The Edge of Armageddon

by David Leadbeater

  Drake checked the time. Eleven minutes left.

  And still the moments ticked away, second after second. Beau slowed as a light gray building appeared over the road, one Drake instantly recognized. Still running, he turned to Alicia and Mai. “Same building we fought in during the Odin thing. Shit, seems like a lifetime ago now.”

  “Didn’t a helicopter hit the side?” Alicia asked.

  “Oh yeah, and a T. Rex attacked us.”

  The Natural History Museum appeared comparatively small from this angle, a misconception if ever there was one. Steps rose from the sidewalk to the front doors, currently thronged by a group of tourists. The combined smells of diesel and petrol assaulted them as they stopped at the curb. The noise of engines, honking horns and random shouting still tattered their senses, but at least the traffic was moving past here.

  “Don’t stop now,” Alicia said. “We have no idea where the guard will be.”

  Drake attempted to stop the traffic and allow them to cross. “Let’s hope he didn’t call in sick.”

  Luckily, the vehicle flow was light and the group managed to thread their way across the road quite easily. Once at the base of the museum’s steps they started up, all coming to a sudden halt as they heard the loud screech of tires behind them.

  Drake thought: Seven minutes.

  They turned to a scene of unreserved madness. Four men jumped out of a car, rifles held in the air. Drake scrambled to evade, leaping away from the museum’s doors and straggling visitors. Beau swiftly withdrew his own weapon and took a bead on the enemy. Shots were fired. Screams tore the morning to shreds.

  Drake leapt high and hit low, rolling as he struck the sidewalk and ignoring the pain where his shoulder took the full force of his body. An assailant had leapt onto the hood of a sedan and was already lining Mai up in his sights. Drake rolled against the vehicle and then rose, fortunate to find himself within grabbing distance of the rifle. He reached up, becoming the clearer threat and demanding attention.

  Alicia dived the other way, clearing the steps and putting the Equestrian Statue of Theodore Roosevelt between her and her attackers. Still, they fired, bullets hammering into the bronze molding. Alicia drew her weapon and sneaked around the other side. Two men were now on top of cars, making nice targets. Civilians ran every which way, clearing the area. She took a bead on a terrorist who dropped to his knees but the constant thread of his fire swung towards her, forcing her to take cover.

  Mai and Beau pressed themselves into a small indented arch near the museum’s front entrance, squeezing tight to escape the flow of bullets that stitched their way across the stonework. Beau was facing the wall, unable to move, but Mai was looking out, her back to the Frenchman’s.

  “This is . . . awkward,” Beauregard complained.

  “And very fortunate that you are reed thin,” Mai returned. She popped her head out and let loose a salvo. “You know, back when we first encountered you it seemed like you often fitted between the cracks in the walls.”

  “That would be useful right now.”

  “Like smoke.” Mai leaned out again, returning fire. Bullets tacked a route above her head.

  “Can we move?”

  “Not unless you want to become perforated.”

  Drake gauged he didn’t have time to bring his own weapon to bear, so tried to grab his adversary’s. Too late he realized he couldn’t quite reach it—the guy was too high up—and then he saw the yawning barrel turning his way.

  Nowhere to go.

  Instinct slammed through him like a projectile. Stepping back he kicked at the car window, smashing the glass and then dived through just as the terrorist opened fire. Behind him, the sidewalk churned. Drake squeezed through the gap and into the driver’s seat, leather squeaking, the shape of the seats hampering his passage. He knew what was coming. A bullet smacked through the roof, the seat and the floor of the car. Drake shuffled faster. The central well was composed of a glove compartment and two large cup-holders, which gave him something to grip as he launched his bulk into the passenger seat. More bullets thunked mercilessly down through the roof. Drake cried out, playing for time. The flow stopped momentarily, but then as Drake leaned back and booted the window out it started again at an even faster rate.

