by Greg Cox
“Miss Drury? Officer Kolchak?”
“Shut up!” Carl cuffed Brad in the head. “You know the rules. No talking!”
Brad whimpered and fell silent.
Interesting, Sophie thought. Is there a reason they want Brad to keep quiet? Is there something they don’t want him to tell us?
She and Eliot exchanged a look. She could tell he was thinking the same thing.
“You’re late.” Beria rose from the bench. He rested the tip of his cane against a three-hundred-year-old grave marker. He was a lean, almost cadaverous figure, wearing a heavy wool peacoat, leather gloves, and trilby. “I was starting to think that you had abandoned Brad to his fate.”
Sophie shrugged nonchalantly. “Sorry. There’s never a cab when you need one.” She glanced around the cemetery. “Interesting choice of venue.”
“It seemed an appropriate place to bury the past, once and for all,” Beria said, “and unlikely to be occupied at this hour, at least by the living.” Raising his cane, which appeared to be more of an affectation than a necessity, he pointed out the security cameras mounted to the gates and a nearby tree. “Do not concern yourself with the cameras, by the way. Budget cuts.” He lowered his cane. “Pity.”
“But convenient,” Sophie said. “After all, it wouldn’t do for there to be photographic evidence that the late, unlamented Anton Beria is still alive and kicking.”
“Indeed,” he said. “Nor another imprudent bestseller.”
Sophie slipped deeper into the skin of Tarantula, playing the part to the hilt. “I suppose I should be flattered that you made a personal appearance. What brings you out of the shadows, so to speak?”
“Alas, delegating such tasks has proved ineffective of late.” He cast a reproachful look at Carl, who looked suitably chastened. “Sometimes one simply has to take matters into one’s own hands.”
“Like when you ran Gavin down?” Eliot snarled.
Beria didn’t deny it. “Ah, the white knight.” He addressed Eliot. “I trust the lovely Ms. Gallo is well? How chivalrous of you to comfort her in her grief.”
Eliot’s expression darkened. “Leave her out of this.”
Sophie admired his restraint, now that they were finally face-to-face with Gavin’s killers. It had to be taking everything he had not to tear into them right here and now. She knew he wanted to.
“And how is it that you came to trust Gavin with your secrets?” Beria asked Sophie. “What precisely was the nature of your relationship?”
Sophie overlooked his insinuations. “Shall we get on with this?”
“As you wish,” Beria agreed. “I’m certain Brad would appreciate any speed on our part.” A sardonic smile betrayed a cruel sense of humor. “I suspect he’s tired of our hospitality.”
Brad nodded energetically, keeping his mouth shut.
Carl smacked him anyway.
“Show of hands, people,” Eliot said. He raised his own empty hands to demonstrate that he was unarmed. “Just to keep everyone honest.”
Beria rested his cane against the bench and did the same. Carl and Sophie followed their example. It was always possible, of course, that someone was carrying a concealed weapon, but at least they would have to draw first before getting the drop on anyone. That was probably the best both sides could hope for outside of setting up metal detectors at the gates of the churchyard, which might have been a tad conspicuous.
“Good enough,” Eliot declared, watching Carl carefully. “But everybody keep their hands in sight.”
“Let us begin with the book,” Beria suggested. He nodded at the briefcase Sophie was carrying and gestured toward a sarcophagus located between the two delegations, equidistant from both. Its table-size lid had been worn smooth by the passage of time. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Sophie stepped forward and laid the briefcase down atop the sarcophagus. She unlocked the case.
“There’s a hard copy inside,” she explained, “as well as an electronic version installed on a tablet. GPS-disabled, of course.”
She retreated from the tomb, leaving the case and its contents behind. Carl watched Beria’s back as the cold-blooded spymaster came forward to inspect the ransom. It was too dark to read the printed manuscript without a flashlight, so he claimed the tablet, with its illuminated screen, instead.
“Pardon me while I look this over,” he said.
