by Ben Coes
* * *
Cloud felt the lights on him. He heard the low rumble of the Ferrari; even as wind torched his ears and bended with the Ducati’s roar, he still heard it. He glanced quickly left. It was Malnikov after all.
Cloud saw into the open window. He’d been wrong about the Americans. It hadn’t been their hackers who found him. It had been Malnikov. He overestimated the United States and underestimated the brute who, at that moment, was half a car length back, raising a gun toward him. He heard the loud boom from the gun in the same moment he heard the frame of the Ducati being struck. The next shot would come any second, and so …
In one startling motion, Cloud flexed his right knee out, dived forward and to the right, as if he were trying to dive off the bike, and pushed the left handlebar with every ounce of strength in his body. The bike slashed hard right, the back tire slid but held. He was now alone on a deserted street. In front of him stood Moscow’s newest skyscraper, Evolution Tower, half constructed.
He throttled the Ducati. Now was the time. He had to lose Malnikov now. When he heard the sound of gunfire, he ducked lower and rolled the throttle to its max.
* * *
With his left hand, Malnikov lowered the passenger window. He put his hand back on the wheel as, with his right hand, he reached for his gun from the center console.
He came alongside Cloud, raised the gun, then aimed it at Cloud’s head. For several seconds, he held the target in the muzzle. Instinctively, Cloud turned, the black glass of the helmet all Malnikov could see.
Malnikov felt the steel of the trigger. He wanted nothing more than to put a bullet in the head of the man who put his father in prison, who stole a hundred million dollars from him, who caused him nothing but embarrassment and anger. But he didn’t fire. Instead, he swept the muzzle lower, aiming for the Ducati’s back tire. Then he pulled the trigger. The slug hit metal, just above the tire, and Cloud banked abruptly right.
Malnikov slammed the brakes. He opened the door and jumped from the car, his gun out in front of him. Cloud was getting away. Malnikov fired, once, twice, and then the third bullet ripped into the motorcycle’s back tire. The bike popped right as Cloud tried to keep it vertical. He weaved sharply left, fighting to slow the Ducati before it tumbled. Then the bike’s front tire jackknifed and the motorcycle collapsed backward, with Cloud still on it, and slid down the Moscow street. Sparks and flames arose from the friction of metal and tar. Cloud’s horrific scream pierced through the noise.
Malnikov sprinted toward the crash. Smoke and flames shot up from the engine, doused only partially by the rain. He ran until he was just a few feet from the smoking wreckage, then slowed, pistol extended in front of him.
On the other side of the badly damaged Ducati, he came to where he knew Cloud now was lying, unconscious, maybe even dead. He stepped past the smoking pile of steel, gun out, muzzle trained, finger on trigger, cocked to fire.
Cloud was gone.
* * *
Dewey scoured the ceiling, looking for a way to get to the roof. In the center of the room, at least fifteen feet in the air, was a small hatchway.
He pushed the tables together in a line that ended beneath the hatchway. He went to the far end and sprinted down the line of tables, leaping from the end, into the air, legs and arms kicking, then grabbing the frame of the hatchway. As he dangled from the ceiling, he held himself up with his left hand as he punched at the steel hatchway with his right. It was lodged shut. After several minutes of trying, he dropped to the floor. An involuntary yelp of pain came out as he landed, the drop exacerbating the wound in his leg.
A few minutes later, after catching his breath, he walked to the window, picked up the gun, and put it in his coat pocket. He climbed back onto the table and repeated his run, charging as fast as he could go, then leaping and catching the edge of the hatchway. He pulled the gun from his pocket and smashed it viciously into the steel. This time, after less than a minute, the seam between the hatchway and roof, sealed tight from decades’ worth of rust, cracked. He pushed the square hatchway up and pulled himself onto the roof.
Rain was pouring down in sideways sheets. Dewey sat atop the roof for several minutes, catching his breath. He closed his eyes and allowed the rain to wash over him. He pushed away the thought of Cloud and of Russia. He pushed it away and thought of nothing, knowing that any other thought would bring him back to the harsh reality facing him. He knew that if he sought mental refuge in thoughts of family, it would only remind him of the bomb—the nuclear bomb that was now somewhere close to America’s shores.
