Nolan looked up in the direction of their small dining booth, something nagging him about these words. Everything was so blurry right now, every thought obscured by fog. . . . He couldn’t quite figure out why this transmission had tickled something in his mind.
Branford and Arjay followed him to the booth without a word. Without making contact of any kind.
Nolan turned up the volume on the radio.
“Mayday! This is OCI Agent Lively, requesting immediate backup!”
Nolan blinked. “Hey, that’s her,” he said. His words sounded muffled to his ears for some reason, like he was hearing them through a wall of molasses. Blood was still rushing past his eardrums, and he could barely hear anything else.
“Her who?” asked Arjay.
Nolan merely shook his head. There was no time to explain now.
“Repeat,” said the voice on the radio, “this is OCI special task force requesting immediate assistance from any New York City officers of the law who can hear this transmission! We are pinned down inside City Hall! We have suffered heavy casualties and cannot hold this position! Does anyone read me?!”
Nolan would have answered her, but it was a one-way radio. Instead, he blew past his two friends. “Get out of my way.”
He jumped behind the RV’s wheel and forced the engine to life.
62
Yuri Vasko stood alone in his office on the top floor of his glass tower, watching the first hints of daybreak on the horizon. Below, a dusting of snow covered Times Square. The streets and sidewalks were just starting to show signs of activity, signs that in an hour’s time would give way to cabs, buses, bicycles, and pedestrians, all trying to navigate around one another as they hustled to work.
The world was just waking up, but Vasko had been up all night, right there in his office. He rarely felt the need for sleep anymore. Sleep was a refuge, a safe place to retreat to for rejuvenation. He had no need to retreat, and no one to share his bed with.
Bored, he used his good hand to hit the power button on the small flat-screen TV adorning one corner of his desk. Local morning show host Jackie Turner was on, showing off that dazzling white smile of hers and her incessantly chipper demeanor. He found the woman grating, but paused when she cut away to a square-jawed man who began announcing the morning’s top headlines.
Had word gotten out about the OCI’s disastrous defeat at City Hall? Well, it wasn’t officially a defeat yet, as his soldiers were still engaging what remained of the OCI raiding party at City Hall. But he understood it was all but wrapped up, and even if the OCI were to make a miraculous turnaround at this point, they’d already suffered too many losses for this to ever be considered a victory. Besides, Vasko knew they’d come to City Hall hoping to find evidence revealing Mayor McCord to be in Vasko’s pocket.
And Vasko was far too clever to leave evidence like that where anyone could find it.
Tonight had been the crowning achievement of his perfect plan. The same plan that had demoralized Nolan Gray to the point of irrelevancy. He knew now that Nolan was still out there, and that he’d declared war on Vasko’s operation. But Vasko alone knew of the pain Nolan carried, the pain that was Vasko’s own, which he had shared with this man. So much better than killing him was letting him live in grief, a faded glimmer of his former glory.
Nolan was special that way. Others—crime lords and enforcers—who stood in his way were simply handled. Vasko filled their gullets with concrete and tossed them into the ocean. No lingering torment. He didn’t need them to suffer forever, the way The Hand had to. He simply needed them out of his way. And every time he took out a potential opponent, the message went out loud and clear to New York City’s underworld: no one crosses Yuri Vasko and lives.
Now the endgame was in sight. With The Hand suffering unbearable pain and his criminal foes defeated, Vasko had only one target left.
The Organized Crime Intelligence.
He imagined President Thornton Hastings and the terrible news he would be receiving sometime this morning, about their risky raid on City Hall. The lives Hastings had lost would go a long way toward advancing Vasko’s cause. He needn’t kill every single member of the OCI to demoralize them, after all. All he needed was for them to lose their confidence, their sense of purpose.
