SPARE PARTS (The Upgrade Book 4)

by Wesley Cross

  As they walked, the walls of the tunnel changed. Polished concrete and slick OLED lights disappeared, giving way to rough brick and flickering lightbulbs. After a few hundred yards, they came to a large vault-like door. Connelly leaned the suitcase against the wall and turned the massive wheel.

  The door opened into a T-junction—an abandoned service train station with an arched cathedral ceiling. Two teenagers—a girl and a boy in dirty coveralls and oversized jackets who had been sitting by the edge of the tracks—stood up as they approached.

  “Meera.” Connelly nodded to the girl, and then turned to the boy. “Sandy.”

  “We got your message,” the girl said. “The tunnels are clear for now. We will take you to the old City Hall station. From there, Sandy will take you all the way to Myrtle Avenue.”

  “Thank you,” Connelly said.

  “It’s a hike,” the girl said, spitting on the floor. She pointed to the suitcase. “This shit won’t slow you down, will it?”

  “I don’t think so. But you said the tunnels were clear?”

  “You know how it is.” The girl shrugged. “It’s clear now, and five seconds later it’s crawling with feds.”

  “Don’t worry,” Hunt said. “We will move as fast as you can lead us. And thank you. Can we go now?”

  “She says you’re even now,” the girl said, looking at Connelly, without moving. “After this, if you need favors, you’d need to earn them.”

  “I understand.”

  “Okay then.” She turned around and headed toward the end of the station, her silent companion in tow.

  “What was that all about?” Hunt asked as they followed their guides off the platform and into the tunnel.

  “A twist of fate, if you will. I don’t know if you remember but the city had a problem with cannibals a few years back.”

  “I saw some headlines,” Hunt said, “but I assumed it was bullshit. Yellow press being yellow press.”

  “Oh, it was quite real, I can assure you. I had a run-in with them when they tried to jump me in front of my building. That’s when I saw one of them wearing a human phalanx on a chain around his neck. Like a trophy. I called him Bones. At the time, I needed help squaring off with some of Engel’s guys without raising too much suspicion, so I came down here to see the Rats.”

  “The Rats?”

  “That’s what they call themselves. They see themselves as a guild of thieves. They have a code and follow it.” Connelly chuckled. “Mostly follow it.”

  “What happened?”

  “I offered a trade. I’d take care of the cannibals and they would help me with my problem. Turned out I was about to bite more than I wanted to chew. First, I tracked down the crew of Bones to an abandoned train station in Midtown. They had a camp there and kept their victims there in cages. Kids.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah.” Connelly stayed quiet for some time as they continued to walk. “I killed the entire gang and let the kids out. But it turned out that wasn’t the only camp in the city. There were several. I ended up doing some cleaning, and the Rats ended up owing me a big favor.”

  “It must have been awful, Mike. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t pretty.”

  “Who’s the she?”

  “The Queen of Rats. She’s the lady in charge.”

  “We’re here,” Meera said, interrupting them. They were standing at the fork—a smaller, completely dark tunnel was heading down at a steep angle. “Sandy will take you now. He’s deaf. Don’t bother him with questions. And try not to get lost.”

  “Thank you, Meera,” Hunt said, but the girl was already walking back without as much as a glance in his direction.

  Sandy took out a small flashlight that produced a surprisingly powerful wide beam and headed down the slope.

  “Let’s go,” Connelly said, and started after the boy.

  “Mike?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If they owed you a huge favor…” Hunt paused, searching for the right words. “Why are you even now? All they did is walk us through some tunnels.”

  “Not quite.” Connelly chuckled. “The US government is about to designate us as the most dangerous fugitives since Osama bin Laden. I’d say helping us is a pretty big favor.”

  28

  Helen Chen strained her eyes as she watched the H-92 Superhawk Sikorsky helicopter make the final approach to the clearing. In the moonless sky, the bird, with its lights off, looked like a prehistoric predator circling in search of a prey. A few moments later, it touched down on the improvised helipad. Steven Poznyak was the first one to exit, followed by the rest of his lab staff. He jogged toward her, keeping one hand on his baseball hat and bending in the wind as the blades above him slowed down.

  “Hey, Steve,” she said, embracing the man.

  “Hey, yourself,” Poznyak shouted over the roar of the rotors. He looked around as they walked away from the helicopter. “This is how it feels to be a fugitive, huh? It doesn’t look like much, which I guess is the point. I have to say, being whisked away on a fifteen-minute notice in a helicopter without running lights is kind of depressing.”

  “Hopefully it’s temporary.” She shrugged. “We are trying our best. I just hope it’s going to be enough.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier,” he apologized. “I wanted to be here, especially when they were moving Rachel.”

  “It was better that way. You were the best person to figure out what to move here and what not to. You couldn’t be in two places at once.” She switched on a small flashlight and set it on its lowest setting. It did little to illuminate the ground in front of them, but seemed to plunge the rest of the world into an almost impenetrable shade of black. “Come on, I’ll give you a tour.”

  They walked across the field covered in brown wilted grass, that in the light of her torch looked almost black, toward a few domed structures raised a few feet high above the ground.

