Weezy dropped to her knees beside the bed and shook her. Her whole body moved. She seemed to be hollow, made of papier-mache.
"Lady!"
A breath, then a barely audible, "Yes."
"I thought you were dead!"
Her eyes remained closed as she spoke. "So weak."
Too weak to open her eyes?
"You weren't breathing."
"I don't need air to exist, only to speak."
"Anything I can do?"
A thin smile. "Just go on being you. Now… I must conserve my strength."
"Sure. Of course." Weezy rose and backed away. "Conserve it. Every ounce. I'll be outside if you need me."
Need me? For what? What could she do?
She reached for the lamp. "Do you want the light out?"
"It doesn't matter."
Weezy left it on and returned to the front room.
"She's fading away," she whispered to no one. A sob broke free. "We're losing her."
16
The Triboro ramp was at a complete standstill. The tollbooths were bad enough. Each of the narrow lanes between them was blocked by a car that couldn't move forward or backward. Jack inched his bike past a Mini Cooper only to face the worst jam yet. Cars feeding toward the first bridge were packed so close they couldn't open their doors. Certainly no room for his bike.
He spotted open space far to the left-the exit to Randall's Island. Nobody seemed interested in that. Well, why not give that a try? Maybe he could find a way back up to the viaduct that would put him past this logjam.
A real rush to be able to feed the bike some gas down the empty ramp. After what he'd been through, thirty miles an hour felt like ninety.
He'd been here once or twice since moving to New York. Mostly a sports park with tennis courts, soccer and football fields, a couple of baseball diamonds, but also home to an FDNY fire academy and some sort of mental hospital.
Down on solid ground again, he followed a road paralleling the phalanx of huge columns that supported the viaduct looming a good hundred feet overhead. The light was poor down here and he had to depend on his headlight. He was rolling along, looking for a way back upstairs when the light picked up a hint of movement up ahead on the right near one of the columns. Could be nothing, could be bad news, like someone ducking out of sight. His headlight would have been visible for a while now, allowing time to set a trap.
As he sped through his options, he pulled the sap from his jacket and looped the thong around his wrist. He could have gone for the Glock nestled in the nylon holster in the small of his back, but he was going to need two hands to handle the bike. Still…
Thick brush lined the left side of the road, creating a gauntlet of sorts. He could stop and go back and look for another route, but there might not be one. He needed a way through here that would avoid trouble without slowing his progress.
As he closed in on the column, he made up his mind. Leaning low over the handlebars, he maxed the throttle and veered left, away from the column. The bike leaped ahead -and someone jumped from behind the column, swinging what looked like a two-by-four. It passed through the space where Jack's head would have been had he remained upright, but now it missed both high and wide.
As Jack glanced right to see if his would-be attacker was alone, something hit him from the left. He felt an arm go around his waist in a partially missed tackle. He slipped free but the impact was enough to unbalance him. He squeezed the brakes for all they were worth as the bike tipped. It went over, but he had his arms and legs tucked as metal scraped pavement. He was into a roll as he hit the ground, minimizing the impact. Still it knocked some of the wind out of him, and pain knifed through his right hip as it caught on the rim of a pothole.
Damn. Same leg that Valez had gouged.
The failed tackler was on him before he could regain his feet. In the glow of the bike's headlamp, he saw a boot flashing toward his face. He managed to block it and keep rolling. The move caused a stab of agony from his hip, and then a second kick caught him in the ribs-a glancing blow because of his roll, but it still hurt like hell.
Continuing to roll, he spotted the Buford Pusser wannabe approaching, two-by-four raised. He found the handle to the slapper-still attached by its thong-and took a wild swing, putting as much arm and wrist into it as he could manage from the ground. Nearly a pound of whipping lead connected with the tackler's knee. The guy let loose a cry of pain as his leg gave out. He pitched forward, landing next to Jack. With a howl of rage he made a gouge move at Jack's face, going for the eyes. Jack grabbed his wrist and rolled him atop him just as his buddy took a fence-buster swing at Jack's head. The board caught the tackler across the back; ribs cracked like twigs as the air went out of him in a strangled whoosh.
