34
It was after nine in the evening as Nolan ran along the tracks of the F line, under southeast Brooklyn. The F train had just passed by as he pressed himself up against the stone wall, and he took off running after it, grappler in hand.
A bomb threat had been called in at Coney Island amusement park just under an hour ago. The NYPD had done a once-over of the premises after ordering a full evacuation of the park and found nothing. But Branford intercepted a Hazmat call from the Bureau office in New York that had picked up a spike in radiation somewhere on Coney Island.
And anything big enough to register a radiation spike was big enough to affect the entire city, and beyond. The Hazmat Unit was still half an hour out, and the radiation levels were rising. All three of his friends had protested, but Nolan argued that New York might not have that much time left. So he went.
Arjay had warned him against firing the grappler to grab onto objects in motion. If the vehicle was going fast enough and he managed to hold onto the grappler, the resulting action could rip his arms off. Arjay had said this without a trace of humor, so Nolan knew it must be true, even though the scenario brought to mind cartoonish images. So he was running at a dead sprint, speeding along at his fastest possible rate, pushed a bit further by his marvelous shock-absorbing boots. Still, the train was far ahead and getting farther by the second.
Not daring to stop running, he aimed the grappler and fired. He was already retracting it before he heard the loud metal clap that signaled contact. He jumped from the ground as high as he could, to avoid being dragged, but landed back on the ground anyway. Landing on his feet, he immediately leapt into the air again, and this time the grappler pulled him all the way to the rear of the subway car, where he saw that it had punctured straight through the metal wall.
He rode the back of the train for five minutes, standing on the tiny platform there, until it finally came to rest a few miles out from the Coney Island stop. No trains were allowed to get any closer to the area affected by the bomb threat. A quick grapple up a manhole pipe leading to the surface, and he was on the streets under the cover of night. He would have to hoof it the rest of the way.
He’d never been there before, though he recalled wanting to come at some point in his childhood. Every surface, every stretch of asphalt, was steeped in a history that one could smell and touch. The place was a relic of a forgotten era of American youth and optimism.
Nolan ran through the empty streets, scanning all directions with his enhanced vision. Police barricades blocked the major thoroughfares, but they were easy enough to avoid since the officers on the scene had their hands full with straggling pedestrians who refused to leave.
“Take Twelfth Street, head for the beach.” Branford’s voice came over the radio so tense it sounded like the old man was out of breath.
Nolan followed his instructions and found himself at Deno’s Wonder Wheel Amusement Park. “Can you narrow it down for me?” he asked between shallow breaths.
“It’s hard to say,” replied Branford. “On the Hazmat map . . . I think it’s somewhere between the big wheel and the Cyclone—the roller coaster.”
You “think”? Nolan wanted to ask, but bit his tongue.
Okay, okay, Nolan. Think. Calm down and think.
The big wheel was to his immediate left, towering over the horizon. A chain-link fence stood in his way, but it was easy to scale. Up and over and a quick dash, and he was at the foot of the enormous Ferris wheel. The historic white wooden roller coaster called the Cyclone stood proudly not far off to the east. A number of attractions were situated in between, including a merry-go-round, a Tilt-a-Whirl, a few smaller kiddie coasters, and a vertical lift ride that gave a bird’s-eye view of the park from way up in the sky. There were enough vendors and nooks and crannies in between all that to require hours of searching. All of it had been abandoned, of course, due to the evacuation. None of the rides or attractions were on, nor were any of the park’s lights.
“Does Arjay have anything in his bag of tricks that might help me find this thing?” he asked with the sudden thought.
There was a pause before Branford answered, “He says the X-ray option on your specs will detect forms of radiation, but that this could lead you astray, since lots of ordinary things give off radiation. He also says the radiation source won’t be very bright until you’re right on top of it.”
“I’ll take it,” said Nolan. Anything to narrow it down.
He tapped the X-ray option on the side of his glasses. The world went black-and-white, and he saw a number of items in his immediate vicinity that shone brighter than the rest. The first turned out to be a group of ceramic toilets in a public restroom, the second a big bunch of bananas inside a vending shack.
The third bright X-ray light led him to a pickup truck parked on West Tenth Street, just beside the Cyclone.
“Careful,” said Branford in his ear.
“This is it,” he said, sprinting for the truck. “I know it.”
The glasses led him to the floorboard of the truck, which he could only reach after breaking out a side window. There he found a shoebox that glowed brighter than anything he’d seen yet. Cautiously, he opened the top and found himself staring into the sun.
He ripped off the glasses and stared at the small black device inside the box. It was a pipe of some kind, but it was warm to the touch.
“What is it? ” Branford asked.
“Some kind of dirty bomb, I think,” he replied. “But I don’t see a timer.”
“Then it has to be on a remote,” Branford said, his terse words coming out in a rush.
“I remember reading somewhere that bombers that use remote triggers usually station themselves close enough to see the detonation with their own eyes.”
“Where did you read that?” asked Branford.
“Eh, I’m lying. Saw it in a movie.”
He picked up his glasses and switched to the thermal camera. Climbing atop the truck’s cab, he spun in place and scanned the area. Nothing. He removed the glasses again and pocketed them.