Sophie held her breath as he scrolled through the freshly manufactured sequel, hoping that it would pass muster, at least for the time being. A look of concentration came over Beria’s gaunt features as he perused the text. Eliot tapped his foot impatiently. Brad couldn’t help whimpering a little. The suspense was obviously killing him, even if Beria and his goons hadn’t yet. Sophie tried to speed things along.
“I certainly hope you don’t intend to read the entire novel before we go any further,” she commented, taking pains not to let a trace of anxiety show. She didn’t want to make Beria suspicious by seeming too impatient. “It’s rather a long book.”
“So I see,” Beria said. Declining to be rushed, he continued to inspect the sequel. “Have no fear. I am merely conducting a random spot check of various pages, to ensure that it is the same book all the way through.”
Thank heavens we wrote the whole thing, Sophie thought. But which pages exactly was Beria examining? There were a few parts they didn’t want him reading just yet…
“Very good,” he said finally. He placed the tablet back in the case and closed the lid. “That should suffice.”
“Satisfied?” Sophie asked.
“For now.” He took possession of the briefcase and withdrew from the sarcophagus, returning to his original position by the bench. “I fully intend to pore over the text at my leisure later, but a cursory examination suggests that the sequel is clearly of a piece with the first book—and unmistakably the work of the unfortunate Gavin Lee.”
Thank you, Denise, Sophie thought. In theory, the actual author was presently sharing the van with Hardison, who was under orders to keep her under close watch until tonight’s operation was concluded, one way or another. The last thing they needed was for the former spy and assassin to try to take matters into her own hands.
That could only complicate matters, and possibly get somebody killed.
“So far, it appears, you have fulfilled your end of the bargain.” Beria placed the briefcase on the bench, within easy reach. “Now there is the little matter of exchanging prisoners.”
It was not necessary to haggle over the procedure; there were plenty of precedents for such trades. Sophie walked slowly toward Beria, leaving Eliot behind, while Brad, unable to control himself, practically scampered toward “Officer Kolchak” and safety. He didn’t even bother thanking Sophie as they passed each other briefly. Never mind that she was apparently sacrificing herself for his sake.
Wanker, she thought.
Maintaining an icy cool bordering on hauteur, Sophie turned herself over Beria and his hulking accomplice. Carl quickly frisked her, shamelessly copping a feel in the process.
“Watch the hands,” she objected. “This is a prisoner exchange, not a date.”
“You must forgive Carl,” Beria said. “Useful, yes, but a gentleman he is not.”
“You’ll have to let me know when one arrives,” Sophie said archly.
“Now, now,” Beria said, his thin smile fading. “You should know better than to insult your host. I might take it amiss.”
Eliot took custody of Brad. “Is that all? We done here?”
“I’m afraid not.”
He rapped his cane against the grave marker at his feet. Abruptly, the chapel doors slammed open and two more goons burst into the churchyard, brandishing guns. The men drew their weapons on Eliot and Brad. Carl came forward to search Eliot, and was surprised to find him unarmed.
“Hey, chief,” Carl called out to Beria. “This dude’s not carrying.”
“Don’t like guns,” Eliot explained. “Don’t need them.”
&
nbsp; Carl snickered. “Says the guy who just got caught with his pants down.” He guarded Eliot while the other two men took charge of Brad and Sophie. “Too bad you left the redhead at home. I would’ve liked to get my hands on her.”
“She’d kick your ass,” Eliot said. “Again.”
Meanwhile, Brad couldn’t believe his bad luck as he got dragged back across the churchyard toward Beria.
“Oh God,” he moaned. “I thought it was over…”
“What’s this all about?” Eliot demanded. “You got what you wanted.”
“Not entirely.” Beria looked over his prisoners. “I’m afraid that you and Brad will be accompanying us as well.”
“But why?” Sophie asked. “We had a deal.”
“Don’t be naive,” he scolded her. “There are still too many loose ends and open questions to be dealt with before I can consider this matter concluded.” He squinted at Sophie, examining her features. “I’m not even certain who you are yet, or where exactly the white knight fits into the picture.” He peered at Eliot, who glared back murderously. “For all I know, you’re actually Tarantula.”
