“Bev, have you made a decision on my New Mexico trip? The one I proposed in my Analysis paper?”
“What?” The young black woman jerked her gaze away from watching the intense activity of the dozens of men and women in the room and fixed on her. “You mean your proposal to look into the parents of this Webster guy?”
“Yes.”
Beverly frowned, then resumed watching the room and its people. “I showed it to my boss, Carlos Jackson. He said it sounded worthwhile so long as you add more living adult offspring to your field inquiry. This young Webster may not know anything about his parents’ secret activities. Assuming they did anything.” She gave a sigh. “Janet, I really had to prod him to send a field visit request to your Lederberg guy. My boss said you could go only if you worked like crazy to interview other adult children of existing lab employees and retirees. Otherwise, you’ll have to do the checks using your computer.”
“I’m very willing to do it that way,” Janet said, her heart beating faster as she realized her friend had really gone to bat for her. “You won’t regret supporting my proposal. I’ll document everything I do, in video and in daily email histories sent back to my desk. Will that work?”
“It should,” Beverly said, keeping her attention forward. “I’ll see my boss in the morning and—”
“Who’s that!” yelled a man sitting in the middle of the room, pointing at one of the video wall screens.
Janet looked away from Beverly and up to the screen.
A tall man had just opened the 103rd floor stairwell door and stepped out into the well space, just to one side of the closed elevator door. Something shiny flew out of his right hand and up toward where Omar was standing, his hips resting on the walkway railing.
“Ours?”
“No!” yelled Beverly.
CHAPTER THREE
In less than the blink of an eye, I teleported to the Empire State building.
A whooshing sound was the air displaced by my sudden arrival.
The 103rd floor room was just as I remembered it. In front of me were the yellow railings that framed the stairwell that led down to the 102nd floor, while to the right was another group of yellow railings that flanked a steep stairwell leading up to the capsule room above. The capsule is a small triangular room with a roof hatch originally intended for airship passengers to enter on their way down to customs agents on the 102nd floor. Further to my right were open metal doors that gave access to an electrical power room. Overhead were red copper tubes that carried cables for the TV and radio transmitters that adorned the metal antenna on top of the roof of the 103rd floor. There was no one in the room. It was mostly dark. Only distant skyscraper lights shone in through the pairs of viewing windows, which were latched shut. I turned and spotted the metal door that gave access to the narrow balcony that ran around the outside of the floor. I recalled that balcony was narrow in most spots, and only waist high at best. Not long ago the actress Taylor Swift had stood next to the 103rd’s balcony railing, leaning against it as lower Manhattan filled the image behind her. I walked over and unlatched the door, which had a long window in its middle. The lights of the MetLife building shone brightly not far away. Turning back, I walked over to where I’d arrived, right in the middle of the room. Feeling anxious, I reviewed what I’d done to get here.
I’d left my cell phone behind in my apartment. My research for tonight had documented how every cell phone gave off a locator signal. I did not want some FBI agent to wonder how the signal from my personal phone had suddenly moved from New Mexico to New York City. My billfold and keys were still in the apartment.
I licked my lips, which were already dry from the large green bandana I had wrapped around my face. Before jumping here I’d put on my blue hoodie jacket, made sure my tennis shoes barely showed below my bluejeans, wrapped the bandana over my face and checked how I looked in my bedroom’s full length mirror. A tall form stood there, with only my eyes and a few black curls showing under my hoodie. My right hand, already covered in a green surgical glove, held the large butcher knife from my kitchen. My .45 was snugged into the back of my pants, hidden under the hoodie rim that reached below my belt. The inspection showed nothing loose or unique that could identify me. I had bent down, grabbed my backpack with its load, pulled it on, moved the knife back to my right hand and had recalled my memory of the 103rd floor. As soon as I thought ‘I wish to be there’, I was.
A turn showed me the black-railed stairwell that led down to the door that gave access to the floor below. The walls on either side of the stairs were white and black power sockets showed at the upper edge of one wall. One part of my mind told me ‘You can still disappear and no one will know you were here!’ That was my little kid self, the one who remembered the bullying I’d gotten in elementary school. And how I had not levitated the bully to the far side of the playgrounds. I’d had to pretend to be normal. The pretending was something I was greatly sick of. Which was why the TV images of three women being held in a place I’d visited years ago had moved me to preparations for rescuing them.
