammering the boat, and lightning flashed over the water.
Wonderful. Just wonderful. On top of everything else, another storm.
The river was getting dangerous, and Jenna’s boating skills weren’t that great to begin with. It had been ten years since the last time she’d gone fishing with her father, and she’d never sailed into a storm before. She tried to keep the Whaler perpendicular to the waves, but staying on that course took her away from Rikers, so instead she hit the swells at a forty-five-degree angle and prayed she didn’t swamp the boat. She’d hoped to do a thorough reconnaissance of the island to determine the best place to land, but now she would settle for anything. She needed to get out of this storm.
David swayed on the bench in front of her, his rigid body lurching left and right like a metronome. Lightning flashed again, and Jenna got a good look at his face, which was utterly blank. He wasn’t afraid of the storm. He didn’t seem worried at all. It was as if he knew he was doomed and therefore didn’t care if he fell overboard and drowned. It didn’t matter to him.
Thunder boomed behind them, very close, and all the floodlights on Rikers Island suddenly went out. A few seconds later, about half of the lights came back on, powered by emergency generators, but the darkness around the island was thicker now. Jenna pushed the throttle forward and sped toward the lights.