Codename: Chandler: Fix (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by F. Paul Wilson

  He'd have to let her get close enough so he wouldn't miss. He'd spent a lot of his bullets in the museum and didn't have any extra. How many shots had he fired? Four? Five? Good god, if he'd fired five that meant he had only one shot left. He had to make it count – kill the woman and take her gun. Because he'd probably have Jack to deal with too.

  Where was he anyway?

  Jack

  Without breaking his stride, Jack pulled out his vibrating phone. Chandler again. This couldn't be good.

  "He got away?"

  "Yes and no. Would you believe he's in the tunnel?"

  "On foot? Yeah, I'd believe that. Which way is he headed?"

  "Downtown in the uptown tube. I'm going after him."

  No surprise there.

  "At least if you're moving that way you can see the train coming. But watch out for an ambush. Besides a lying son-of-a-bitch psycho, he's a sneaky bastard. And you know about the third rail, right?"

  "Of course."

  "Want to wait for me?"

  "Not likely. I need to end this."

  "I'll see if I can catch up to you. Be careful."

  But she'd already hung up.

  Jack tucked the phone away and increased his pace.

  Chandler

  I leaped off the platform and started into the arched tunnel. I wanted to run but forced myself to take my time. The going wasn't easy. The light wasn't half bad, but I didn't see Rasmus ahead. These weren't like outdoor railroad tracks. In lots of places the ties didn't run all the way across the middle, leaving openings a foot to a foot-and-a-half deep. Easy to break an ankle if you slipped into one of them. Cables as thick as my arm were strung along the sides. To my left, a narrow ledge ran shoulder high. I levered myself up onto it.

  "Now we're talking," I whispered to myself. Much better.

  Still I didn't rush. I ran the museum confrontation through my mind, counting shots from the Walther. Five…I was sure of it. That meant one left, since I'd emptied the one in the chamber. Of course I may have missed an extra mag in my quick pat down.

  I'd progressed maybe a hundred yards into the tunnel when I spotted a door in the wall a dozen feet ahead of me. That was where I'd be waiting if I was setting up an ambush. I stopped and studied it. It appeared unlatched but I couldn't be sure in the low light.

  I drew my Beretta and dropped into a crouch as I felt a soft breeze puff against my face. It grew stronger. I knew what the meant: a train. Far down the track I spotted a growing light. A 4, 5, or 6 train roaring down from East 96th. I found a handhold and braced myself for the blast of air. If it sucked me off the platform…

  The single headlight was damn near blinding and I squinted against the bow wave of air. I had a quick look at the driver in his cozy little cab, and then the train was roaring past, the wind buffeting me, the cars racing by only inches away, the light through the windows strobing me.

  I forced my eyes to stay open – a narrow squint that allowed me to keep watch on the door. Because if I was going to spring a trap, now was the perfect moment. And just as that thought formed, the door ahead swung inward, revealing a dark rectangle. Motion within, made herky-jerky by the strobe effect, and then a man appeared, pointing something my way. I saw the muzzle flash and something stung the slope of my right trapezius. If I'd been standing it would have caught me in the gut, knocking me off the ledge to be ground up on the track.

  I returned fire and the door slammed closed.

  When the train had passed, I held my position with the Beretta trained on the doorway.

  "Come on," I whispered. "Take a peek to see if you hit me."

  Someone very close behind me said, "You're bleeding."

  I jumped and if I hadn't recognized Jack's voice I would have shot him.

  "Don't do that!" I kept my eyes and pistol on the doorway. "And yes, I know I'm bleeding."

  "How many shots did he get off?"

  "One."

  "Then he's empty."

  "I wouldn't be so sure."

  "Here. Let me by."

  "You'll be in my line of fire."

  That didn't seem to faze him, so I pressed back against the wall and let him slither past. He had his Glock trained on the door, so I allowed myself to relax a bit. As he made his way toward the door, I tried to examine my shoulder. I could see the blood but couldn't see the wound itself – too high on my trap. I rotated the shoulder and felt only mild discomfort. Must have just caught the skin.