Telling myself to get a move on, I walked slowly to the edge of the stairwell and looked down. No one knew I was here. It was full dark outside. And the news helicopter that hovered nearby had its spotlight aimed at the windows of the floor below, not higher.
I recalled the last live image I’d seen on the flatscreen of my apartment TV. It showed the three women hostages sitting on a bench with their backs against the railing that bordered the window walkway. They were clearly visible through the western windows. The terrorist, a guy CNN had named as Omar Muhammad, stood to one side of the group of three women, his shotgun aimed at the nearest one. He was half sitting on the inside railing, often glancing out at the hovering copter. The silver railing kept all four of them from falling down into the assembly well just outside of the elevator. The TV showed Omar squinting against the bright light, but the black tube of the shotgun that was roped to the neck of the nearest woman held steady. The rope stretched from her neck to the snout of the shotgun, a distance of just three feet.
No matter which way the woman moved, the rope would keep the shotgun’s snout aimed at her neck. While it seemed Mr. Omar might be tired, sitting on the railing as he was, it was clear he was alert. Earlier the three women had been standing in front of the window, their images going worldwide over the internet. They’d been there for eight hours now. Except for brief breaks to drink water from a plastic bottle held by another woman, and brief squatting down to pee into a bucket out of sight of the TV camera, the women were still there. At least he’d allowed them to sit on the metal bench that fronted the window.
My last TV view of Omar had shown him holding the shotgun with his left hand while talking to someone over a smartphone held in his right hand. I knew that when I stepped through the door below, all I had to do was turn to the right, look up and I would see the left side of Omar, with the women in front of him. His half sitting on the railing made perfect my plan.
Walking down the black stairwell was easy. Ordering my thoughts so my scheme to disarm him would work without hurting the women was hard. My left hand touched the doorknob. I twisted it slowly to limit the metal on metal sound. Pushing softly, the metal door swung to the left. Before me was the brightly lit assembly well, with stairs on the right leading up to the elevated walkway that allowed for views from the windows. Moving fast I turned to the right, looked up, saw the brown rope linking the shotgun to the woman’s neck and threw my butcher knife.
In truth I used my mind to accelerate it on a straight line vector, thinking ‘fly fast’.
It cut through the rope as if it were string.
“Huh!” cried Omar, his head turning left toward me.
My mind did what it knew to do when I wanted to levitate something to within reach of me. I thought ‘bring it here’ and the shotgun flew out of Omar’s grip. It clattered to floor next to my feet.
Anger filled Omar’s brown eyes. His right hand dropped
the smartphone and reached down.
I smiled under my bandana. And thought ‘bring him to me’.
The swarthy young man toppled over the railing and fell to the floor of the assembly well, landing just ten feet from me.
Moving normal, now that I was in view of the room’s security cameras, I bent down, grabbed his shotgun, walked over to Omar’s groaning figure and put my right foot on his back, forcing him flat as he tried to rise.
“Ladies!” I called loudly. “You’re free! Untie yourselves and come down here. The elevator will take you down to people who will help you.”
“Yes!” cried the older white-haired woman who’d been closest to Omar. She pulled at the rope nose around her neck, then let go of it as the middle-aged blond woman next to her untied the loop around her own neck. The blond handed the rope to the young redhead who was last in line. The twenty-something woman pulled the rope loop off her neck and threw it down into the well, where it landed atop Omar. All three stood up and looked down at me, their faces hopeful, then worried as they saw the bandana over my face.
“Ladies, I’m a friend. Just someone who found a way to get here quicker than the cops. Come on down. You’re safe from him,” I said, aiming the shotgun down at Omar’s black-haired head. “Oh, could one of you bring down my knife?”
The elderly woman, moving with an ease that did not fit her white hair, gave me a shy smile, bent down, grabbed my butcher knife and showed it to me. “This what you want?”
“Yes, please.”