  Drake scrambled into the back seat, a bullet burning a graze down the center of his back. He ended up in an untidy heap, panting and out of ideas. His moment of delay must have made the shooter pause too, and then the man came under fire from Alicia. Drake unlocked the rear door from inside and slithered out, face-palming the concrete and seeing nowhere to go.

  Except . . .

  Under the car. He rolled, barely fitting under the vehicle. Now his vision was a black undercarriage, pipes and exhaust system. Another bullet fired down from above, slamming the gap between the open V of his legs. Drake exhaled, whistling in silence.

  Two can play at this game.

  One leg at a time, he forced his body along the ground and down to the front of the car, wrestling his Glock free as he went. Then, sighting up through previous bullet holes he approximated where the man would be. He fired six shots in succession, repositioning a little every time, and then quickly dragged himself out from under the car.

  The terrorist fell down beside him, clutching his stomach. The rifle clattered down alongside him. As he reached desperately for it and also into his waistband, Drake shot him point blank. The risks were too great to gamble, the population too vulnerable. Aching muscles wracked him as he then struggled upright, peering over the hood of the car.

  Alicia darted from around the Roosevelt statue, discharging several rounds before disappearing again. Her target was positioned on the front end of another car. Two more terrorists were trying to get an angle on Mai and Beau, who appeared to have somehow forced themselves into the wall, but Mai’s accurate shooting was holding the terrorists back.

  Drake checked his watch.

  Two minutes.

  They were well and truly fucked.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Drake took the battle to the terrorists. Unleashing his HK, he concentrated on the two who were worrying Beau and Mai. One fell instantly, his life spilled all over the concrete, a hard death for a hard-bitten heart. The other swiveled at the last moment, taking a bullet, but still able to return fire. Drake followed the man’s roll with bullets, filling his wake with death. In the end the man had nowhere to go and stopped, then sat up and fired a final round toward Mai as Drake’s gun ended his threat.

  Mai saw it coming and pulled Beau to the floor. The Frenchman protested, landing in an ungainly heap, but Mai kept her elbows on top of him, preventing movement. Chunks burst from the wall right where their heads had been.

  Beau stared upward. “Merci, Mai.”

  “Ki ni shinaide.”

  Drake by now had drawn the attention of the last remaining terrorist, but none of that mattered. Only the terrible fear in his soul mattered. Only the despairing pounding of his heart mattered.

  They had missed the deadline.

  His mood rose a little as he saw Mai and Beau race into the museum, and then Alicia stepped out of concealment to send the final terrorist to the raging hell he deserved. One more man bleeding on the sidewalk. One more soul lost and sacrificed.

  They were endless, these people. They were the raging sea.

  Drake then saw the last, supposedly dead, terrorist rise and stagger away. Drake figured he must have been wearing a vest. He sighted on the bobbing shoulders and fired, but the shot skimmed just millimeters above its target. Exhaling slowly he sighted in a second shot. Now the man fell to his knees and then rose again, and in the next instant he was barging into a crowd of people, looky loos, locals and kids with cameras all trying to grab their one minute of fame on Facebook or Instagram.

  Drake staggered over to Alicia. “So that was one of Ramses’ cells?”

  “Four men. Just as Dahl described. This would be the third cell we’ve encountered as a team.”

 
“And we still don’t know Marsh’s terms.”

  Alicia scanned the streets all around, the road and the stalled, abandoned cars. Then she whirled as Mai’s shout caught their attention.

  “We have the guard!”

  Drake charged up the steps, head down, not even attempting to put his guns away. This was everything, this was their whole world. If Marsh rang they could—

  Jose Gonzales held a cellphone out. “Are you the Englishman?”

  Drake closed his eyes and put the device to his ear. “Marsh. You utter c—”

  The Pythian’s laughter cut him short. “Now, now, do not resort to banal profanities. Cursing is for the uneducated or so I am told. Or is it the other way around? But congratulations, my new friend, you are alive!”

  “It’ll take more than a few knobjobs to take us down.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. Would a nuke do it?”