* * *
Cloud limped toward the base of the skyscraper. Looking back, he saw Malnikov running toward him.
He needed to get to a hospital. But that wasn’t going to happen until he killed Malnikov.
He looked up at Evolution Tower. Its curvilinear half arcs swerved like steel ribbons, as if they’d been interwoven and then hung a thousand feet in the sky. Even half constructed, it was stunning. He’d admired it before, from afar. Now it represented his only hope of escape.
The building was ablaze with lights from cranes and scaffolding and, from within, bright halogen lights for the crews of workers who, at this hour, were not there.
Cloud pushed open the steel chain-link fence. He dragged his right leg, using his right hand to help pull it. He limped through the base of the tower, between stacks of steel girders, past massive construction trucks, huge piles of cement to be mixed into concrete, cranes, and other materials.
He looked up. Wind made the top of the structure move. The skyscraper appeared as if it might simply fall over on him.
He heard a clang from the chain-link fence. He didn’t bother glancing back.
Cloud’s eyes moved to the ground. For the first time, he realized he had on only one shoe. His right foot was exposed and covered in blood. He couldn’t see some of his toes. He registered a raw sensation on his right side. Most of his pant leg had been scraped away in the crash. The sight of his injuries sent a wave of fear through him. Because he didn’t feel them. Because, left untreated, they would kill him.
If you want to live, you must kill him.
Beyond a pile of lumber, Cloud saw the construction elevator. He limped to it, climbed inside, and slammed the gate shut. He hit a red switch, and the elevator bounced, then started climbing into the tower.
Malnikov came running into the light, saw the elevator rising, then raised his gun and fired. The slugs struck the steel cage just to Cloud’s right. He ducked into the corner, shielding himself from the fusillade.
* * *
Even on a calm night, the all-black, heavily customized Eurocopter EC155 B1 Dauphin was difficult to spot. Its lights could be extinguished completely at the pilot’s discretion and flown via advanced thermal night-vision optics, either in-helmet or imposed on the inside of the chopper’s cockpit glass. Tonight, in the hell of a storm, what was usually difficult to see was nearly impossible.
For Stihl, the elements were nothing. Twelve years in Russian special forces, including more battles in Chechnya than he could count, battles that nobody in the outside world knew about, had forged skills no standard training could match.
When Malnikov told him to create the most lethal helicopter he could, Stihl had spent a week in Marseille, testing what Eurocopter had to offer. He spared no expense outfitting the machine with every technological feature available—and some that weren’t, including flight envelope protection, as well as navigation and weapons systems that could be managed by Stihl through helmet-based optics and exoskeletal motion sensors.
He let the nav system take him to the coordinates Malnikov had provided. A thermal module in the helmet illuminated the building from a mile out. As he swooped in close, a red apparition of heat appeared atop the roof. His passenger.
He hit a button on the controls, bringing up commo. A few moments later, Malnikov’s cell started ringing. As Stihl descended out of the sky toward the roof of the building, he listened to
the phone ring half a dozen times. Malnikov didn’t answer.
Stihl brought up more controls, visible inside his helmet shield. He ordered the chopper’s nav to locate the cell by GPS. A second later, he saw the words flicker in green digital letters:
: MOSCOW RUS:
: EVOLUTION TOWER:
* * *
A faint electric whine, then the shifting of wind and rain, startled Dewey from his thoughts. He stood up, searching the sky, seeing nothing.
Dewey listened, sensed a change in the wind, then spun around, just as the thunder of the Eurocopter’s rotors exploded behind him, ripping the air. As sudden as a lightning flash, the chopper surged down at Dewey, dropping from the cloaking wall of clouds and water, nearly landing directly on top of him before punching back up a few feet and then settling next to him atop the concrete roof.