  Jack had reached the door. He pressed his ear against it, then stood to the side and knocked.

  "Rasmus? We need to talk."

  Rasmus

  Talk? That had to be the last thing Jack wanted to do.

  Rasmus looked down at his empty Walther. If only he'd thought to bring an extra clip, he'd put a few bullets right through the door. But none of this had been in his plans. Who would have thought he'd end up trapped like a rat in this storage closet with an empty gun?

  Wait. Jack wouldn't know it was empty.

  "Go away or I'll shoot!"

  "We both know you're dry."

  "I have an extra clip!"

  "First off, it's a 'magazine,' and second, you'd be shooting through this door if you had any rounds left."

  "You'd better not try shooting through the door. You may hit the wrong thing."

  A pause, then, "Why would that be 'wrong'? It's a WMD. It's good for mass murder and nothing else. Isn't that what you want?"

  Jack wouldn't understand. He couldn't understand. No one could.

  "What I'm planning is for the good of the city. I-I-I know that sounds crazy, but it's true."

  "We all want what's good for the city, so why don't you let me in and we'll discuss it?"

  "You don't want what's good for the city. You hate the mayor!"

  "All right. This is getting nowhere. I'm coming in. You gonna open the door, or do I have to kick it down?"

  Rasmus unzipped the carry-on and pulled out the cylinder.

  "I'm holding the cylinder. You try to come in and I'll release the gas. ZLK poisoning is a horrible death."

  "That means you'll die horribly right along with the rest of us."

  "I'm ready to do that."

  No he wasn't. Not at all. He wanted to be at the mayor's side during his glory years. He didn't want to die, but even worse would be to die and be labeled a terrorist, to be disowned by Michael Bloomberg himself.

  He jumped as something crashed against the other side of the door.

  "No!"

  He slammed his back against it and pressed back with all his strength. But the next blow was even harder. Were they both kicking down the door?

  With the third blow the cylinder slipped from his grasp and hit the floor. It rolled away and smacked against the far wall with a CLANG!

  "No-no-nooo!"

  Rasmus watched in horror, half-expecting it to explode.

  It didn't.

  "Sweet Jesus," Rasmus said. "I thought it would--"

  The nozzle popped off the top of the canister, and began to spray a fine mist into the air.

  Jack

  On their third combined kick, the door burst open and Jack leaped into the mist-filled room with his Glock raised, equally ready to fire it or use it as a club. Neither proved necessary because Rasmus was on his knees, sobbing.

  "Look what you've done! We're dead! We're dead!"

  Jack saw the spewing canister and felt the toxin hit his lungs. He pushed Chandler back out the door and dropped next to the canister, trying to block the spray with his hands. As his palms soaked with toxin, he managed to wedge his little finger into the nozzle hole, stopping the leak.

  For a few seconds he felt okay, then saliva began to pour into his mouth. He spit.

  "What?"

  More saliva, then the tears began. A tingling started in his hands and spread through his entire body. He looked up at Chandler's shell-shocked expression.

  "Well, this is awkward."

  Chandler

  I was stunned
by what he had done.

  "Get out!" he gurgled as saliva flowed over his chin like a teething baby.

  "Oh… Jack…it's too late for that." I'd inhaled it too.

  And then I felt my own saliva begin to flow. I looked at Rasmus. He'd fallen on his side and lay there, drooling, crying, and twitching all over. I saw a wet stain spreading across his crotch.

  I dropped to my knees and dug into my clutch.

  The package Jacob had sent: Atropine + HuBChE on the label. I knew the stuff. Enzyme bioscavengers to sequester the toxin and atropine to reverse the effects.

  My fingers felt weak and shaky as I tore open the small box, shook three ampules out onto the floor.

  I slapped my palm onto the nearest, scooping it up, flicking the plastic cover off the needle. I injected it directly into my neck. Then I picked up another and crawled to Jack.

  "Antitoxin," I said.

  I blinked several times to clear the tears, felt for Jack's bounding carotid, and injected it straight into the artery.