“Step a little closer,” Eliot said, “and let’s see how hard I bite.”
“I think not.” He leaned on his walking stick. “In any event, I have yet to enjoy Assassins Remember in its entirety, so I am not about to sacrifice any bargaining chips—or potential sources of information—until I have a clearer picture of what secrets may be hidden in these very troubling books and how exactly they came to be written.” More ice crept into his eyes and voice. “You’ll find that I have a very low tolerance for unanswered questions.”
Now you’re sounding like Nate, Sophie thought. That can’t be a good thing.
“What do you want to know?” she said. “Just ask me.”
“Oh, I will,” he promised, “and at length. But now is not the time or the place for such an in-depth interview… or interrogation.” He snapped his fingers at a guard, who paged their ride. Beria retrieved the briefcase from the bench. “Let us be on our way.”
He took the lead as his men escorted the three hostages toward the Broadway exit. A hefty brute with a bad crew cut escorted Sophie, gripping her arm hard enough to leave bruises. Through the fog, she saw the murder limo pull up to the curb, waiting for them. A rear door slid open.
“Get going,” Carl ordered. He prodded Eliot with the muzzle of his gun. “We haven’t got all night.”
Before they reached the gate, however, the quiet of the downtown streets was disturbed by a cacophony of unusual noises emanating from somewhere just beyond the cast-iron fence. Anguished moans and groans, along with animalistic grunts and growls, heralded the approach of dozens of shambling figures, who came lurching out of the mist from all directions, converging on the churchyard. They poured out of nearby doorways and subway entrances in a seemingly endless stream. All at once Broadway went from being deserted to overpopulated.
“Chief?” Carl glanced about apprehensively. He appeared understandably confused and maybe even a little spooked. “What’s this?”
Beria scowled. “I don’t know.”
Emerging from the fog, the figures came into view. Brad gasped at their ghastly appearance. Pallid faces, gray as death, bore crazed, contorted expressions. Rotting flesh, sometimes hanging in ragged shreds, added to the horror. Feral yellow eyes, bulging from sunken sockets, contrasted with the blank white orbs of other pedestrians. Lurid red stains smeared gnashing teeth and gaping jaws. Bloody wounds and injuries made the newcomers look like refugees from a casualty ward—or maybe a morgue. Their ragged attire, which ranged from disintegrating tuxedos and bridal gowns to casual wear and sports uniforms, was splattered with grime and gore. A bloody hatchet was half buried in the skull of a shuffling cheerleader whose ashen face was twisted in a grotesque rictus. Loose entrails dangled from the slashed abdomen of a drooling construction worker; his cracked hard hat offered a glimpse of exposed pink brain. He gnawed on a severed arm.
“Holy crap!” Carl exclaimed. “What the hell is this?”
Nothing much, Sophie thought. Just a zombie flash mob.
Right on schedule.
EARLIER:
“Why zombies?” Eliot asked.
Hardison looked up from his keyboard, where he was busy hyping the upcoming flash mob all over the Internet. He gave Eliot a look of sheer disbelief, amazed that the hitter even had to ask.
“’Cause it’s a graveyard, man. Besides, zombies make everything better.”
Privately, Hardison was glad that he would be manning Lucille during the flash mob, instead of visiting the churchyard himself. He didn’t like cemeteries, probably because of that one time he was buried alive.
“Zombies, huh?” Eliot peered dubiously over Hardison’s shoulder. “You really think anyone is going to show up for this shindig?”
Hardison grinned. “Trust me on this…”
The living dead, or reasonable facsimiles thereof, swarmed through the gates of the churchyard by the dozens. Some lurched awkwardly, as though beset by rigor mortis, their arms stretched stiffly before them like the Frankenstein monster. Blackened nails groped and pawed at the misty night air. Others loped like animals, or dashed to the front of the mob, squeezing their way past their fellow undead revenants. The zombies howled and moaned like souls in torment. Many carried severed heads, limbs, or random body parts.
“Running zombies,” Hardison observed. “That’s just wrong, man.”