Dewey opened the back door and climbed inside the chopper, nodding to the pilot, then slid the door shut. The chopper shot up from the roof, cut left, and then tore away from Elektrostal.
Dewey looked quickly around the cabin. It was bare-bones, stripped down, without any sort of creature comforts. Everything inside the cabin was single function, designed for assault. There was no seating, just open space. The doors on the opposite side looked custom—they could be slid open for maximum assault flexibility.
From the ceiling, steel hooks with polymer cables dangled like coat hangers, there to be attached to body harnesses. The doors on both sides of the cabin could be opened wide. The combination of the harness locks and the doors enabled gunmen in the chopper to engage enemy from the air, at all angles, without fear of falling from the sky, especially useful if the pilot was forced to take sudden, hard-angled evasive measures.
The floor was like sandpaper, good for grip, but could also, with the press of a button, drop out like a trapdoor for low-hover jumps. The back wall was chain-link fence in front of a rack of advanced firearms and other weaponry, lined up on vertical shelves. Dewey scanned and saw all manner of firearms, including RPGs and MANPADs.
He pulled out a drawer underneath. Inside was enough ammunition to start a small war.
The chopper bounced violently in the undulating rain and wind.
Dewey stepped to the cockpit. The pilot’s face was invisible behind a black-visored helmet. There were no lights on the controls.
The pilot’s head turned. He handed Dewey a set of wireless earphones.
“I’m Stihl,” he said in a hard Russian accent. “Hold on, it’s going to be choppy.”
“Where are we going?”
“Alexei is in a building downtown,” said Stihl. “We’ll be there in three minutes.”
“Can you raise Alexei on commo?”
“I’ll try,” said Stihl as the chopper abruptly lurched left, buffeted by a crosswind.
Dewey heard the phone ring, then Malnikov’s voice.
“Where are you?” asked Malnikov.
“We’re in the air,” said Dewey. “What’s the situation?”
“He’s wounded. He escaped into Evolution Tower. I’m in the elevator on my way to find him.”
“Should I land on the roof?”
“There is no roof,” said Malnikov. “It’s half built.”
“You need to wait at the base,” said Stihl. “I’ll be able to pick up his thermal from the air once we get there, then you can move in.”
“It’s too late for that,” said Malnikov. “I’m already there.”
92
GOULSTON & STORRS
BOSTON
Erika Highland, a third-year associate at Goulston & Storrs, was biting into an apple as she read the purchase agreement. One of Goulston’s clients, a real estate developer, was buying a building in downtown Los Angeles.
Her eyes were drawn to the harbor. As usual on a summer Friday evening, it was crowded with boats. It was especially true tonight, July 3, the beginning of a long holiday weekend. But something was going on. She counted six separate flashing police lights.
Highland reached for her binoculars. A large Coast Guard cutter was speeding across the harbor and boats were swiftly moving toward the deeper ocean, away from the harbor, as if being asked to leave.
Her binoculars shot to the open ocean, out beyond Revere. She saw a large gray military boat—an Aegis destroyer—moving in.
“Donna,” she yelled.
Highland’s assistant came running into the office, her eyes moving to where Highland was looking. She stared at the scene.
“What the fuck?” she asked.
“Who’s that guy you know over at WBZ?”
“Hagen?”
“Yeah. You should call him.”
* * *
Eight minutes later—one minute before CNN, two before NBC, and five before Fox News and ABC—CBS cut into its regularly scheduled programming. The words CBS NEWS SPECIAL REPORT blazed across millions of American TV screens:
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a special report from CBS Evening News. I’m Bob Schieffer, coming to you live from CBS News headquarters in New York City with breaking news. The footage you’re seeing is live aerial coverage from Boston, Massachusetts, where Boston harbor is swarming with federal and state law enforcement, including two United States Navy Aegis destroyers. According to CBS sources, a suspected terror plot is, and I quote, being investigated.
“We now go live to Hagen Ward at our local CBS affiliate in Boston…”
93
H & M AGGREGATES
REVERE, MASSACHUSETTS
McLaughlin moved along the last pier at Revere Marina, a handheld portable Geiger counter in his left hand. He was one of forty FBI agents now moving along the Revere waterfront, searching boat by boat for signs of nuclear material.
