“What is going on?”
“What? Did you think we would all sit nicely whilst the rich men in their tailored suits funded their wars? Well, I have news for you, big man. We do not wait for you anymore. We fund our own.”
Marsh was staggered by a double blow to the face. Falling backwards, he caught hold of Zoe, expecting her to hold him up, and when she didn’t they both fell to the floor. The shock of it all sent his system into overdrive, sweat glands and nerve endings in full flow and an annoying tic starting up at the corner of one eye. Took him right back to the bad old days, when he was a boy and nobody cared about him.
Gator stalked about the apartment, organizing the now twelve-strong cell. Zoe had made herself as small as possible, practically a part of the furniture as guns were revealed and other weapons of war—grenades, more than one RPG, the ever-dependable Kalashnikov, tear gas, stun-bombs and a plethora of hand-driven, steel-shod missiles. This was somewhat unnerving.
Marsh cleared his throat, still clinging to that last shred of dignity and egotism that ensured him that he, in this room, was the Satanic goat with the biggest horns.
“Look,” he said. “Get your filthy hands off my nuke. Do you even know what this is, boy? Gator. Gator! We have a deadline to keep.”
The leader of the fifth cell finally threw a laptop aside and strode over to Marsh. Now with backup and with the gloves well and truly off, Gator was a different man. “You think I, owe something to youuuu?” The last word was a squeal. “My hands are cleeeean! My boots are cleeeean! But they will soooon be covered in gore and ash!”
Marsh blinked quickly. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“There will be no payout. No moneeee! I work for the great, the revered one and only, Ramses, and they call meeee the Bombmaker. But today I will be the initiator. I will give it life!”
Marsh waited for the inevitable squeal at the end but this time it didn’t come. Gator had clearly allowed a splurge of power to turn his head, and Marsh still didn’t understand why these people were handling his bomb. “Guys, that is my nuke. I bought it and brought it to you. We’re awaiting a nice payday. Now, be good boys and put the nuclear bomb down onto the table.”
It was only when Gator punched him until the blood flowed that Marsh began to truly understand that something had gone terribly wrong here. It occurred to him that all his past deeds had led him to this point in his life, every right and wrong, every good or bad word and comment. The sum of every experience put him right in this room at this time.
“What are you going to do with that bomb?” Terror lowered and thickened his voice as if it were being forced like cheese through a grater.
“We are going to detonate your nuke as soon as we receive word from the great Ramses.”
Marsh sucked in air without breathing. “But that will kill millions.”
“And so our war will have begun.”
“This was about money,” Marsh said. “Payback. A little fun. Making the United Donkeys of America chase their tail. This was about funding, not mass murder.”
“Youuuu . . . have . . . killlled!” Gator’s fanatical rant ramped up a notch.
“Well, yeah, but not many.”
Gator kicked him until he curled into a motionless ball; ribs, lungs, spine and shins aching. “We only await word from Ramses. Now, someone, pass me a phone.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Inside Grand Central the last pieces of Marsh’s puzzle began to line up. Drake hadn’t realized before, but this was all part of someone’s master plan, someone they thought they’d already neutralized. An enemy they hadn’t counted on was time—and the way it was fast passing nullified their thinking.
With the station declared safe and inhabited mostly by cops, Drake and his crew had chance to scrutinize the fourth demand they’d finally found duct-taped to the underside of the café’s table. A series of numbers written in large type, it was impossible to figure out what they might be unless you managed to squint at the heading, which was typically written in the smallest font available.
Nuclear weapon activation codes.
Drake squinted in disbelief, again thrown off balance, and then blinked at Alicia. “Really? Why would he send us these?”
“Gamesmanship would be my guess. He’s enjoying this, Drake. On the other hand they could be fake.”
“Or acceleration codes,” Mai added.
“Or even,” Beau clouded the issue some more, “codes that might be used to start up a different kind of hidden weapon.”