“General, what do I do with this thing?” he asked, climbing down from the truck. “I don’t think I can disarm it. For all we know, it could be rigged to blow if I tamper with it.”
“Hand it over to the police?” Branford suggested. “Alice’s husband works in a Clinton precinct; unlikely that he’d have the Brooklyn cops on his side. Or you could leave it for the Hazmat team. They should be able to find it as fast as you did.”
Nolan was about to reply when the words caught in his throat.
Something flashed in the corner of his eye. It was fast and faint, but he saw a reflected light glimmer high overhead in the circular car that went up and down the vertical lift tower.
The tower that was extended halfway to the top.
After the park had been evacuated and closed.
If someone was inside that thing keeping an eye on the bomb, they already knew that Nolan had found it. The bomber’s finger was probably on the trigger right now, about to press it.
There was no time. He whipped out the grappler, took aim at the tower, and fired. In less than a second, he was zipping through the air, and just as he reached the tower car, he went through the glass side, steel fist first, following through the motion to land on the narrow floor inside and roll to his feet.
A teenage boy was squatting on the floor, less than three feet from where he’d landed. The boy was holding a homemade device with an antenna, but Nolan’s sudden entrance seemed to have startled him so badly that he passed out.
Moments later, Nolan was applying a wrap of chain-link fence around the unconscious boy, latching him to the tower’s base. The bomb and its detonator, sitting on the ground not far from the tower, were already waiting for Hazmat to arrive.
He had just locked the fence together when he sprang to his feet.
What was that?
He spun in place, his eyebrows knit together as he scanned his surroundings. He ha
dn’t heard or seen anything. Maybe it was some cumulative effect of his diverse training, or a forgotten instinct he didn’t even have a name for.
But he could have sworn . . .
“General, pull up a live satellite view of the area,” he said.
He heard the tapping of computer keys in his earpiece. “What am I looking for?”
Nolan’s eyes danced across the landscape, his skin tingling. “I don’t know. Probably nothing.”
A moment passed, and still Nolan found himself alert and ready to pounce, like a guard dog that smelled something funny.
“I’m not seeing any movement,” Branford said. “Nothing looks out of place.”
The Ferris wheel.
He turned and looked up at the massive, ancient park ride. But there was nothing. Everything was perfectly still.
Scowling, he forced himself to relax. “Forget it,” he said. “I’m heading home.”
35
Nolan heard muttering coming from the Cube as he entered. It was three hours later when he finally made it back home, having dealt with a few minor disturbances between Coney Island and Manhattan. But he expected that the others would still be inside the Cube, no doubt following the police reports about what had happened, and waiting to fill him in on the boy and his troubled life that had led to his building his own dirty bomb. And how a teenage kid could even get his hands on radioactive materials.
“Unbelievable,” said Branford’s voice as Nolan drew nearer.
“Going to get himself killed,” Alice added. “Do they know it’s a man? It could be a woman.”
“Who now?” Nolan asked as he walked inside.
Branford thumbed toward the screen they were all looking at. Nolan saw a recorded TV news report about what looked like someone in a homemade costume that was meant to look like Nolan’s own black combat fatigues. But it was a poor imitation—just a black sweat suit complete with a sewn-on white hood. Nolan didn’t recognize the costume-wearer’s surroundings.
“Is this for real?” he asked.
“ ’Fraid so,” said Branford. “Got yourself some bona fide hero worship.”
Nolan peeled off his gloves and jacket, listening carefully as the reporter on the screen explained that the footage had been shot in Chicago, where what they called a “Hand copycat” was shown standing on a rooftop. According to the report, a bunch of people thought he was a crazy person about to commit suicide by jumping, when he let loose a banner that fluttered down the side of the building and proclaimed in enormous hand-written lettering, “I will show you a better way!”
The footage cut to a different shot where this would-be vigilante was seen running wildly through the streets. Another shot showed him helping an elderly woman pick up the contents of her burst bag of groceries and carrying them to her home for her.
Nolan actually smiled. “I hoped this might happen,” he said.
“You expected people to pretend to be you?” asked Arjay.
Still smiling, Nolan replied, “I hoped that others might follow my example. I didn’t think anyone would dress like me, but I always knew I wouldn’t be able to change things by myself. From the start, if this was ever going to work, there would have to be others who would take up the charge.”
“But is that a good idea?” asked Alice, ever the voice of concern. “This man doesn’t look like he has any of your training or skills. Won’t he get hurt? Or worse?”
“Eh,” said Nolan. “Looks like all he’s doing is good deeds. As long as he leaves the crime fighting to the professionals, I say this world needs all the acts of kindness it can get.”
“I still don’t understand why we can’t use all this goodwill to accept donations,” said Arjay, not quite under his breath.
For weeks, he’d been nagging Nolan about an inquiry he received daily on the website: people wanted to know how to make monetary donations to The Hand’s cause. And Nolan’s answer had always been the same. They were to refuse all offers of help.
Nolan felt his ire rise at Arjay broaching this subject once again—a subject he’d intended to be closed after the last time it came up.
