by Patrick Lee
Beautiful day.
Beautiful world to be alive in.
She wished she could know that it would stay this way a lot longer than four months—even if she wouldn’t be around to see it.
The street blurred a little. She blinked away the film of tears. She took a sharp breath and rolled onto her back again.
Another set of footsteps came and went. She closed her eyes and waited.
Travis sprinted full-out down the broken surface of the avenue, south toward the traffic circle. Bethany kept up with him. They weren’t listening for heavy movement in the forest now. Travis had the shotgun cradled as he ran. If a lion stepped into his path it was going to get a long overdue reminder that meaner predators had once walked these streets.
He mapped out the plan as he sprinted. Visualized the ninth floor of the ruin, and the northeast corner there. They’d looked at it earlier. The concrete pad had been pretty solid, with just a few hairline fractures.
No way to know the room’s layout in the present day. Not even its size. It didn’t have to match the concrete. The safest place to open the iris would be near the room’s outside corner. That would at least get them inside the space, whatever its size.
He pictured how the action would play out. In present time he would come through the iris facing the corner, with his back to the room. He’d lose maybe half a second turning and getting a sense of his surroundings. There was no reason to expect an armed presence in the room itself. Paige would be restrained, and the building was secured at ground level. Nobody would expect intruders to step through a hole in the air on the ninth floor.
But armed or not, anyone in the room other than Paige would have to be dealt with.
He considered the Remington. Imagined going through the iris with it. It would be bulky and slow to maneuver in the confined space of the corner. It would need to be cycled between shots, and he’d get only five of them. Anyone he hit would be dead all over the place, but if there were multiple targets, and if they did happen to be armed, the limited shot capacity could get him in trouble.
They reached the traffic circle. Crossed it in about twenty seconds. In another twenty they were at the base of the maple that offered access to the second floor. They climbed to the girders and headed across them toward the stairwell.
“Trade with me,” Travis said. He held the shotgun out to Bethany. She took it and handed him the SIG-Sauer. It held nine .45 caliber rounds, including the one in the chamber. They wouldn’t hit like twelve-gauge slugs, but they would do the job. And he could aim and fire the pistol a hell of a lot faster than a three-foot-long shotgun. Bethany handed him the three spare magazines from her pocket. He put two in his own pocket and kept the other one in his free hand. If need be, he could drop the current magazine out of the pistol and reload it in about a second.
They were on the ninth floor a minute later, moving as fast as caution allowed across the open beams. They came to the concrete pad at the corner. Travis gave it only a second’s assessment and then walked onto it. Strong as hell. An intact pad directly above it had blocked at least some of the snow and ice that would’ve stressed it over the years.
Bethany followed him onto the pad. She shrugged off her backpack, opened it and took out the cylinder. The rest of the shotgun shells—one hundred minus those in the gun and in Travis’s pockets—settled into the bottom of the pack.
She set the cylinder on the concrete and used the backpack to prop up the front end. The iris would open just above waist level, two feet in from the corner of the room.
She knelt over the cylinder, ready to switch it on.
Travis stood next to where the beam would project the iris. He gripped the SIG. Took a breath. Looked at Bethany.
“Do it,” he said.
She pressed the button.
The iris appeared, and through it Travis saw tinted glass and flowing traffic far below and he ducked through and spun as he stood upright, the SIG coming up and sweeping the room for targets.
The room was empty.
Chapter Nineteen
There was one door out of the room. It was closed. There was a narrow strip of glass set into it. Travis crossed the room and looked through it. The corridor stretched away in two directions from the corner. He could see all the way down one stretch, and not far at all down the other. Just a few feet before the angle got in the way.
The corridor was tiled with either stone or ceramic. Travis heard footsteps clicking along on it, approaching from the hidden direction. Distinct clicks, one after the next. Someone alone. Travis turned the doorknob and pulled the door toward himself a quarter inch, just enough to clear the latch from the plate.
He waited. The tile amplified the footsteps and made it hard to judge their distance. He let them get louder than instinct advised, and then he yanked the door open and stepped through, bringing the SIG up to level.
A guy in his forties, short, wiry, came to a stop with the gun’s barrel six inches from his face.
Travis gestured for him to stay quiet. The guy nodded. Eyes wide. Travis stepped clear of the door and waved the man through, and a second later they were back in the room with the door closed behind them.
“Shut your eyes,” Travis said. “Tight.”
The man complied.
Travis grabbed him by the back of the collar and propelled him forward, keeping him off balance. He shoved him to the corner, turned, dragged him downward and pushed him through the iris. His waist caught the bottom of the circle on the way through and he pitched forward, sprawling onto the concrete on the other side.
The man got himself upright, half sitting, and opened his eyes. Bethany had the shotgun on him. Travis was already through the iris behind him, covering him with the SIG.
The guy looked around at the forest and the ruins. His expression went dead slack. Disbelief at its most literal. His brain simply did not accept what his eyes were reporting.
“Wallet,” Travis said.
The guy stared at him. Blinked. Took out his wallet.
Travis pointed to the concrete at Bethany’s feet. “Toss it.”
