The Council House (The Impoverished Book 3)

by Frances Fletcher

  “Twenty million.”

  Everyone had a price, but without the greedy bastards he would accomplish nothing. “Done.”

  “For me. Twenty more to split among my crew.”

  “Do it.” After all, what did paper currency mean to him? He owned Wall Street and the Federal Reserve.

  Chapter 9

  Mark looked up at the white sky. A single tower was blowing black smoke westward; its twin lay in ruins. He ran across Church Street toward the pile of rubble, listening and searching for survivors.

  A row of dust-covered emergency vehicles dotted the street. He flung open the door of a parked RMP. The police car was empty. Then two ambulances and a fire truck. All empty. He wiped the window on a locked RMP and peeked inside. No one. But then a tap on his foot. He dropped to his knees and looked beneath the undercarriage. A man’s head peeked out.

  “It’s over.” Mark held out his hand. “You can come out now.”

  The pedestrian grabbed his outstretched hand, looking around with wide eyes.

  Suddenly a thunderous kabloom blasted from the bottom of the north tower, and the ground vibrated as if there were an earthquake. Though knocked off his feet, Mark kept his eyes on the tower. His firearms tactics kicked into high gear and he automatically treated the skyscraper as if it were an armed perp. He clawed his way back up from the ground, frantically scanning the tower. Thirty floors below the impact zone an orange light flashed, then low-level flashes began popping out and travelled upward around the building. First an orange light flashed and a split-second later, a red light flashed. The lights travelled upward, alternating colors, in split-second intervals.

  Taking his gaze from the tower for an instant, he pulled the pedestrian up from the ground. All at once, the sound of hundreds of firecracker mats exploding merged with the sound of a crashing waterfall. He looked back. Holy shit! The bottom floors were plunging into the tower’s footprint. “Follow me!” he yelled.

  They ran across Vesey Street and rounded the corner of Building 7. Sheltering himself against the east wall, Mark squatted and motioned for the pedestrian to crouch against the wall beside him.

  “Cover your head with your arms,” Mark said. “It’s not over yet.”

  Mark tucked his face into his knees. A gush of heat nearly toppled him over, but the building wall braced him. He’d wait this out, and he’d be fine, like before. He closed his eyes and hunkered down lower.

  * * *

  Richie dragged a man soaking through an arm tourniquet into the emergency room. “He’s bleeding out.”

  A doctor rushed over, pointing to an empty stretcher.

  “There are more patients outside,” Richie said, lowering the man onto the stretcher.

  The doctor wheeled the injured man into an exam room and shouted for help.

  Richie led a group of nurses outside and helped transfer the injured onto stretchers. As soon as the gurneys had been wheeled inside, doctors rushed up to begin treatment. Richie looked around at the empty waiting area. There was more medical staff than patients. “Where is everyone?”

  “Only a few injured people have trickled in,” said a nurse from the front desk. “And an off-duty doctor and several nurses showed up and volunteered.” She looked down the hallway. “Here they are now.”

  “Are there more injured?” The doctor removed a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket and peeked in the triage room.

  “Not here.” The nurse motioned at Richie. “How many?”

  “A lot.” Richie shrugged. “I could bring a carload at a time.”

  The doctor looked at his nurses and raised an eyebrow. They both nodded.

  “We’ll come with you,” he said.

  The nurses trotted down the hall and quickly returned, carrying two emergency medical bags each. Richie and the doctor helped carry the bulky kits and they all crammed into the car.

  A nurse gasped as Richie turned down Broadway. The television was on in the hospital, but the real-life view of a single smoking tower must be shocking. He should have said something to prepare them. But what? He could barely believe it himself.

  Suddenly his attention was drawn to the remaining tower. Red flashes were popping out from the bottom to the top. “It’s happening again!” He slowed to a stop in front of 26 Federal Plaza without taking his gaze from the tower. The upper floors were disappearing into a cloud of dust. “I have to get down there!”