Drake stared at the Frenchman for a moment, wondering where he’d developed such twisted thoughts, before calling Moore. “We have the new demand,” he said. “Except that instead, it appears to be a set of deactivation codes for the nuke.”
“Why?” Moore rattled. “What? That doesn’t make any sense. Is that what he told you?”
Drake realized how ridiculous it all sounded. “Sending now.” Let the suits sort it all out.
“Good. We’ll get them properly checked out.”
After Drake pocketed the cell, Alicia dusted herself off and took a long look around. “We got lucky here,” she said. “No casualties. And no follow up from Marsh, despite our lateness. So you think this was the last demand?”
“Not sure how it can be,” Mai said. “He told us that he wants money but hasn’t yet supplied a when and where.”
“So at least one more,” Drake said. “Maybe two. We should check weapons and load up again. Somehow, with all these mini-bombs going off around the city I think we’re far from finishing this yet.”
He wondered as to the purpose of the small bombs. Not to kill and not to maim. Yes, they instilled terror into society’s very soul, but in light of the nuke, Julian Marsh and the cells they were taking down he couldn’t help but think there might be a different agenda afoot. The sideshow bombs were distracting, aggravating. It was the few men on motorcycles hurling homemade firework bombs along Wall Street that were causing the most problems.
Alicia spied a kiosk tucked away in a far corner. “Sugar fix,” she said. “Anyone for a chocolate bar?”
“Get me two Snickers,” Drake sighed. “Since sixty-five grams was only for the nineties.”
Alicia shook her head. “You and your bloody chocolate bars.”
“What next?” Beau came over, the Frenchman easing the aches out of his body with a few stretches.
“Moore needs to step up his game,” Drake said. “Get proactive. I for one am not dancing to Marsh’s tune all day.”
“He’s stretched,” Mai reminded him. “Most of his agents and the cops are securing the streets.”
“I know,” Drake breathed. “I bloody well know.”
He also knew that there could be no better support for Moore than Hayden and Kinimaka, both with lines to the President, both having experienced most of what the world could throw their way. In this moment of relative calm he took stock, thought about their problem, and then found himself worrying about the other crew—Dahl’s team.
The mad Swedish bastard’s probably been kicking back with a bar of Marabou, watching Alexander Skarsgård’s most naked moments.
Drake nodded his thanks to Alicia as she returned and handed him two pieces of chocolate. For a moment the team just stood there, reflecting, numbed. Trying not to think about what might happen next. Behind them the café stood like a derelict old enterprise, its windows cracked and tables turned over, its doors split and hanging from their hinges. Even now, teams were carefully combing the place for more devices.
Drake turned to Beau. “You met Marsh, didn’t you? Do you believe he’ll follow this thing through?”
The Frenchman made an elaborate gesture. “Um, who knows? Marsh is odd, appearing stable one moment and then insane the next. Perhaps it was all an act. Webb didn’t trust him, but that is no real surprise. I feel that if Webb still had an interest in the Pythian cause then Marsh would not be allowed to even pretend to do this thing.”
“It’
s not Marsh we have to worry about,” Mai broke in excitedly. “It’s . . .”
And suddenly it all made sense.
Drake caught on at the same time, realizing the name of the person she’d been about to say. His eyes locked on to hers like heat-seeking missiles but for a moment they could say nothing.
Thinking it through. Evaluating. To the terrible end.
“Fuck,” Drake said. “We’ve been played from the very beginning.”
Alicia watched them. “Normally I’d say ‘get a room’, but . . .”
“He could never have gained entry to this country,” Mai groaned. “Not without us.”
“And now,” Drake said. “He’s right where he wants to be.”
And then the phone rang.
*
Drake almost dropped his chocolate in shock, so absorbed was he by the alternate line of thinking. When he looked at the screen and saw an unknown number a pyrotechnic blast of conflicting thoughts ricocheted around his head.