Standing on a pier, he keyed his mike, which was clipped to the collar of his dark blue windbreaker.
“Marina’s clear,” said McLaughlin, reporting back to the central Boston command post being run from a U.S. Navy Aegis destroyer.
“Move to the industrial docks.”
McLaughlin looked past the marina and down the rocky spit of land between the marina and the industrial docks. The first dock at the facility was at least a hundred yards away.
It would be easier to go back to the marina and drive, but it also would take more time.
He hiked quickly along the rocky coast, just above the water, which slapped calmly at his feet. In a few minutes, he arrived at a rusty chain-link fence. He scaled it, then dropped onto an ancient wood-and-steel pier. Moored alongside the pier was a barge. It was piled high with road salt. He swept the Geiger along the barge. Suddenly, the low static of the Geiger picked up. McLaughlin moved toward the front of the long boat. With each step, the static grew more frenzied.
Then he saw a tarp. He slowed, holding the Geiger counter in front of him. The small device went from frenzied to sharp monotone. He pulled the top of the tarp aside, revealing a long steel cylinder. At its end was a square device with a flashing blue light.
He keyed his mike.
“This is McLaughlin,” he said. “I found the bomb.”
94
CHERRY HILL ROAD
GLOUCESTER, MASSACHUSETTS
“Hey, Scooter. How do you like your hot dog?”
Saxby Ruggierio, in a blue-and-white apron, was standing on the back terrace, over the barbecue. The backyard of Ruggierio’s home was crowded with friends, family, and most of his employees from the marina.
“Medium rare,” said Ruggierio’s neighbor.
Ruggierio laughed, took a swig of beer, then walked back inside to the kitchen. His son, Billy, was seated at the table with a girl from down the street, both eating cheeseburgers and watching the Red Sox game.
“Who’s winning?” asked Ruggierio.
“I don’t know,” said Billy. “They cut into the game.”
Ruggierio glanced at the TV. On the screen was a special report from Boston harbor.
“Turn it up,” he said as he stepped closer to the TV. An aerial vi
ew of the harbor showed a swarm of law enforcement boats, their red and blue lights bright.
“… while it’s difficult to see, the area they seem to be focusing in on is Revere, just across the water from the city of Boston. Again, a terror plot is apparently being investigated on this, the evening before the July Fourth weekend…”
“Holy shit,” he muttered.
Ruggierio reached for the phone and dialed 911.
95
EVOLUTION TOWER
MOSCOW
The elevator came suddenly into the open air, more than thirty floors in the sky. The wind ripped across the steel heights, stinging Malnikov with driving horizontal rain. The cage groaned loudly as it climbed.
Malnikov looked down through the yellow grate. Moscow was a different city, a darker city, dense with whole pockets of black, and lights diffused by rain.
Malnikov registered a puddle of crimson at the edge of the cage. Blood from Cloud, now washing away as rain hit it from above.
The sound of gunshot cut through the air, joined by the loud clang of the slug striking steel near his head. Malnikov ducked just as another bullet was fired, then felt his shoulder being kicked hard and back. He let himself fall to the floor as more bullets hit the rising cage.
A floor above, the elevator came to a loud stop.
Malnikov looked at his shoulder. Blood oozed through a hole in his jacket.
He crawled to the edge of the cage, trying to peer down to the floor below. But just as his head came to the edge, another shot rang out. It hit the steel of the elevator floor. A small dent appeared just beneath his chin.
“Did that hurt, Alexei?” yelled Cloud.
Malnikov lay on his back, staring up at the black and gray clouds. His breathing was becoming difficult, as if he’d just run sprints. He unzipped his coat and pulled it away from his shoulder. Blood was everywhere. His first impression—that the bullet was in his shoulder—was wrong. A black hole sat just a few inches above his nipple. With every labored breath, a fresh wave of blood gushed out.