The zombie hordes kept on coming, blocking the way out of the churchyard. There seemed to be no end of them; within moments, the cemetery was packed with wannabe zombies. Eliot wondered just how far Hardison had spread word of this freaky graveyard get-together—and why so many presumably sane adults were taking part. Not that Eliot was complaining. He had to admit that a zombie invasion made a good distraction.
“Chief?” Carl turned to Beria for guidance, looking away from Eliot for just a moment. “What should we—”
That was all Eliot needed. He spun around and swept Carl’s gun arm to the side. Carl’s hand smacked into a stone angel and the gun went flying into the fog and chaos. A blow to the chin sent Carl stumbling backward into a cluster of moaning zombies. “Hey, watch it, dude!” a walking corpse broke character to protest. “I know it’s dark and all, but—”
Carl elbowed the zombie, then lumbered back toward Eliot. The hitter made a beckoning motion. He raised his fists.
“Ready for a rematch, big guy?”
“Brains, brains…”
Among the horde was a slender blond zombie in a bloodstained nurse’s uniform. Cavernous black shadows were painted beneath Parker’s eyes. Her greasy complexion was gray-going-on-green. The phony blood on her teeth left a funny taste in her mouth; she kept wanting to lick it off. Only her eyes were their usual shade of hazel. She had passed on the tinted red contact lenses Hardison had tried to press on her. The fog and the dark were tricky enough. She needed to see what she was doing.
“Brains…”
Unnoticed amid the other zombies, she shambled up to the nameless thug guarding Brad. Her stun gun slid from her sleeve into her grip. Electricity crackled, the zap drowned out by assorted growls and groans, and the thug hit the ground with a thud. She grabbed Brad by the wrist.
“Come on,” she said, momentarily forgetting to drop her hoarse zombie voice. She cleared her throat. “It’s time to go.”
Utterly bewildered as he was, it took him a moment to recognize her as the agile thief who had broken into his mansion days ago. He blinked in surprise.
“Miss Lincoln?”
The thug guarding Sophie saw his cohort collapse. He hesitated, torn between helping Carl, hanging on to Sophie, and chasing after Brad. Judging from his baffled expression, he had never tried to abduct anyone during a zombie walk before.
“Hey!” he blurted. “What’s going on—”
Sophie drove her heel into his instep, eliciting a yelp of pain. His grip loosened and she yanked her arm fre
e.
“Clear!”
Parker jolted him with her Taser. He stiffened before falling over backward onto the ground, only inches away from the goon she had zapped a few moments ago. A carpet of fog obscured their unconscious bodies. She left them resting in peace.
Sophie scrambled away from her captor.
“Come on!” Parker called to her.
“I’m right behind you!” Sophie shouted back. “Just get Brad out of here.”
Parker frowned. She didn’t like leaving Sophie behind, but figured her friend could keep up. Saving Brad was their primary objective after all, although Parker wasn’t entirely sure why. She assumed it had something to do with being the good guys.
“Brains…”
Parker dragged Brad through the cemetery, only to find the zombies getting in the way. Hardison had done too good a job promoting this flash mob. Between the fog and the headstones and the hordes of shambling undead, it was impossible to make a clean escape. There were too many zombies crammed into the cemetery already, with more flooding in every moment. Parker shuddered. The mob scene was claustrophobic in a way that, for her at least, air ducts and cramped crawl spaces never were.
“Get me out of here, please!” Brad sobbed. “This is too much!”
Parker had to agree. She glanced back over her shoulder, looking for Sophie, but could barely spot the other woman in the chaos. For a second, she thought she spied Sophie’s dark brown hair, but then the milling zombies got between them, blocking the fleeing grifter from view. Sophie was swallowed up by the zombies, although not in the cannibalistic sense.
“Nate!” Parker reported over the comms. “I lost Sophie… I think.”
“Stick to the plan,” Nate advised. “No matter what.”
Parker wasn’t sure about that. Wasn’t Sophie more important than Brad?
“But…”
“Keep moving, Parker.”
“What are you waiting for?” Brad wailed. “I thought you were saving me!”