  “You could drive by this place and not notice it,” Poznyak said. “At least at night.”

  “Watch where you step. The surface is not very even. There’s not much to see above the ground, even during the day. Ballistic missile silos weren’t supposed to be noticeable. And no major roads lead here anymore either. They used to, but not for some time. There are three silos—this one here. One more over there,” she pointed at a dome looming farther away, “and one more on the other side of this field, but you can’t see it from here behind that shed which is the only aboveground structure that is higher than me. The system of tunnels connects all three of them and we have been retrofitting the place to suit our needs.”

  “You’ve rebuilt all three silos? Helen, you’re a magician.”

  “I wish.” She chuckled. “These two are only half finished and I haven’t even touched the one on the other side yet. It also has less coverage from the trees. It made sense to develop it last, when we expand the tunnels and can work on it from inside rather than spending too much time on the surface. But regardless, we had to do the essentials first. I had the crews install two new generators and a battery pack to make sure we had no issues with power. Silo 1 is going to be all yours. It’s seven floors. Not nearly as much space as you had at Asclepius, but it’ll have to do. Rachel and the computers are all the way at the bottom. The rest is all your wet-wire and augmentation tech. Sorry I couldn’t find the place for all of your projects.”

  “It is what it is. We had to prioritize.” Poznyak shrugged. “What about the living quarters?”

  “That’s Silo 2,” she said. “It’s also closest to the control center, which has three levels. But they are small.”

  “That one is for the big shots, I assume?”

  “Yes, and you are one of them. I gave the top floor to Jason, which I’m sure is going to double as our war room. One went for Schlager and his gadgets, and the one on the bottom is yours.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “You might be happy to know that the escape hatch t
hat leads to a ladder in the fresh air intake shaft is on your floor.” She smiled and patted him on the arm. “Should you get claustrophobic, just think that you have a direct route to the surface if the main entrance is compromised.”

  “I wasn’t claustrophobic until you said it.” He laughed. “Now I won’t stop thinking about all the possible ways the main entrance will cease functioning. And I can promise you, none of them will be good.”

  “It gets worse, I promise.” She chuckled. “Max was suggesting once we are past the crazy scrambling stage to install faux windows in living quarters. We could simulate the natural day and night cycle to help us with the circadian rhythm and improve morale. The lack of windows gets on your nerves real fast. But I don’t know when that will be possible. Once everybody’s here, helicopters will be camouflaged and there’ll not be a lot of flying for some time. We’ve been camouflaging the entire area. Mike is going to have to go to Bolivia, but that’s a separate matter.”

  “Bolivia? Why does he need to go to Bolivia?”

  “Long story.”

  “All right,” Poznyak said. “What are those things?”

  “What?”

  “Those metal poles with ears.” He pointed.

  She shined her flashlight in the direction he’d shown. “Those are TIPSIES. Something that we are also trying to repurpose.”

  “That sounds like the state I’d like to be in right now.” Poznyak chuckled. “Very tipsy.”

  “You and me both. Those are territorial protection systems. You could say it’s a sophisticated house alarm, based on the Doppler effect. They used to guard the silos. Extremely sensitive to any movement, as you can imagine. Not operational at the moment, but my engineers are telling me we could use them.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Anyway, here we are.” She stopped by the entrance and looked back. Another helicopter without running lights was coming in for a landing. “Looks like Jason’s here. Follow the signs as you go down. It was confusing to most people in the beginning. One of the first things we did was put up the signs so nobody would get lost.”

  “Thank you, Helen. For everything.”

  “Don’t mention it. Let me know if you need anything when you get settled.” She turned around to walk away but stopped as he placed a hand on her forearm. “What is it, Steve?”

  “Look,” he said. “I know it’s been tough the last few weeks and it’ll probably get worse before it gets better, but we can do it. I’m not saying it in a fake, cheerful way. Not my forte. I’m saying this because we have people like Jason and Max. And most importantly, because we have you. I know if those two lose sight, you’ll set them straight.”

  He let go of her arm and, before she had a chance to reply, disappeared into the belly of the bunker below.

  She turned off the flashlight and looked around. A few wobbling lights were moving her way as the new group of people departed from the helicopter. She could recognize the tall, slim figure of Jason Hunt. Despite the circumstances, his posture was straight, and the wind carried the cheerful tone of his voice. She wondered how much of it was genuine and how much was a projection of confidence to keep the rest of them going. To show them that while the battle might have been lost, the war was far from over and in the end, they would come out victorious.

  She rubbed her eyes, fighting back tears, grateful for the darkness. By the time Hunt and the crew reached her, she was again in control of herself, giving hugs, saying hello, and calmly directing the newcomers around the camp she’d become familiar with in the last few weeks.

  When the last person descended the stairs, she stood on the surface for a few more minutes, looking up at the dark, cloudy sky. Then she went down into the hatch and closed the door shut.