The guy threw the wallet. It landed, tumbled three feet and stopped.
Travis gestured for the guy to stand up. The man nodded, and when he was halfway through the move, onto his feet but not yet balanced, Travis grabbed the back of his collar again and shoved him forward onto the girder that bound the north edge of the concrete. He pushed him onto it and then past it. The guy’s feet stayed on the lip of the beam but his upper body ended up two feet beyond, above nine stories of empty space.
The man’s breath caught in his throat. His body went rigid, his fear overwhelming every instinct to struggle. He took tiny breaths, in and out, as if he thought larger ones might imbalance him and send him over.
Travis stood with his own weight tilted inward from the edge to counterbalance the guy. His arm was fully extended. The guy was thirty degrees past his own natural tipping point.
“Where’s the woman?” Travis said.
It took the guy a second to answer. “Woman?”
“Don’t fuck with me. They brought her in last night, after they hit the motorcade.”
Another few seconds passed. The guy cocked his head. He knew the answer. If he didn’t, he’d be saying so already. He’d be screaming it.
Travis shifted his weight outward. He did it fast, letting his arm go slack and then snap tight again. The effect was that, for half a second, the guy believed he was falling. He didn’t scream—he didn’t have the breath for it—but he made a tight whimpering sound.
Then his words came out in a high monotone. “They took her to Mr. Finn’s office. Just now. Few minutes ago.”
“Where is that?”
“Top floor. Southwest corner.”
Travis let go of his collar.
The guy’s arms shot outward, spasming, his hands grabbing for anything. But there wasn’t anything. He sucked in a gasp and screamed like a high-school girl in a slasher flick and
then he was gone, out into the emptiness.
Travis didn’t bother to watch him hit. He turned. Saw Bethany standing there, her hand to her mouth, eyes unblinking. The shotgun hung forgotten at her side.
“We didn’t ask to be part of this,” Travis said. “These people did.”
It was all he had.
He held her eyes a moment longer and then he crossed to the cylinder and shut it off. He picked it up and headed for the stairwell, crossing exposed beams. After a few steps he picked up the pace to a run. He glanced behind him and saw Bethany shouldering the backpack, pocketing the dropped wallet, and following.
Paige sat waiting for Isaac Finn to arrive. She knew his name only from the brass plate she’d seen on his door when the two large men had carried her through it.
Finn’s office was huge. Three times the size of the room they’d kept her in. There was a balcony along its southern expanse looking out on a view that could’ve been an educational poster of Washington, D.C. The kind of poster with tags and labels for every building that mattered. It was all there, from the White House to the Capitol to the Supreme Court, and a hundred other buildings that channeled power in ways most people would never care to know. Paige wondered how many of those buildings this highrise outranked. Maybe all of them.
She was sitting on a leather couch. Her wrists and ankles were still zip-tied. The two large men were standing just inside the door, hands folded neatly in front of them. Each had a Beretta holstered under his suit coat—Paige had seen them there when they’d carried her from the other room.
The door opened and a man in his fifties walked in. He was trim, six feet tall, with dark hair going a little gray. He was far from what Paige had pictured—whatever she’d pictured. He looked wrong for the office. His eyes, in particular, looked wrong. There was no arrogance in them. No presumption. Paige thought of one of her father’s friends, a pediatric surgeon she’d met on several occasions. She’d always been struck by his eyes: weathered by the years of suffering they’d seen, but not beaten. Isaac Finn’s eyes looked almost like that—they missed by some degree Paige couldn’t account for.
None of which mattered, in any case. Kind-looking eyes could be a trick of genetics or an unconscious mimicry of some long-dead parent. There were better lights by which to judge a person, and Finn didn’t look good in any of them.
He had a coffee cup in one hand. In the other he held the black cylinder Paige had shown the president last night. He crossed to his desk and set down the coffee. He turned and looked at Paige. He seemed to be appraising her in some way. Coming to a decision.
“Free her legs,” Finn said.
The nearest of the two guards came over. He took a jackknife from a sheath on his belt, opened it, and cut the tie binding Paige’s ankles. He backed away to his original position.
Finn stared at her a moment longer. Then he tapped the cylinder. “The president told me about your demonstration of this, in detail. You told him it’s safe for a person to step through the projected opening.”
Paige nodded.
“You didn’t do that for him, though.”
“It wasn’t necessary. He saw that it worked.”
“I want to see you do it. I want to see for myself that a person can go through.”
He strode to the long walnut table that stood behind the couch. He set the cylinder on it, braced on either side with a pair of leather-bound books that’d been lying there. He aimed it toward the southern windows, just over ten feet away.
He put his finger to the on button, then looked at Paige and raised his eyebrows as if to verify that he was doing it right.
“I don’t know how much simpler I could’ve labeled it,” she said.
Finn pressed the button.
The light cone flared and projected the opening just shy of the windows.
Paige watched Finn’s body language. It was immediately clear that he hadn’t seen the cylinder in action until now. He stared at the opening. His face was perfectly blank. He stood there, not moving at all. Ten seconds passed. Then he stepped forward. He walked along the edge of the light cone, giving it space. Paige had done the same thing a few days ago, the first time she and the others switched it on.