What to say?
This had to be Marsh calling on a new burner cell. Should he resist the urge to explain to him that he was being played, a mere dupe in the grand scheme? They wanted the cells and the nuke to remain neutral as long as possible. Give everyone at least another hour, a chance to track it all down. Now though . . . now the game had changed.
What to do?
“Marsh?” he answered on the fourth ring.
A stranger’s voice addressed him. “Noooo! This is Gatorrrr!”
Drake removed the phone from his ear, the squeal, the timbre rising at the end of each word, insulting his ear drums.
“Who is this? Where’s Marsh?”
“I said—Gatorrrr! The fooool is crawling now. Where he should beeee. But I have one more demand for youuuu. One more, and then the bomb will either explode or it won’t. It’s up to youuuu!”
“Fuck me.” Drake was having trouble focusing down on the words due to the random screeching. “You need to calm down a bit, pal.”
“Run, rabbit, run, run, run. Go find the police precinct on 3rd and 51st and see what pieces of meat we have left for youuuu. You will understand the final demand when you get there.”
Drake frowned, searching his memory. Something very familiar about that address . . .
But the voice again shattered his train of thought. “Now runnnn! Runnnn! Rabbit run and don’t look back! It willll detonate in one minute or one hourrrr! And then our war will beginnn!”
“Marsh wanted a ransom only. The money is yours for the bomb.”
“We do not neeeed your moneyyyy! You think there are not organizations—even your own organizations—who help us? You think there are no rich men who help us? You think there are no cabals out there secretly funding our cause? Ha ha, ha ha ha!”
Drake wanted to reach down the received and wring the madman’s neck, but since he couldn’t accomplish that—yet—he did the next best thing.
Killed the call.
And finally his brain processed every bit of information. The others already knew. Their faces were white with fear, their bodies wound tight with tension.
“It’s our precinct isn’t it?” Drake said. “Where Hayden, Kinimaka and Moore are right now.”
“And Ramses,” Mai said.
If the bomb had exploded at that very moment, the team could not have run any faster.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Hayden studied the monitors. With most of the station emptied and even agents personally attached to Moore sent into the streets to help, the local hub for Homeland Security felt stretched beyond the absolute limit. The unfolding events across the city had taken precedence over the reunion between Ramses and Price for now, but Hayden did note the lack of contact between the two, and wondered if there was actually nothing for either of them to say. Ramses was the informed one, the man with all the answers. Price was just another dollar-chasing dupe.
Kinimaka helped man the monitors. Hayden went over what had transpired previously between them, where the Hawaiian had advised against forcing information out of both men, and now questioned her reactions.
Was she right? Was he being pathetic?
Something to think through later.
Images flashed before her, all miniaturized upon dozens of square screens, in black-and-white and color vision, scenes of fender-benders and fires, flashing ambulances and terrified crowds. The panic among New Yorkers was being kept to an absolute minimum; although the events of 9-11 were still very much a fresh horror in their thoughts and influenced every decision. For so many people who had a 9-11 survival story, from those who didn’t go into work that day to those who were late or running errands, the dread was never far removed from their thoughts. Tourists bolted in terror, often toward the next jolt of surprise. Police began to clear the streets in earnest, brooking no objections from the ever-testy driving locals.
Hayden checked the time . . . barely 11 a.m. It felt later. The rest of the team were on her mind, the pit of her stomach rolling in acid for fear that they might lose their lives today. Why the hell do we keep doing this? Day after day, week after week? The odds are less favorable every time we fight.
And Dahl in particular; how did the man stay at it? With a wife and two children the man must have a work ethic the size of Mount Everest. Her respect for a soldier had never been higher.
Kinimaka tapped one of the monitors. “Could be bad.”
Hayden stared. “Is that . . . oh shit.”