In a few seconds all three women had grabbed their handbags and were rushing down the stairs to the round assembly area in front of the elevator and the still open door to the 103rd floor.
The redhead was first to arrive. She looked me over, then looked at the open door. “You came from up there? Didn’t know there was a room above this one.”
“I did. It’s the 103rd floor. Not open to the public. Just to celebrities and such.” I accepted my knife from the elderly woman, shoved it in my left pocket, then looked down at the bearded terrorist, who had stopped groaning but had turned his head to watch the arrival of the women. “Mr. Omar Muhammad, you owe these women an apology!”
“Infidels! Allah will curse you! Other soldiers of—”
I kicked him in the mouth. His lips began bleeding. The redhead woman gasped. “Shut up. None of your crazy jihadist talk.” I looked left toward the closed elevator door. “Ladies, just walk over to the elevator, push the call button and when the door slides open, walk inside. On the left is the rotary control panel. Flip off the red emergency switch. That will allow it to head down. Then one of you can grab the power lever and swing it to the left. That will make the doors close and the elevator will descend to the 86th floor. I’m sure the NYPD and FBI folks will be there to help you.”
The elderly woman who’d moved so quickly gave me a smile. “I’m Lois Fitzgerald. From St. Louis. Who are you, sir?”
“An American,” I said. “I’d prefer to remain anonymous. You know how crazy the TV people can get. Don’t need my entire life showing up on CBS or BBC America.”
“Well,” murmured the blond woman who appeared to be 40 or so, “I for one quite understand that. Ran for my local school board once. That was enough media craziness for me. Uh, I’m Mabel Whiteman from Rocky Flats, Colorado. Many thanks for getting us free.”
The young redhead, who was dressed in blue and white-striped jogging shirt and pants, looked me over. Her eyebrows lifted. “Well, whoever you are, many thanks. I’m Louise Johnson from San Francisco. And I don’t think I will ever forget my first visit to New York City!”
The other ladies laughed and I chuckled. I gestured with my free hand. “The elevator awaits.”
The redhead and the blond turned and walked toward it. The elderly woman glanced down at Omar, then spit at him. “Bastard.” She looked up at me. “What will you do with him?”
“That’s up to him. Maybe he’ll find out the 72 virgins in paradise are actually a bowl of raisins.”
“You’re going to kill him?”
I shrugged. “He may choose to kill himself. We’ll see. Your elevator awaits.”
She reached out to my left shoulder. “Well, Mr. American, can I give you a grandma hug? You’ve saved my life and made possible more time with my grandkiddies.”
What the hell. “Sure.”
She stepped close and put her arm around my left side as I kept the shotgun aimed down at Omar. I reached out with my free hand and hugged her back. She felt thin through the fabric of her overcoat. But clearly she had plenty of energy. Her mention of grandkids made me even more glad I’d decided to stop being ‘normal’.
“Ms. Fitzgerald, say Hi to your grandkids for me.”
“I will.” With a somber nod she turned and walked over to join the two other women standing outside the elevator. Its door was still closed.
“Hey, haven’t you ever ridden on a manual elevator? Like when you came up here?” Fitzgerald said in a starchy voice. “Well, I remember how it’s done. Let me show you.”
In seconds the elevator door opened, then closed. A soft metallic groan told me the Otis elevator was headed slowly down. It had sixteen floors to descend before it got to the 86th floor and Main Deck. Time enough to get my prisoner up and out of view of the cameras.
I lifted my foot off his back, then knelt down with my right knee pressing into his butt. Putting the shotgun to one side, I grabbed the rope and tied his hands behind his back. He resisted but a whack on the back of his head made him stop. Reaching back I grabbed the shotgun, then stood back five feet from him.
“Get up!”
Moving slowly, the black-coated would-be jihadist gathered his knees under him, leaned against the nearby metal wall and stood up. A groan escaped from bloody lips. He turned and faced me, his hands behind his back.
“Infidel! I will see you burn in hell for—”
He stopped when it aimed the butt of the shotgun at his face.
“Fuck your crazy idea of Islam. You’re an insult to the good Muslims serving in our armed forces. And to decent people everywhere in the world.” I gestured at the open door to the stairwell leading up to the 103rd floor. “Through there. Now.”