Jack took another wild swing with the slapper and caught the batter's ankle. With a surprised yelp he hopped backward, grabbing at his lower leg. Jack lashed out with a kick from his uninjured leg, hooking the good ankle and unbalancing him. He landed hard on his ass with a pained, stunned look.
Jack rolled the grunting, gasping tackler off him, struggled to his feet, and hobbled over to the batter before he could recover. The guy took a wild swing at Jack's legs with the board but missed. Jack stepped in and backfisted him in the nose, snapping his head back, then dropped on him, planting a knee in his ample gut. The guy gave out an agonized grunt. He rolled back and forth, groaning and writhing as he clutched his belly. He bent a knee and as Jack saw it rise he swung the slapper, putting his back, arm, and wrist into the blow. The lead weight caught the kneecap dead center. He was pretty sure he heard it shatter before the guy's echoing scream blotted out all other sounds.
After making a quick full turn to see if the immediate area held any more surprises, Jack limped back to where the tackler lay on his side, trying to catch his breath as he struggled to rise. Jack flipped him over onto his back and disabled him the same way-another scream, another shattered knee.
He straightened and stared at the two writhing, groaning figures. He wanted to say something to them but his hip hurt like hell and his brain was stuck in a nonverbal gear that wanted to kill instead of speak.
He pulled the Glock and worked the slide to chamber a round. The tackler looked up at him, fear widening his eyes.
Not for you, Jack thought. Just insurance.
No need for something so final. No threat to him now-or to anyone else. Chaos might reign in the city over the next few days, but these two oxygen wasters would not be part of it.
He put the pistol away and turned to where the bike lay on its side. On the other hand, if the bike was disabled and he wouldn't be able to get to LaGuardia tonight, he might revisit the kill option.
The bike had stalled after the fall. He righted it, and in the backwash of the headlight, checked it out as best he could. No major structural damage he could see, no odor of leaking gas. He got on, put her in neutral, kicked the starter, and felt a flood of relief as she sputtered to life.
Before he got rolling again, he checked his watch: ten after eleven. Already late and these jerks had slowed him even more. He called Gia's cell with little hope of hearing her voice.
Yep. No answer. No surprise. If she'd landed she'd be calling him as soon as allowed.
He found the American Airlines number in his call history from earlier and hit that. Went all the way through the damn voice tree again only to be told that no flight information was available. He thumbed 0 until he reached a living, breathing human being who told him what he'd already guessed: The airline's computers were down.
"So, you don't know if the plane landed or is still in the air or crashed?"
"No, sir."
"Do you know the gate number?"
"I would need the system up for that, sir."
He noticed the batter rolling onto his belly.
"Well then, how about calling one of your gates at the airport and asking them to check if three forty-six is in?"
"I can't do that, sir."
&
nbsp; "Even if I say 'Please'?"
"I'm sorry, sir."
He noticed Buford trying to rise onto his good knee.
"Uh-uh!" Jack told him.
The guy ignored him and kept rising.
"I'm sorry, sir?"
"You've got two knees. Nature deplores asymmetry. Want me to even them out?"
Buford blasted him a look of pure hatred and lowered himself to the ground.
"Sir?"
"Sorry. Talking to someone else. Look, how about giving me the number and I'll call."
"Sorry, sir."
Jack felt steam rising. She couldn't help the computer snafu, but she could do something about this.
"Hey, look-"
The phone went dead. Had she hung up on him?
He checked the cell's display: no bars… no service. But just a moment ago he'd had a strong signal. That could only mean Shit. Ripples from the botnet were seeping into the communications systems.
He resisted an urge to fling the phone and pocketed it instead. Service would be back up sooner or later. Probably later. But this meant no contact with Gia until he reached the airport.