A haggard-looking man’s face filled the TV screen, and he turned up the volume to listen in. It appeared to be a random “man on the street” interview, where the camera focused on the interviewee while the reporter tossed questions at the man from off-camera. The man being interviewed, who showed a few days’ worth of gray stubble growth, had sunken eyes and creases on his forehead and around his mouth that made him look older than Vasko believed him to be. The bright lights of the camera, which had shot this video sometime after dark, illuminated every blemish on the man’s face, adding to the aging effect.
“How are you and your family surviving?” asked the female reporter from somewhere behind the camera.
The man shook his head, his skin drawn with a gloom and melancholy that seemed to have been permanently carved into his face. “We’re not,” the man replied. “We can’t leave the house. My little girl—we’re scared to send her to school. Work is so hard to find, we’re scraping by on bread crumbs.”
Pools collected under the man’s eyes, and he looked away from the camera for a moment to pull himself together.
The interviewer pulled him back with another question. “If there was anything you might hope for, about the future, what would that be?”
The man’s response was immediate, and his disposition hardened. “I can’t afford to hope. Not anymore. My family couldn’t survive disappointment a second time.”
Vasko’s cell phone vibrated, and he turned the television off. The name Oscar Pavlov was on the phone’s display; Pavlov was one of his top operatives, and tonight he was commanding Vasko’s men in the fight against the OCI at City Hall.
Pavlov was calling to report their success. Had to be.
“Yes?” Vasko said into the phone.
“Twenty-one of them have fallen, sir,” said Pavlov. “The five remaining agents are in my custody. Do you have any use for prisoners?”
Vasko didn’t even have to think. “No. No prisoners. And no survivors.”
63
The northwest corner of the Potter Building on Park Row provided an unencumbered view over the trees of City Hall Park, which surrounded City Hall itself, straight into the mayor’s office. That was where Coral Lively said she and several others were pinned down.
City Hall was a tall white building that looked like it belonged in D.C., with Roman columns beyond the front steps, symmetrical, arch top windows, and a huge cupola at its pinnacle.
What the OCI was doing there Nolan and his two friends found it easy to guess. The mayor was morally bankrupt, and as much a criminal as Yuri Vasko himself. Of course he’d made all the right promises and speeches to get into office three years ago, but it was sometime that first year that rumors started to spread about him taking bribes from the local crime cartels, and eventually those bribes turned into membership.
Nolan’s goggles were in a pocket of his tattered jacket. Tonight, he stared down the scope of a Barrett M82 sniper rifle, taking a solid look around the spacious room. The mayor’s office had two windows, but the curtains were drawn on the one on the right. The left window, however, provided a decent view of Coral’s team. Nolan thought he recognized her burly partner among the five survivors being held at gunpoint, though he couldn’t recall the man’s name. Coral and her people were kneeling on the floor, stripped of all weaponry, hands laced behind their heads.
A raid on City Hall was unprecedented and reeked of desperation on Hastings’ part. The president knew he wasn’t just losing the war—it was all but lost. A successful recovery of evidence from the mayor’s office might enable Hastings to depose McCord. That had to count as a victory, even if just a minor one.
In fact, this maneuver might have even been too desperate. . . .
&
nbsp; Nolan had a terrible thought. What if Hastings had ordered his people to conduct this entire operation as a means of drawing Nolan out, of getting him engaged in the same battlefield as the OCI? Could he have possibly strategized this as a means of getting The Hand to join forces with the White House?
Then again, Coral had mentioned heavy casualties in her SOS, and Hastings was many things, but he would never be so cavalier about sending his people to die. He had too much respect for human life to do something like that.
Nolan’s senses instantly became alert, his muscles tightening, as he watched Mayor Lewis McCord stride into his office and smile a wicked grin at the prisoners.
Nolan held out his hand and activated the sound amplifier, while continuing to peer through the rifle’s lens.
“What’s happening?” asked Arjay.
Tonight, in another break from standard protocol, Branford and Arjay had insisted on accompanying him into the field. Particularly when they saw the M82 that he planned to take along—the close proximity of which was making Arjay antsy. He hadn’t stopped moving since they’d emerged from the building’s stairs onto the roof.