  With my muscles turning to jelly, I collapsed onto my back. After a while, the saliva and tears slowed. I lifted an arm and it shook only a little.

  Jack's voice was a rasp. "Shouldn't we have taken it earlier?"

  My head began to clear. "When? In the museum, when we were trying to kill each other?"

  "I wasn't trying to kill you. I was holding back."

  "Me, too."

  I looked at him. He still had his finger in the nozzle hole.

  "Oh, Jesus, I'm dying!" Rasmus moaned, then vomited.

  "Is that a third dose?" he said, pointing to the remaining ampule.

  "Oh, no you don't!"

  "Don't what?"

  "Don't even think of giving it to him."

  "Why would I do that?"

  "'Cause I've noticed definite humanitarian tendencies."

  "Like hell."

  "You thought you were saving my ass in the park, so don't tell me you weren't thinking about dosing him with that."

  "Never crossed my mind. My supposed 'humanitarian tendencies' are thinking how much better off we'll all be when we're sure this guy won't breed."

  "I know, right?" I felt a burst of warmth for Jack. "Where have you been all my life?"

  "Hiding. Pretty much like you."

  "Yeah. Sucks sometimes."

  "That it do, that it do."

  Rasmus had a grand mal seizure then. His bowels cut loose as he died.

  Jack made a face. "Just when I thought things couldn't get worse." He tapped the cylinder with his free hand. "So what do we do with this?"

  I fished my cell from my purse and dialed Jacob.

  "You'll never get a signal down here."

  "This is not your everyday cell phone."

  The call went through and Jacob picked up. After we went through the security song and dance, I said, "Buyer is dead. I have the toxin. But there's an issue. It sprang a leak."

  "Is it still leaking?" Even during a dire emergency, Jacob kept completely cool.

  "No. A little Dutch Boy stuck his finger in the dyke."

  "Who?"

  "The cutie," I said, putting Jacob on speakerphone. "I'm waiting for him to make a dyke joke. He thinks he's funny."

  "I am funny," Jack said. "But you don't smile at anything."

  "I'm sending you a pic of the device. It has a Blackberry attached to it, looks like a remote."

  I took the picture.

  "How much was released?" Jacob asked.

  "A mist," I told him. "Three seconds at most. In a storage room off a subway tunnel."

  "Got the picture. You have the phone you took from Farquart?"

  "Yes. Disposable. Only one number on it."

  "It's to the Blackberry. That's how he arms it. Uh-oh."

  Uh-oh? Jacob never said uh-oh.

  "Problem?" I asked.

  "I just researched the tank the toxin is in. Military contractor standard model. C-4 under the nozzle. If the trigger isn't properly disarmed, it'll blow."

  "If the trigger isn't properly disarmed, it'll blow?" Jack asked. "Where do you people come from?"

  "How bad?" I asked.

  "Comparable to an M67 grenade, and it'll spread toxin everywhere."

  "Can you disarm it from there? Or guide me through it?"

  "I can try. Don't touch the Blackberry. Give me the phone number on Farquart's phone."

  I read the ten digits.

  "He no doubt has an arming code. As a safeguard. I'll see if I can pull up his records on his cell network."

  I was feeling better. Not a hundred percent, but the vertigo was gone.

  "Can you walk?" I asked Jack.

  "I can run if I have to."

  I helped Jack stand, holding the cylinder. He tucked away his gun and we started walking along the ledge back toward the platform. When we reached it, Jack placed the canister on a NYT vending machine.

  "I'm going to try something," Jacob said. "Let me know if anything happens."

  The Blackberry beeped.

  Then 1:00 appeared on the screen.

  It changed to 0:59…

  0:58…

  "Something happened, Jacob. It beeped, and seems to be counting down from a minute."

  "Uh-oh."

  "Can you please stop saying uh-oh?"

  "Farquart booby-trapped the encryption. When the timer runs out, the C4 is going to blow."

  "Uh-oh," Jack said.

  "Any way to neutralize the toxin before it blows?" I asked.

  "Submerse it in salt water. That would do it."

  "We're miles from water. Jack, get out of here. I'll deal with this."