  The nurses jumped from the vehicle and dragged out the medical bags. “We’ll handle the injured here!”

  Lieutenant Jordan rushed up to the passenger door and drummed the roof. As soon as the doctor vacated the passenger seat, he hopped in. “Let’s go!”

  “Wait.” One of the nurses reopened the back door and threw an emergency bag on the back seat. “It might come in handy.” She slammed the door and ran to the injured.

  Richie floored the gas pedal.

  * * *

  Dewer looked at his wristwatch and wet his lips. Any minute now. He blinked, and gulped a mouthful of air. He raised the binoculars to his eyes. Dark smoke trailed from the top of the north pillar and above the white cement cloud dispersing from the remains of the south pillar.

  And then it happened. The roof antenna fell straight down as the north pillar imploded into a cloud of pulverized concrete. When the dark smoke merged with the white dust, he lowered the binoculars, leaned back, and waited.

  All at once, a rush of dark energy penetrated his body. The New World Order had come together.

  Chapter 10

  Mel drove down Second Avenue without stopping for one traffic light and reached the Brooklyn Army Terminal in record time. She was pulling out her shield and identification card to show the BAT security guard when she noticed an unmarked Chevy blocking the lane to the police parking lot. That’s different. Things must be serious if Intel had beefed up security.

  The security guard motioned her through, but she stopped again when she reached the unmarked police sedan. She rolled down the passenger side window. Manny waved at her from the driver’s seat and pulled the car back just far enough to let her pass.

  She couldn’t find an empty spot anywhere in the huge parking lot. Every off-duty intelligence detective living in Brooklyn, Queens and Staten Island must have reported here already. When she passed the bay doors for the third time, a horn tooted. Another unmarked sedan was parked in front of the outside staircase. She stopped next to the vehicle and rolled down her window. “Hey, Orlando.” She shrugged. “Where can I—”

  “Tuck the car in as close to the barrier as you can get.” He pointed at the cement barriers dividing the police lot from the loading bay. “Leave the keys under the driver’s seat.”

  As she parked, she realized that both Orlando and Manny were in the bag. She had never seen either detective dressed in uniform before. She bit her lip; security was off the hook. She hopped out of the car and waved at Orlando. “Thanks.”

  “Keep your ID out,” he shouted as she trotted up the stairs.

  She passed two detectives, in uniform, patrolling the loading dock. Another in the elevator hallway. When the elevator doors opened, she found Sammy inside. She noticed he was in uniform too, but that was normal since he was permanently assigned to the security detail. He hugged her hello, and she moved aside to let him exit.

  “I’m staying in the elevator, Mel. This is my post.” He reached over to press the button.

  She sighed, so much for normal. Since when did Intel post police officers in the elevator?

  “I heard you had a girl. At least that’s something good, right?”

  “Yeah, she’s definitely something good! I’m still on maternity leave. But I want to help.”

  “I wanted to dig at the site—but I’m stuck guarding the elevator.” He looked at the floor. “I still can’t believe what happened, Mel.”

  “I can’t either.” The door opened and she patted his back as she exited in a hurry, eager to get to work.

  But as soon as she reach
ed the operations room, the lieutenant ordered her to go home.

  “You’re still on maternity leave,” she said. “I can’t use you.”

  “But I’m due back in just one week anyway!” Mel said, unable to hide her disappointment. “At the very least, I can run background checks and target assessments.”

  “I have more detectives than functioning computers. The trunk lines are down, so most of our computers and landline telephones are down too.”

  “The trunk lines are down!” Mel’s jaw dropped. That meant no communication from One Police Plaza, 26 Federal Plaza, and the BAT. “Whoa.” She cocked her head and looked at the lieutenant. “Can I help out with security, then?” She couldn’t believe she was begging just to hang around Intel Headquarters. “In the building or the parking lot?” If she could relieve Sammy in the elevator then he could help out at the site.

  “You’re technically on maternity, Mel. I would post you if I could. I just can’t.”

  “There must be something I could do.” She sighed and looked at her feet.