With a last look at the spotlighted windows above, I followed behind Omar, the snout of the shotgun pressed against his back. Reaching back I grabbed the door knob and pulled the door closed.
At last we were out of view of the security cameras.
He stopped up top, at the spot where I’d arrived. I pushed his back with the shotgun.
“Walk over there to that doorway. Open it. Then step out. I’m following you.”
He did as ordered, limping with his left foot. Clearly the ten foot fall from the upper railing had hurt him. Fine by me. At least he was still alive, unlike what he’d intended for the three women. I had no illusions that he would have freed the women even if the U.S. government had released its imprisoned jihadists. No, he would do as the pilot of one of the four 9/11 jets had done, which was fly his plane into the ground when a group of passengers had overpowered his buddies outside the cockpit and then tried to enter. This young man was the worst kind of religious fundamentalist. He really believed in fighting to the death against all unbelievers. Which for radical Islamic terrorists meant the infidels who were not converts to Islam. Well, his moment of truth had now arrived.
I followed him out into the cold darkness of a fall night high above New York City. Around us towered the skyscrapers and high rises of Manhattan. To one side, far down at the tip of the peninsula, rose the shiny pillar of the new One World Trade Center. In front of us were other buildings that were not quite so high. One of them was the MetLife skyscraper. Its blue roof lights were bright and its sheer glass wall reflected nearby lighting. Behind us, on the other side of the round spire that held the building’s upper floors, came the sound of the news helicopter. We were well out of its spotlight.
Omar moved to the right as I stepped out onto the narrow b
alcony. I aimed the shotgun at his belly.
“Well, go ahead. Jump. Die and go to your paradise of Jennah.”
He glared at me, his face dimly lit by skyscraper lights. “I will arrive at Firdaws, the highest level. There really are 72 virgins waiting for me in the garden of Paradise!”
I almost laughed behind my bandana. I didn’t. This was too serious. “Bullshit. Killing in the name of any religion is wrong. You are wrong. When you die, you’ll end up in the level of Fire, the lowest level of Hades.”
“No!” he yelled. “You infidels and hypocrites will occupy the seventh level!”
It was time to end this.
I reached into my mind, thought of a ball of flame and imagined it floating between him and me.
A yellow-orange ball of flame floated between us.
I lifted my left hand and pushed it toward Omar.
His eyes went wide. “Are you a Jinn! No!”
“Yes. Have a taste of Hades.”
He backed away, then stumbled and fell onto the low concrete wall that bordered the balcony. His body lay on the concrete wall, one side over its edge. He screamed.
“Save me!”
He twisted on the wall, trying to fall inside and down to the balcony floor.
That would not be right
In my mind, I thought ‘move away from me’.
Instantly his body flew out into the air.
“Noooo!” he screamed.
“Yes,” I murmured as my mind allowed him to fall.
The whooshing of air came to my ears.
My supersensitive ears heard the sound of splattering as his body hit the concrete roof of the 86th floor.
Inside I felt . . . sad.
Killing was not something I’d ever liked, even when hunting for grouse and pheasant with my Dad. Hunting for food I understood. Killing for sport, or killing other people for the fun of being in control of someone else’s life, was evil. Getting rid of walking evil was what I told myself I’d done.
I leaned the shotgun against the balcony wall and pulled off my backpack. Opening it I pulled out the blue fabric of the paraglider that I’d stolen from an REI warehouse in Denver, which I’d visited during my training trip to that REI. Stretching it out, I lifted it up, pulled the cords down, stuffed the shotgun into its rucksack, then tied the rucksack to the control cords. Grabbing the middle of the paraglider I lifted it up. Then, using mind power, I made the edges of the glider stretch out into its fat wing shape. I let go of it, but pushed at it with my mind, making it aim downward toward the roof of the MetLife building. Maybe it would get there. Maybe it wouldn’t. But the weight of the shotgun in the rucksack would imitate the weight of a person and cause the paraglider to maintain its airfoil shape. Watching it fly away I hoped the federal agents and local cops would believe I hung below it, making my escape that way.
Superpowers 1: Superguy Page 4