“McCord just walked in,” said Nolan. “He’s enjoying the moment. He’s mocking them. Wait a minute, wait a minute . . .”
“What?” asked Branford, his gruff voice all business. He knelt next to Nolan at the edge of the roof.
“He just ordered everyone out of the room,” explained Nolan, tightening his grip on the rifle. “Vasko’s men, McCord’s own security. He made them leave.”
“Why?” asked Arjay.
Nolan shook his head. “I can’t hear what he’s saying anymore. . . . He’s whispering something in the ear of Coral’s partner.”
“Who’s Coral?”
Nolan grew impatient. “The woman that called for help.”
“So you know her,” observed Arjay with sudden interest. “On the radio, was she calling for you?”
Nolan didn’t answer. In truth, the thought had occurred to him. It wasn’t like the OCI to broadcast on an open channel. They had far more high-tech equipment than that.
“I don’t like this,” Nolan said, focused on the scene playing out in the office. “General, am I missing something? He’s got to be armed, right?”
Nolan backed away from the gun so Branford could slide into place and stare through the scope. “I see no weapon on him.”
“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t have one,” replied Nolan, resuming his position behind the scope. “He’s in that room alone with the five of them, and he sent everyone else out. No way is he unarmed.”
“You really willing to risk that?” asked Branford. “After what happened at that nightclub? What if McCord’s trying to help them? Maybe he had a change of heart and he’s whispering so his men out in the hall don’t hear.”
That was wrong. It felt wrong. Nolan knew it without knowing.
His response came without hesitation. “Every second I hesitate, he could pull a gun and shoot them. And they have nothing to defend themselves.”
Arjay’s hand massaged his forehead, and his feet paced a few strides back and forth. “Are we seriously talking about what I think we are?!” he cried. “This isn’t some wartime field op where you’re trying to overrun an enemy stronghold! This is assassination! Of the mayor of New York!”
“Please,” said Nolan. “The whole city knows McCord’s dirty. He was part of the mob long before Vasko took over.”
“Oh, so he was on your list already, then?” asked Arjay. “You would have executed him eventually?”
“It’s not an execution,” chided Branford. “It’s a tactical measure to save the lives of the people in that room. The rifle is muffled. If McCord’s out of the picture, Nolan may be able to zip down there and get inside that room before Vasko’s men realize what happened.”
Nolan glanced up at Branford. “Then we’re agreed?”
Branford scowled, but nodded.
Both men looked to Arjay.
“Stuff the military speak!” said Arjay, his volume rising. “What of the moral and ethical concerns? That’s always been your guiding light as The Hand. Where the cops and soldiers fight for justice, your manifesto has always been morality. So tell me. Is it moral to knowingly commit murder?”
Nolan pulled back from the scope to look the younger man in the eye. “Is it immoral to let five people die when I know I can prevent it?”
“And what if you’re wrong?”
Nolan never flinched. “I’m not.”
Arjay shook his head and threw his hands up. “You don’t need my vote. Never have. Do your thing.”
“You ready, General?” Nolan asked. He didn’t elaborate, because he didn’t have to. He knew Branford understood that he was asking the general to take over the sniper rifle after he made the shot, and cover him as he fired the grappler and got inside that office as fast as possible.
“Yeah,” replied Branford. “And for what it’s worth . . . I still trust you.”
Nolan lined up the shot and pulled the trigger.
64
Wind whipped by Nolan’s ears as he retracted the grappler and flew toward the mayor’s office. The hook was fastened to the big white building’s cupola. Making a fast calculation, he let up on the trigger in time to swing down and run across the building’s lawn. When he neared the front wall, he squeezed the trigger again and let the retracting line pull him up the side of the building.