  "Look around you, Chandler," he said nodding to the crowded platform. "People all over. I'm not budging my finger."

  "I'll put my finger in."

  "You can't do that without some leakage. We're immune right now, but everyone else…" He leaned toward the phone. "Is there a chance it can be diffused?"

  "Working on it," Jacob said. "I'll need someone there to punch in the deactivation code."

  I glanced at the timer.

  :50…

  :49…

  "I'll stay," I told him. "Go. Please."

  "I'm not taking my finger off the nozzle."

  "Then cut off your finger and run."

  "That's your answer? Give you the finger?"

  "Dammit, Jack. This is serious. You need to get out of here."

  He shook his head. "I'm in for the duration, babe. Deal with it."

  "I'm trying something else," Jacob said. "Chandler, punch in niner, zero, zero, eight, six, four. Then the pound sign."

  "Niner, zero, zero, eight, six, four, pound," I repeated, jabbing in the numbers.

  :40... :39… :38...

  "The timer sped up," I said, my stomach sinking to my knees. "It's going twice as fast now."

  Jack laughed. "Of course it is. How could either of you not find this hilarious?"

  "I like your boyfriend," Jacob said. "Laughing in the face of certain death takes balls."

  "He's gone hysterical. The decrypt is six numbers?"

  "A guess. If it were seven he'd risk calling someone."

  "What sequence has six numbers?" I asked Jack.

  "I dunno. The lottery?"

  "A PIN for a bank?"

  "Aren't they four?"

  "License plate?"

  "They have letters, too. I don't think Farquart had a car."

  "How about dates?" Jack said. "Two for the day, two for the month, two for the year. Could it be his birthday?"

  "His birthday is December 16, 1968," Jacob said.

  I punched in the numbers, then the pound sign.

  :28… :27… :26…

  "Still going. How about his mother?"

  "July 18, 1943."

  My fingers flew on the tiny keypad.

  :21… :20… :19...

  "Didn't work."

  I cursed myself for not getting this information out of him. I'd gotten everything else. The meeting place at the
museum and the time. The fact that the toxin was hidden in the Arms and Armor exhibit. I'd also gotten his whole life story—

  "Wait! Norma!"

  "Norma isn't a number," Jack said. "Too bad you've never seen The Prisoner. 'I'm not a number, I'm a free man!' Great show."

  "You're right," Jacob said. "He's hysterical."

  "Jacob, Farquart had a girlfriend named Norma. Is she in his file?"

  "Checking…"

  :15… :14…

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the little girl. Adorable, walking two basset hound pups. Her mother, a pretty woman about my age, was watching her intently.

  That was just about the last thing I needed with seconds left to live. A reminder of everything I'd missed out on. Everything I'd never be.

  "Found her," Jacob said. "Norma Sue Gilbertson."

  "What's her birthday?"

  "Not in this file. Hold on."

  Jack touched my cheek with the knuckles of his free hand. I met his gaze.

  "Hey, Chandler. I think I know what my last words will be. 'Here's looking at you, kid.'"

  "Casablanca," I said.

  Jack's eyes lit up. "You saw it?"

  "Of course I saw it. Great movie."

  Jack kissed me, a quick but tender peck on the lips, and then, with a terrible Bogie accent, he said, "'Chandler, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.'"

  "Best last line ever," I said.

  And smiled.

  "You smiled!" Jack yelled. "I made you smile!"

  I moved in to kiss him one last time, and Jacob yelled, "Zero four two niner six niner!"

  I bypassed the kiss and punched it in the Blackberry. Then I checked the timer.

  :02…

  :02…

  :02…

  It had stopped.

  Jack and I gaped at it, then at each other.

  He began to laugh.

  So did I. Great, hysterical peals of laughter, so hard it made my sides ache.

  "I take it you guys aren't dead," Jacob said.

  That made us laugh even harder. I tried to remember the last time I'd laughed. I couldn't. I couldn't even recall the last time I was happy. So much of my training, of my life, was about controlling my emotional response. It was strange to feel normal. And I had no idea how long it would last.