  Drake felt he could continue the infuriated rejoinders indefinitely but made a conscious effort to sew his mouth shut. Alicia, Mai and Beau crowded around the phone, and Jose Gonzales watched on with foreboding.

  “Cat got your tongue? Oh and hey, why on earth didn’t you answer Gonzales’s phone?”

  Drake bit his upper lip until the blood flowed. “I’m right here.”

  “Yes, yes, I can see that. But where were you . . . umm . . . four minutes ago?”

  Drake remained silent.

  “Poor old Jose was forced to answer his own phone. Didn’t have a clue what I was babbling on about.”

  Drake attempted to divert Marsh. “We have the jacket. Where—”

  “You’re not listening to me, Englishman. You were late. Do you remember the penalty for being late?”

  “Marsh. Stop fucking around. Do you want your demands met or not?”

  “My demands? Well, of course they will be met, when I decide I’m good and ready. Now, you three be good little soldiers and wait right there. I’ll just order up a couple of takeaways.”

  Drake cursed. “Don’t do it. Don’t you bloody do it!”

  “Speak soon.”

  The line went dead. Drake stared into three pairs of haunted eyes and knew they were a mere reflection of his own. They had failed.

  With a giant effort he managed to refrain from crushing the phone. Alicia took it upon herself to call in the imminent threat to Homeland. Mai made Gonzales shrug himself out of his jacket.

  “Let’s get on with it,” she said. “We deal with what is before us and ready ourselves for what may come next.”

  Drake studied the horizons, the concrete and tree-lined ones, mind and heart far away and crushed at the very idea of Marsh’s intentions. In the next few minutes innocents would die, and if he failed again there would be more.

  “Marsh is going to detonate that bomb,” he said. “Whatever he says. If we don’t find it, the whole world will suffer. We’re standing on the very edge . . .”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Marsh laughed and hung up the phone with a flourish. Zoe cuddled in even further. “You sure showed him,” she purred.

  “Oh, yes, and now I’m going to show him even more.”

  Marsh plucked out yet another burner cell and checked the number he’d already saved to the memory. Convinced it was the right one he quickly dialed and waited. The voice that answered, all gruff and imposing, confirmed his expectations.

  “You know what to do,” he said.

  “One? Or two?”

  “Two, as we agreed. Then move on in case I need you again.”

  “Sure boss. I’ve been keeping up with events through my cellphone’s app. Would sure have loved me some of that action.”

  Marsh huffed. “Are you a terrorist, Stephen?”

  “Well, no I wouldn’t put myself in that class. Not exactly.”

  “The do the job you’ve been paid to do. Right now.”

  Marsh flicked one of the screens to a city camera, just a mini-surveillance unit the neighboring businesses used to keep tabs on the comings and goings along the sidewalk. Stephen would cause havoc along this particular street and Marsh wanted to watch.

  Zoe leaned across, trying to get a better view. “So what else are we going to do today?”

  Marsh stared. “Isn’t this enough for you? And you do suddenly seem a little soft, somewhat malleable, for a woman invited to join the big bad Pythians, Miss Zoe Sheers. Why is that? Is it because you like the mad in me?”

  “I think so. And more than just a little. Maybe the champagne is going to my head.”

  “Good. Now shut up and watch.”

  The next few moments unfolded as Marsh wanted them to. Normal men and women would flinch at what they saw, even tough ones, but Marsh and Sheers viewed it with cold detachment. It then took Marsh only five minutes to save the footage and video-message it to the Englishman with the attached note: Send this on to Homeland. I’ll be in touch shortly.

  He wrapped Zoe up in one arm. Together they studied the chase’s next scenario, which would have the Englishman and his three stooges actually knowing they would arrive too late before they even began. Superb. And the mayhem at the end . . . priceless.

  Marsh remembered then that there were other people in the room. Ramses’ primary cell and its members. They were sitting so quietly in a far corner of the apartment that he barely recalled their faces.

  “Hey,” he called. “The lady has run out of champagne. Would one of you drifter types be able to freshen her up?”