If then.
He realized with a start that her flight might have been diverted. Well, that didn't change anything. Until he learned otherwise, he had to assume she was landing at LaGuardia, and so that was where he had to be.
He gunned the engine and got rolling again. He followed the Triboro viaduct above onto Ward's Island, which used to be separate but had been joined to Randall's by landfill. He rode across a soccer field and found a path that dead-ended near a baseball diamond at the water's edge. At no point had he seen an access ramp back onto the roadway that coursed directly above.
Jack sat on the bike and cursed as he stared across the water at the lights of Astoria… the northwest corner of Queens. And along Astoria's eastern border lay LaGuardia Airport.
Narrow here. Not a thousand feet across. The far shore looked close enough to swim to, but not here, not even in summer. This strait, a branch of the East River known as Hell Gate, was famous for its treacherous currents and occasional whirlpools. Jack didn't know how much of that was real and how much myth, but even if it were all myth, here and now he'd never make it across that frigid water.
Still cursing he began to turn the bike. He was halfway around when he saw lights in the sky to the east… a plane… coming in for a landing.
All right. The airport was still functioning. Gia could be waiting there now, wondering where he was. Trouble was, she'd have to go on wondering for a while. Because Jack was going to have to go back and find a way past that pile-up-even if he had to pick up the bike and carry it over those jammed cars.
He glanced left and saw another bridge. He gunned in that direction and stopped under it. Above, silhouetted against the light pollution from the city, were what looked like slats.
Then he realized what they were.
Train tracks.
A train trestle. Couldn't belong to any of the mass transit lines. None of them ran this way. So it had to be a freight line. Of course. Trains ran all the way from New England into Queens across the Hell Gate trestle. If he could find a way onto those tracks, he had a route across the river.
He just had to hope the tracks stayed empty.
He raced back toward the on-ramp to the viaduct. As he was approaching the spot where he'd been jumped he noticed a sign that brought him to a skidding halt. Queens Pedestrian Ramp
A closer look revealed a covered walkway running up to the viaduct. How had he missed that? He guessed his attackers had distracted him. More they had to answer for.
He gunned the bike. The pedestrian ramp was about to become a motocross ramp.
17
Kewan sat in the borrowed car, sipping lukewarm coffee and listening to the news while he waited for word. He'd parked on a little-used stretch of asphalt off the rural county road that led to the IXP. He'd tuned in to a Cleveland station and couldn't help grinning as he listened to news of the chaos. The city was paralyzed. Nobody could get anywhere.
He pumped a fist at the windshield. They'd done it-they brought down the system.
He checked his watch and a tingle ran through his chest. Less than a minute to go. He checked his cell phone. He'd been told to keep it handy in case Bridger called to tell him plans had changed, but that wasn't going to happen. The phone's window read No Service. Fine with Kewan. He didn't want to hear from Bridger. Didn't care much for the guy and got the impression the feeling was mutual. But he didn't have to like the guy. What mattered was with no service, there'd be no message telling him to walk away. No message meant it was Go for blow!
Timing was important. No sense in breaking up the infrastructure before the Net was down because that would actually save some routers. No, they wanted everything fried before the charges added icing to the cake.
He started the car and pulled up to the four-lane blacktop of the county road. He paused there and sorted through his collection of seventeen garage door transmitters on the passenger seat. Each had a piece of white labeling tape on its cover, and each tape was labeled with a number. He found number 1 and opened the battery compartment. He slipped in two AA Energizers, then turned onto the empty road. Keeping an eye on his rearview mirror, he pressed the button.
A column of flame exploded from the center of the pavement, sending the manhole cover into orbit.
He laughed and pounded the wheel as he drove on. One down, sixteen more to go. Much as he liked to watch them blow, being there was risking getting his ass caught, the last thing he needed. He wanted to be out and about when everything fell apart, not in a jail cell.
But these transmitters didn't have much range, so he had no choice.