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing,” Branford chimed in. “I know how you feel about it, but our resources are going to run out eventually. If people want to help us keep doing what we’re doing, why not let them?”
Nolan’s ears burned red, and he fought the urge to shout. Instead, he spoke slowly and emphatically. “Do you not understand the tightrope we’re walking? People are so cynical. . . . It’s not even about what we do or don’t do. It’s about what people think. I can’t afford to dip one single toe into morally ambiguous waters. If we accept donations, then someone out there will accuse me of doing this whole thing just to get rich. The second somebody suggests that, this is over. An accusation is all it takes these days for the people to find you guilty.”
The room fell silent at Nolan’s sobering words. He knew he was right, and his friends knew it too.
There was no need to say anything else. He changed the subject. “Tell me about the bomber.”
Everyone fell silent. Branford warned him that it was the kind of story he didn’t want to hear. Nolan demanded they tell it anyway, and Branford read the police report that had been filed just a short while ago.
The kid’s name was Nicky Solomon, and he was, as Nolan expected, the product of a troubled home life. His parents had divorced a year ago, when Nicky was just fourteen. But when the police went to his home after his arrest tonight to deliver the news to his mother, they found her dead, shot by a gun that the killer had then turned on himself.
And the killer was Nicky’s father.
Both bodies had been lifeless for more than twenty-four hours by the time they were found. A husband’s crime of passion, that led to a son’s crime of desperation, of attention-seeking, alone-and-mad-at-the-world rage. Nicky’s mother, it turned out, was a part-time nurse, and the police were quickly able to determine that the material inside the pipe bomb had come from the hospital’s radiology department. The boy had been exposed to near-lethal amounts of radiation while building his makeshift pipe bomb using instructions from the Internet. If he managed to recover, he would have health issues for the rest of his life. Not to mention a criminal record with a terrorist-level offense.
It was yet another sad story in this broken world that would never have a happy ending.
Nolan left his cohorts inside the Cube and walked out, but not toward his bunk. Not toward anywhere, really. Just a private spot where he could process this without everyone watching him. The world had grown a little darker tonight, and he needed to escape the black hollow pit that he felt himself teetering toward.
———
The next morning, as Nolan was eating breakfast, he felt someone’s eyes on him, and he knew whom those eyes belonged to without having to look.
“How do I fight that?” he said quietly, picking up their conversation where they’d left it the night before. “How do I fight something that could cause a normal, average teenage boy to turn into a mass murderer?”
Alice’s hand landed on his shoulder. “I don’t know,” she said softly, honestly.
She circled around to look at him head-on, and her eyes were filled with sadness and concern. “The war that was waged over that boy took place inside him. In his heart, and his mind. In his very soul.”
He looked up at her. “How do I fight that war? How do I impact the human soul?”
She smiled, but there was no humor in her. “Outside of prayer, there’s only one way to reach the soul, and you already know what it is.”
Nolan looked down at the table. For the first time in a very long time—since as far back as his time in captivity—he felt his eyes burn with moisture. “I can’t just love this city into becoming a better place.”
She closed her eyes. Sighed. “I know. You’re a man of action. But you and I both know that the illness of the soul has already been addressed, through the sacrifice of someone a lo
t more than human, two thousand years ago. You can’t improve on what he did.”
Nolan looked up, eyes wide, almost hurt. “I’m not trying to! Are you—Look, I’m not trying to replace . . . him! I wouldn’t—I mean, I could never, not even a little . . .”
“Easy,” Alice said. “I know why you do this. I’ve seen your heart. But there are some things that simply aren’t up to you to fix. You’re still approaching this tactically. But it’s not a military operation, remember?”
Nolan looked down. Alice wanted him to feel more. To connect with the people he saved, to let his emotions out. But he wasn’t trained for that. He was taught to compartmentalize his feelings into a nice safe box and focus only on the job. He feared he would never know how to reconcile the mission with the emotion.
“I’m sorry,” said Arjay, quietly, from behind Nolan. “I’m sorry to interrupt. But you need to see this.”
The two of them followed him to the Cube, where Branford was watching a press conference taking place live at the White House. The familiar blue curtains stood just behind a young woman who was at the presidential lectern, addressing a crowded press room.
“The president is emphatic,” the woman said, “that he deplores the loss of life from the events that took place at the home of Yuri Vasko last week in New York. President Hastings asked me to assure all Americans that the rumors of Organized Crime Intelligence involvement in the destruction of Mr. Vasko’s home are false. The OCI is aware of Mr. Vasko’s alleged involvement in illegal business practices, but the Intelligence’s operations are currently being targeted at higher-profile enemies of the American people.”
Nolan glanced at his friends. The president had just lied to the world about the OCI’s involvement in the raid on Vasko’s home. This was bad.
The young White House press spokesperson concluded her remarks and said she would take a couple of questions.
A reporter from a television network got the first question. The white-haired gentleman stood to his feet. “Can you comment on the eyewitness accounts suggesting that the vigilante known as The Hand was on the premises the night Vasko’s home was destroyed?”
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