  “Well, some satellite phones are being utilized, and the Communications Unit is working on a larger network. I’ll call you when it’s set up.”

  She wasn’t needed here; she was just excess personnel. She couldn’t even guard the elevator with Sammy. But she could help at the site, for sure. The boss over there didn’t know she was on maternity leave. “Okay, thanks,” she said, and stepped down the corridor towards the locker room.

  One block from the Brooklyn Bridge, Mel was forced to turn around. Pedestrians escaping Lower Manhattan clogged the streets. Now what? The Manhattan Bridge didn’t have a pedestrian walkway. She’d cross the East River over that bridge instead.

  She detoured to Flatbush Avenue but was turned away by a roadblock. Mel could see the entrance to the bridge, but uniforms wouldn’t let her pass. She couldn’t even shield her way into Manhattan. There was nothing left to try.

  I guess I’ll go just go back to Dad’s house. But as she looked around at all the people plodding along the avenue her heart felt heavy. She stopped the car. Opening her window, she waved some over. As many pedestrians that could fit squeezed in and she dropped them off on the way to Dyker Heights.

  When she reached the foot of the stoop a gust of wind blew and the American flag mounted on the railing flapped wildly. Her throat tightened as she watched the flag wave. God help America. She felt for the crucifix at the nape of her neck. God help us all.

  The front door opened and a flash of fur ran out. Boxer danced around her as if she’d been gone for days rather than hours. He jumped up on her legs, and she knelt to pet him.

  “Carmella, thank God you’re safe.” Her dad held out his hand.

  He pulled her up into a quick hug. “They didn’t need me, Dad.”

  “Well, we do,” he said, and held the front door open.

  Mel walked through the house and turned into her old bedroom. She leaned over the portable crib and rested her palm on Hope’s belly. Her eyes watered when she felt the baby’s steady breaths. Yeah. She was good.

  “Grab something to eat and meet me in the living room,” her dad said quietly from the kitchen. “There’s something you need to watch.”

  Mel took another long look at Hope and joined her dad in the living room. She wasn’t hungry.

  “I threw a fresh tape in the VCR right after you left.” He pressed the Rewind button. “See that poor fella standing in the hole left by the first plane.”

  “He’s waving for help.” Mel bit her lower lip and looked down. She couldn’t bear to watch, knowing the man would never return home. She said a quick prayer for his soul and his loved ones, for all of them. She still had no word from Mark. Please Lord, keep him safe.

  “If the tower hadn’t collapsed, he would’ve been rescued by a helicopter.”

  “The heat would’ve gotten to him before a rescue, Dad.”

  “No, Carmella!” Dad rewound the tape a frame at a time and pressed pause. He stepped up to the television and pointed at the man’s face on the screen. “Look! No sweat beads. And look at his clothing. Pristine. Not a scorch mark or sweat stain anywhere.”

  “But the fire—”

  “What fire? After the plane’s impact and the initial explosion of jet fuel, there was only black smoke.” He clenched the remote and rewound the tape until an image of both towers and gushing smoke appeared. “See! The fire was extinguishing.” He fast forwarded, pressed Play and pointed at the south tower. “The flames flared up again after detonator flashes exploded, right before the tower began to fall.”

  She looked at her father and saw the experienced architect and engineer. By the time she was in grade school, her dad was semi-retired. Her mom was fighting her first bout with cancer, and he accepted only small projects that kept him close to home. So Mel never saw the side of him that built hotels and office buildings in far-away places. “What are you saying?”

  “We should be looking at a major repair job and renovation project, not a pile of dust!”

  “So why did the towers collapse?”

  “I’ll show you.” He pressed play. The south tower crumbled.

  “What am I looking for, Dad?”

  He rewound the tape again and pointed at the display on the VCR. “Keep an eye on the time counter. Starting now.” He pressed the Play button again.

  She watched the screen and the counter.

  “Did you catch that, Carmella?”

  “The tower fell in eleven seconds.”