Maybe that was for the best. No worry then about someone passing a spot when it exploded. He was an evolutionary, not a revolutionary-a Kicker, not a killer. He didn't want innocent blood on his hands. Guilty blood, okay, but he wasn't no goddamn Arab. Anybody who got in the way of the evolution had to go down, but a mom driving home to her kids from a late shift… no way.
He kept to the speed limit as he drove toward the next spot.
18
"Hey, you gotta come with us," the guy said for what seemed like the thousandth time. "Jake'll be here any minute-lives like a mile from here-and then it's party time."
Gia kept a tight grip on Vicky's hand and stared straight ahead at the empty baggage carousel. After the nightmare plane ride, why did she have to be saddled with these two low-rent Lotharios?
For a while up there she'd been afraid the plane would never land. The pilot had announced that computer problems were slowing landings at all the New York airports and they'd been directed into a holding pattern. As they'd flown round and round, she'd wondered how much fuel the tanks held in reserve. Then, finally, they'd been cleared to land.
But upon leaving the plane, these two had attached themselves to her on the jetway. They'd obviously been drinking. Probably had a few at O'Hare before the flight and then more on board.
Gia had been about to say something back there, but then she'd emerged into chaos. The gates and aisles of Concourse D were jammed with angry-looking people. As she moved through the crowd she gathered that the same computer problems that had delayed their landing had delayed all departures, with no hint of when they might resume.
As she'd woven through the crowds, the two remoras stayed close behind, oblivious to their surroundings, focused solely on what they repeatedly referred to as her "fine ass." She finally stopped and confronted them and threatened to report them. A mistake. They'd only laughed and escalated the trash talk, becoming bolder and bolder as they moved from the concourse to the equally chaotic Central Terminal.
"Why are they following us, Mommy?" Vicky said.
"Just hang on. We'll be out of here soon."
"I don't like them."
She'd tried to lose them in the terminal, but they'd stayed close. They seemed to be traveling light and she'd prayed t
hey wouldn't stick with her all the way to baggage.
They did.
Along the way she'd learned that the taller one was named Gabe and the shorter was Angelo. Gabe had bleached his hair a stark white but had left his eyebrows black. Angelo simply tied his long, dirty locks into a greasy ponytail. Both had Kicker Man tattoos on their hands.
Gabe was the mouthier of the pair. He leaned close now-close enough to share the whiskey on his breath as he spoke over her shoulder.
"You're one fine MILF, y'know that?"
Gia said nothing.
"You know what MILF means, don't you."
She did, but she ignored him. Too late she realized that was a mistake.
"It means you're a Mom I'd Like to Fuck."
Fury ignited within Gia. She spun to face him and shoved him away.
"If you've no respect for me, at least have some for this little girl!"
He looked at Vicky and grinned. "Hey, a couple more years on her and she'll be a TILF-a Tween I'd Like to Fuck."
This cracked up Angelo and the two of them bumped fists. Gia's hand started into motion to give his face a bump of her own, but she pulled it back. No telling what that would spark in these two.
"That does it. I'm getting a cop."
He laughed and made a dramatic show of looking around. "Yeah? Where?"
She made her own search. Her heart sank. Not a uniform of any kind in sight. No TSA. Nothing.
Two liquored-up creeps and her with a child. Jack had pushed her for years to carry a pistol but the very idea terrified her. To pacify him, she had agreed to a little spray can of Mace. She'd never had to use it, but she was ready now. Too bad it was on her dresser at home-no way to check it through onto the plane in her carry-on.
Where was Jack? She couldn't raise him on her cell phone-couldn't call anyone, in fact, including 911.
Then she felt a pair of hands grab her hips as Gabe began thrusting his pelvis against her buttocks.
Angelo laughed. "Ride her, cowboy!"
Gia tried to twist away but Gabe held her fast. Other people around her turned to look but no one moved to help. Maybe they thought they were a couple just fooling around, or maybe they simply didn't want to get involved.
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