  A man rose, his eyes filled with so much contempt that Marsh squirmed. But the expression was quickly masked and became a fast bobbing of the head. “Sure can.”

  “Excellent. One more bottle should do it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Drake watched Mai rip open the guard’s jacket as she searched for a list of demands. Alicia and Beau searched the gathering crowds, almost certain the last remaining member of the third cell would make some kind of move. Homeland were en route, only two minutes out. Sirens shrieked nearby as the cops gathered. Drake knew that by now the culminating incidents would have all New Yorkers on edge, and sightseers rattled. It might not be a bad thing if people stayed off the streets, but what more could the White House actually do?

  Drones with radiation detectors were looping through the skies. Metal detectors were stopping everyone who merited attention and many who didn’t. The Army and NEST were here. So many agents were roaming the streets it felt like a veteran’s reunion. If Homeland, the FBI, CIA and NSA were doing their jobs correctly, then Marsh would surely be found.

  Drake checked his watch. It was somewhat over an hour since this nightmare began.

  Is that all?

  Alicia nudged him. “She found something.”

  Drake watched as Mai removed a folded sheet of paper from Gonzales’s ruined jacket.

  The New Yorker winced at her and picked up a tattered sleeve in each hand. “Will the city give me comp . . . compen . . . compens—”

  “The city can give you some advice,” Alicia said dead-pan. “Next time use a little warm oil. Don’t pay for bad company.”

  Gonzales shut up and slunk away.

  Drake moved over to Mai. Marsh’s demands had been printed on a white A4 sheet in what appeared to be the biggest typesetting. All in all, they were pretty straight forward.

  “Five hundred million dollars,” Mai read out. “And nothing else.”

  Beneath the demand was a sentence written in a contrasting small script.

  “Details to follow shortly.”

  Drake knew exactly what that meant. “We’re about to be sent on another wild goose chase.”

  Beauregard watched the crowds. “And we remain under surveillance, no doubt. It is certain this time that we will fail again.”

  Drake lost count of the cellphones being held up among the gathered throng, then heard the dull buzz of his cell’s message tone and checked the screen. Even before he clicked onto the video link his scalp started to itch with deep foreboding. “Guys,” he said and held the dev
ice at arm’s length as they crowded around.

  It was grainy and it was in black and white, but the camera was steady and clearly showed one of Drake’s worst nightmares. “This is senseless,” he said. “Killing people who have no idea what’s going on. It’s not for terror, it’s not for gain. It’s for . . .” He couldn’t go on.

  “Pleasure,” Mai breathed. “We dig up more of these bottom feeders every day. And the worst thing is, they dwell at the very heart of our communities.”

  Drake didn’t waste another moment, but sent the link on to Homeland. The fact that Marsh appeared to be able to pluck his cellphone number out of the air wasn’t particularly surprising given all he’d accomplished so far. The terrorists helping him were clearly more than expendable foot soldiers.

  Drake watched the cops do their jobs. Alicia moved closer to him, then randomly pulled up the leg of her pants. “Y’ see this?” she intoned. “Got this when you tried to kick my ass in the desert. And it’s still bloody fresh. That’s how fast this thing is moving along.”

  Drake took more than one impression from her words. There was the memory of their bonding, their new attraction; the inference to Mai and Beau that something had happened between them; and the more obvious reference to her own life so far—how fast it had been moving and how she was trying to slow things down.

  In the direct line of fire.

  “If we survive this,” he said. “Team SPEAR is taking a week off.”

  “Torsty’s already booked for Barbados,” Alicia said.

  “What happened in the desert?” Mai wondered.

  Drake checked his watch, then his phone, overcome by an odd, surreal moment. Mounting upon the needless death and surging threat, upon the endless chase and the brutal battle, they were now kicking their heels and being forced to take several moment’s respite. Of course, they needed the time to let go of the tension, the mounting anxiety that might eventually get them killed . . . but Alicia’s way of doing it was always somewhat out of the box.