  “Straight down, floor by floor, at free-fall speed. Free fall!”

  “Dad, I don’t know what that means!”

  “It’s impossible for a skyscraper to collapse into its own footprint at free-fall speed without strategically placed charges and explosives. Impossible!”

  Unable to grasp what it all meant, Mel put her palms to her face. She rubbed her eyes and took a deep breath. She tried to pay attention to what her dad was explaining. It was important, but she still hadn’t heard from Mark. She couldn’t think straight. She couldn’t think at all.

  He played the video of the north tower collapse in slow motion. “This building came down in just nine seconds.” He rewound the tape. “Watch the antenna on the roof.”

  “The antenna comes straight down until covered by a cloud of dust,” she said, shrugging.

  “The core of the tower imploded first. Then the lower floors fell, creating a path of least resistance for the upper floors.”

  “Dad, I don’t understand.”

  “Carmella.” He took a deep breath and sat on the edge of his chair. “The towers were taken down by controlled demolition.”

  She whirled around to face him. “No, Dad! That’s impossible! How were explosives placed and detonated without anyone seeing?”

  “That’s your field.” He pressed rewind again.

  She couldn’t watch any more. “I’m going to check on Hope.”

  Her dad nodded and remained seated, remote clutched in his hand, eyes on the television screen.

  Boxer followed her into her old bedroom and lay next to the baby’s crib. Hope was stirring but still asleep. She’d be awake soon. The kitchen wall phone rang and Mel ran to pick it up.

  Please, don’t be bad news. “Hello,” she whispered. Not bad news, please Lord. Tears trickled. Not bad news. Please.

  “Hon, thank God I reached you.”

  Mark’s voice. And he sounded strong. “You’re okay.” She could barely speak, her throat thick with emotion. “Where are you?” Tears poured down her face.

  “The phones are all dead down here. I can’t talk long. There’s a line of guys waiting to use this satellite phone.”

  She grabbed a napkin from the table and dried her drenched cheeks. “You’re really okay?”

  “I won’t be home until . . .What . . . Shit—”

  “Mark!” She heard loud blaring from the other end. What was happening now? “Mark!” Answer me, Mark. Please! She slid down the wall to the floor. �
��Mark!”

  “FD just made an announcement. Building 7 is coming down in a few minutes.”

  “How—”

  “I gotta go. Love ya, hon.”

  “Love you too.”

  She cradled the phone and cried. God, please keep him safe.

  Chapter 11

  Richie eased up on the gas pedal and turned right onto Fulton Street. He drove as close to the World Trade Center as possible and parked just east of Church Street. As soon as he opened the car door, warm dust-infused air invaded his nostrils. He got out and looked over the roof of the car. Lieutenant Jordan had pulled his suit jacket over his nose and mouth.

  “Get back in the car, Lieu. I have an idea.”

  Jordan sat back down, closed his door, and looked at him. “What is it, Richie?”

  “The medical bag.” Richie reached in the backseat, rummaged through the kit, and retrieved two surgical masks. He held one out for the lieutenant and tied one onto his own face.

  Jordan clapped Richie’s shoulder and nodded. They headed down Vesey Street on foot, leap-frogging a line of abandoned emergency vehicles while wiping windows and opening doors to make sure no one was inside.

  They trotted alongside Building 7, and Richie began to cross Vesey Street to reach the rubble when something odd caught his eye—four spanking-clean white-and-blue utility trucks parked along Building 7’s west wall. Their tires left clear marks in the two-inch deep layer of white dust.

  He tugged on Jordan’s arm and pointed. “Who do you suppose they are? And what the hell are they doing there?”

  Richie walked closer. The trucks were parked too close to the building for Richie to read the lettering printed on the side of the trucks, but he recognized the electric company’s colors. “Con Ed, Lieu?” Richie climbed on the bumper and peered in the rear window.

  “Hey, get down from my truck before I break your face.”

  Richie turned toward the voice. A fit young guy in jeans and a hard hat was storming toward him.