Finn walked to within a foot of the opening, to its right. He stared through for a moment, and then abandoned his fear of the light and moved directly in front of the open circle. He gazed out at the ruins. Paige saw his head shake from side to side, just noticeably.
“Jesus, it works,” he whispered, so softly that Paige almost missed it.
Then he turned to her. Waved her up off the couch.
“Do it,” he said. “Step through.”
She knew exactly what would happen if she did. She sat there for three seconds considering her options. She didn’t have any. And it didn’t matter what happened to her now. All that mattered was what Bethany was doing, if she’d gotten out of Border Town. Paige wished again that there were a way to know. It would be a comforting thought, and a comforting thought would be nice right now.
“Fine,” she said.
She stood. She rounded the end of the couch and crossed to the opening. Finn moved aside for her. She rested her hands—still bound at the wrists—on the bottom of the circle, and stared out over the sprawling woodland. She could see the Washington Monument punching up from the canopy about a mile away. She couldn’t identify much else. The White House was completely hidden by the trees. The Capitol Dome should’ve been visible, but it wasn’t. Paige remembered taking a tour of the building in high school and learning that the dome was made of cast iron. She recalled hearing what it weighed, and not believing it at the time. Something like 11 million pounds. That much weight would’ve worked against the building’s supports pretty quickly once corrosion set in.
Paige gripped the lower edge of the opening and leaned her upper body through. She looked down for a place to put her feet. The thick girder that formed the boundary of the top floor was right there, running side to side past the opening. The supports for the balcony extended outward from it, long since relieved of the concrete surface they’d once held up. They were just solitary beams now, each one about six inches wide, jutting out over the abyss like a pirate’s plank. The nearest was right in front of the opening.
Paige let her eyes take in the rest of the structure beneath her, a latticework of steel plunging sixteen stories to the foundation pit. She’d never been a fan of heights. She looked left and right along the girder she was about to step onto. It took all of her control to keep from showing any reaction to what she could see.
She put one leg through the opening, and then the other. As her second foot touched the girder she felt Finn’s hand close around her upper arm. He held on tightly, preventing her from making a run for it to the left or right.
“Straight ahead,” he said, and shoved her by the arm.
To keep her balance against the push, she stepped forward onto the narrow balcony support.
Finn was still holding on. Through his grip Paige felt a sudden back-and-forth movement of his body. She pictured him waving with his other arm, silently calling one of the guards over. She imagined the man nodding, already briefed on this, crossing the room and drawing his Beretta as he came. Finn gave her arm another shove, forcing her to take a second step. She was three feet out on the narrow beam now, at the extent of Finn’s reach. Nowhere at all for her to go.
Finn released her arm.
A second later she heard the Beretta’s slide being racked behind her.
Finn stepped away from the projected hole and gave Boyce a clear line of sight to make the kill. Boyce paused just outside the light cone, hesitant to let it touch him. Then he shrugged, stepped into the light and faced the hole.
Finn watched him assess his prey. Watched his expression take on the fake, wired kind of calm that spoke more of testosterone than real composure.
“She’s cute,” Boyce said. “Sure we have to rush this? It’s not like anyone’s gonna find the bod
y and swab it for DNA.”
Finn took a step closer to him and spoke evenly. “If I ever hear you advocate unnecessary suffering again, you’ll be the one standing out there. Do you believe me?”
Boyce looked at him. The bullshit calm receded from his eyes. “Yes, sir.”
“Make it painless. Shoot her in the back of the head, centered in a line between the ears. Don’t miss.”
“Yes, sir.”
Boyce raised his Beretta.
He extended it a foot through the opening.
He thumbed off the safety.
And then a hand came out of nowhere, from outside the opening on the right edge. It locked onto Boyce’s wrist and yanked it downward. Boyce had just begun to flinch when a second hand came through, this one holding a SIG-Sauer P220. It jammed the barrel into Boyce’s eye and fired, blowing his head apart. A fragment of skull hit Finn in the face. He staggered back from the opening. In his peripheral vision he saw Kaglan, still in position at the door, reaching for his own weapon—but the SIG was already coming up to level on him. A tenth of a second later it fired again, three shots in a tight pattern. Kaglan screamed and went down. He managed to return fire, but his aim was all over the place, most of his shots missing the opening and cratering the windows beyond it. The SIG shooter stepped away from the opening on the far side until Kaglan ran dry, and then the weapon came back through the hole and began rapid-firing blindly into the room.
Finn threw himself flat and crawled behind the couch, for whatever cover it could provide. He heard the SIG fire dry, and it crossed his mind to get up and hit the off button on the cylinder, but already he heard the metallic scrape of the SIG’s magazine dropping out, and almost on top of it came the smack of a fresh one being rammed home. Half a breath after that the shooting started again, fast and wild, hitting everything. Finn counted seven shots. Then silence. Which was strange: a SIG 220’s clip held eight rounds. He glanced up and saw Kaglan struggling to move, blood seeping heavily from a wound in his side. And then the eighth shot hit Kaglan in the temple and took the top half of his head off.