With a mighty windup, Nolan flew, fist first, through the glass window. It shattered on impact with a huge clamor, and Nolan swung through, retracted the grappler from the roof, and rolled across the floor, using the momentum to quickly rise to his feet. He hated that the glass had made a noise loud enough to alert Vasko’s men, but he didn’t have time to do this clean.
McCord’s office was a spacious room with endless symbols of American democracy—flags, blue carpeting adorned with stars, chairs with bright red upholstery—and an ancient cherry desk with a burgundy wingback behind it.
The survivors had untied one another, and Coral’s partner—Jonah something?—had a Smith and Wesson .45 in his hand already trained on Nolan. The mayor’s body lay by the desk, his blazer flipped open revealing a hidden holster.
Nolan knew he’d been right. Mayor McCord had a gun and was about to kill the five OCI agents. Because now Jonah was pointing that same weapon straight at Nolan’s head.
The thunder of pounding feet came rushing toward them from the hall. They’d definitely heard the glass shatter.
Nolan looked over Jonah’s shoulder at the door that McCord had entered through. “That door locked?” he asked, cutting his eyes across to Coral.
“First thing we did, after . . .” She nodded at McCord’s body.
Nolan nodded toward the broken window. Jonah was still pointing the .45 at him. “That’s your way out,” he said. “There are ledges and handholds. You should be able to climb down.”
Coral stepped forward and put her hand on the .45, gently pushing Jonah’s arms down. She took the pistol from his hands and let it hang by her side.
The thugs outside started pounding on the thick wooden door.
“Go, I’ll deal with them,” said Nolan, lowering his voice.
Jonah still stared Nolan down with aggressive dislike. When he spoke, he never broke eye contact. “You heard the man. We’re withdrawing.”
The big agent never offered any sort of gratitude for Nolan’s saving their lives. Nolan didn’t care; if he was escaping with his tail tucked between his legs, he probably wouldn’t be feeling too charitable either.
One by one, the OCI agents quickly filed out of the window. The pounding on the office door became much louder. Nolan decided they were either beating it with something large, like a fire extinguisher, or they were trying to kick it down.
When only Coral and Jonah remained, Jonah motioned for her to go first.
“Go on, I’ll be right behind you,” said Coral.
Jonah turned to eye Nolan w
arily one last time before looking back at Coral. “You better be,” he said, and then leapt through the window.
Once he was gone, Coral turned back to face the door and stood at Nolan’s side. She popped the magazine out of the .45 to check how many rounds it had.
“What are you doing?” Nolan hissed. “Get out of here!”
“Yeah, okay,” she said absently, not budging an inch. Beside Nolan, she watched as the door started to splinter and break.
When the door was breached with its first tiny hole in the wood, a soft whoosh passed their ears. Branford had just pulled the sniper rifle’s trigger for the first time, and from the sound of it, the bullet had met its target.
But this merely enraged the men outside the door all the more, and apparently they teamed up to kick the door in once and for all.
Branford worked hard to pick off as many as he could, while Nolan stepped forward with his staff to take care of the rest. Coral emptied her gun into Vasko’s beefy suit-and-tie-clad soldiers. The door made for an effective bottleneck, and after twenty or so had poured into the room, their bodies started to pile up in front of the door, making further entry impossible.
“That’s it, let’s go,” said Nolan. He turned and made for the exit, with Coral at his side. She tossed the empty .45 on the floor and climbed out the window, with Nolan trailing close.
Once Nolan was out, he fired the grappler at the roof. Grabbing Coral with one arm and holding tight to the grappler with the other, he lowered the two of them quickly to the ground.
“That was an impressive kill shot,” Coral noted as they started to run. They steered toward Park Row and the safety they might find beyond the park’s trees.
She was talking about his sniper shot at Mayor McCord.
“You think I crossed a line?” he asked, and was surprised to find that he wanted to hear her answer.
“McCord stopped being the mayor years ago. He was a thug on a power trip, and he more than had it coming. Would’ve done him myself if I could’ve.”
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