  29

  Jill Cooper glanced over her shoulder as she passed a locked for the night bodega and approached the high-rise residential building at the end of the block. The sidewalk was empty as far as she could see, and she quickly ducked into the service entrance and went down the concrete steps leading into the basement. She took the long, heavy bag off her shoulder and leaned it against the wrought-iron door, fixed the straps of her backpack, and then kneeled in front of the lock. A few seconds later, the gate squeaked and Cooper made her way past the rows of black trash bags, a discarded TV set, and a broken massage chair to the service elevator.

  This was the weakest link of her plan, she thought, pressing the button, and winced as the clanking of gears echoed through the empty shaft. It was past midnight, and the sounds seemed loud enough to wake up half of the tenants. She knew it wasn’t likely that she would encounter anyone inside of the service elevator at this hour, but the fact that she had to rely on chance was driving her mad. She was never fond of “fire and fury” operations. Sometimes those were inevitable, just like the one she was about to undertake. A rush job. But she much preferred to work on her own schedule, when she could create a scene that even the most skillful investigators would write off as an accident. An unfortunate turn of events. Now, as she stood waiting for the metal cage to descend to the ground floor, all she wanted to do was to scrap the entire plan.

  It wasn’t an option. Engel had made it clear enough and the building, perched at the southern tip of Bay Ridge, was the only structure tall enough to give her a commanding view of the bridge straddling the Narrows, the strait separating Brooklyn and Staten Island.

  The secretary of defense, whose behavior troubled Engel enough to send Cooper into action, was going to be crossing the Verrazzano Bridge in a motorcade in thirty minutes. The man was notoriously cautious about his security and traveled mostly at night in a limo that would give the presidential Beast a run for its money. The ten-ton monster, with five-inch-thick windows and hermetically sealed cabin, would have easily repelled sniper fire.

  The small window on the elevator door lit up as it finally arrived and the door slid open, revealing a gray metal box. Bright spotlights blinded Cooper after the twilight of the basement and she stepped aside and pulled her baseball cap lower, making sure she didn’t accidentally appear in the view of the single camera. The elevator, a standard residential model by EZLift & Co., had only one wide-angle camera mounted in the left upper corner. Cooper pulled a small rubbery ball from her jacket pocket and squeezed it hard between her thumb and index fingers. Then, while remaining out of the shot, she stuck her hand in and threw the ball inside the metal box. There was a small popping sound that was followed by a loud hiss and when she entered the elevator, the camera lens—along with most of the corner—was covered in sticky black resin.

  Cooper pressed a button for the top floor and tried to focus on her breathing as the elevator started its ascension.

  A few seconds later, the door slid open again and Cooper sighed in relief as she stepped out into a dark, empty hallway. According to the landlord records, the apartment of the corner unit was unoccupied, but before she tried to pick the lock, Cooper leaned her ear against the door and listened. The place was empty.

  It was a small one-bedroom apartment with rooms in a line like a train, all except a small kitchen opposite to the tiny living room. There was no furniture, except an old coffee table by the window, and the squeaky parquet floors were covered in a thick layer of dust. Nobody had been here for quite some time.

  Cooper wiped down the table and then placed the long, heavy bag on it along with the backpack. She rolled her shoulders this way and that way, getting the knots out. Then she unzipped the bag and got to work. The FGM-148 Javelin missile system didn’t look nearly as elegant as the name suggested. But a fat tube about one meter in length with a detachable command launch unit, or CLU for short, was a perfect weapon for the job.

  After Cooper assembled the system, she checked the time. Nineteen minutes left—so far, so good. She unlocked the double-hung window facing the bridge, pulled it up an inch, and then depressed the latches on the lower sash. She pulled the lower window out and down, and repeated the operation with the top window, giving
herself an unobstructed view of the bridge. Then she set the timer and relaxed while watching the flow of cars on the top deck.

  The timer beeped and Cooper glanced at the watch—two minutes. She picked up the Javelin and took a knee in front of the open window, peering into the magnified, green-lit thermal vision screen. A few moments later, there it was—a cavalcade of vehicles crawling on the top level of the bridge. Two police motorcycles were rolling approximately fifty feet in front of the line of cars. Then there were two Suburbans carrying protection, and right after them, the long silhouette of the limo. The system beeped as the infrared seeker locked onto its target and Cooper pulled the trigger.

  A soft launch ejected the missile a dozen feet into the air, its back blast thundering through the empty apartment and whipping up the dust in the air like a small tornado, which pushed Cooper in the back, almost causing her to lose balance. The missile flew horizontally a few feet and seemed to hover in place for a split second, and then the main engine ignited, its bright flame illuminating the street below. It streaked away, gaining altitude as it went. The infamous curveball shot.

  Cooper turned around on her heels and removed the CLU from the launch tube. Fire and forget. Gotta love the concept. A fireball blossomed on the upper deck of the bridge as she stuffed the unit inside of her backpack and closed the zipper. Then she packed the tube inside of the duffel bag and headed out of the apartment. There was no need to clean up after herself. The neighborhood had plenty of CCTV cameras that would catch the launch. Once the cause of the explosion was clear, she had no doubt that any investigator worth their salt would triangulate the precise position of the missile launch in a matter of minutes. It didn’t matter. By then she’d be long gone.