Stunned, she watched as Ramses burst into action, running over to Price and head-butting the man to the ground. The terrorist prince then stood over the struggling body and began to kick it mercilessly, each blow procuring an agonized scream. Hayden hesitated once more and then saw the pool of blood starting to spread across the floor.
“I’m going down.”
“I’ll come too.” Kinimaka started to rise but Hayden waved him back down.
“No. You’re needed here.”
Ignoring the stare she raced back down into the basement, beckoned the two guards stationed in the corridor, and opened the outer door to Ramses’ cell. Together, they burst in, guns drawn.
Ramses’ left foot smashed into Price’s cheek, breaking bone.
“Stop!” Hayden shouted in anger. “You’re killing him.”
“You do not care,” Ramses let fly again, shattering Price’s jaw. “Why should I? You make me share a cell with this filth. You want us to talk? Well, this is how my iron will is carried out. Perhaps now you will learn.”
Hayden ran to the bars, fitting the key to the lock. Ramses supported himself and then started stamping down upon Price’s skull and shoulders, as if searching for vulnerabilities and enjoying himself in the process. Price had stopped screaming by now and could only emit low groans.
Hayden flung the door wide, backed up by the two guards. She attacked without ceremony, pistol whipping Ramses behind the ear and shoving him away from Robert Price. She then fell to her knees beside the whimpering man.
“You alive?” She certainly didn’t want to appear too concerned. Men like him saw concern as a weakness to be exploited.
“Does that hurt?” She pressed against Price’s ribs.
The squeal told her that “yes, it did”.
“All right, all right, quit the mewling. Turn over, and let me see you.”
Price struggled to roll over, but when he did Hayden winced at the mask of blood, broken teeth and shredded lips. She saw an ear leaking crimson and an eye swollen so badly it might never work again. Against her better wishes, she grimaced.
“Shit.”
She headed for Ramses. “Man, I don’t even have to ask if you’re crazy, do I? Only a madman would do the things you do. Reason? Motive? Goal? I doubt it even crossed your fucked up mind.”
She raised the Glock, not actually fully prepared to take the shot. The guards at her side covered Ramses in case he came at her.
“Shoot,” Ramses said. “Save yourself a world full of pain.”
“If this were your country, your house, you would kill me right now, wouldn’t you? You would finish all this.”
“No. Where is the pleasure in such a quick kill? First I would destroy your dignity by stripping you and binding your limbs. Then I would break your will by random method, whatever felt right at the time. Then I would devise a way to kill you and bring you back, again and again, finally relenting when, for the one-hundredth occasion, you have begged me to end your life.”
Hayden stared, seeing the truth of it in Ramses’ eyes and unable to prevent a shudder. Here was a figure who would think nothing of detonating a nuclear bomb in New York City. Her attention was so rapt upon Ramses, as was her guards’, that they didn’t react to the shambling steps and ragged breaths stealing up behind them.
Ramses eyes flickered. Hayden knew they’d been tricked. She turned, but not fast enough. Price might be the Secretary of Defense but he had also enjoyed a distinguished military career and now brought what he remembered of it to bear. He slammed both hands down onto one of the guard’s outstretched arms, sending his pistol rattling to the floor, and then buried a fist into the man’s gut, bending him double. As he did this he fell, gambling that Hayden and the other guard wouldn’t shoot him, wagering on his position in more ways than one, and fell onto the gun.
And under his armpit he fired, the bullet taking the dazed guard through one eye. Hayden pushed aside the emotion and turned her Glock onto Price, but Ramses charged her like a bull riding a tractor, the full force of his frame paralyzing, slamming her back off her heels. Ramses and Hayden staggered clear across the cell, leaving Price a clear shot at the second guard.
He took it, using the confusion to his favor. The second guard died before the echo of the bullet that killed him. His body struck the ground at Price’s feet, watched over by the Secretary’s one functioning eye. Hayden struggled out from under Ramses’ great bulk, still holding her Glock, wild-eyed, lining up Price in her sights.
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