“Kid?” I whispered.
“Don’t think it means anything. The alarm is probably only programmed to run for so many minutes.”
Despite the alarm’s sudden silence, the strobes kept flickering. The emergency lights maintained their dull glow. The hallway was completely quiet, which would help me in case any black masks were still alive.
I started to head back down the hallway. I took only five steps before I stopped.
A faint groaning. Coming back down the hallway from one of the rooms I hadn’t checked.
The weight of the backpack told me to keep going, but I turned and went back down the hallway. I came to the door, reached for the knob, but paused. Listened again to the groaning coming from inside.
I turned the knob and pushed the door open. The hinges creaked quietly. Just like the previous room, it was almost completely dark except for the faint emergency lights and the strobes. But still it was enough light to see him.
They had laid out one of those clear plastic tarps. That was where his crumpled and abused body lay. It hadn’t been Clark who had done this to him—I didn’t think he had had the extra time—but maybe one of his protégés. The tools that had been used—the pliers and knives and saws—lay on the floor, along with various body parts that had been cut off or snapped off or tugged off. Fingernails, fingers, toes, an ear.
Ian Prescott was still alive, but just barely. The cast had been cut off, so that his healing leg could be broken again. He had been stripped of his jeans, his socks, his shirt, and just lay there in his white briefs which were now stained golden and brown with urine and shit. The floor around him was already drying with his blood, which had seeped from the wounds on his feet, his legs, his stomach and chest and arms and even head. What they hadn’t cut off, they had stabbed, or sliced, or somehow marked with a very sharp and precise knife.
He saw me—or at least his eyes shifted up to me—and his lips parted slightly. Earlier, when he had grinned at me, he’d had all of his teeth. Now he was missing at least half of them.
Ian stopped groaning and went completely silent. He took a gargled breath, tried to speak, but only produced a pathetic grunt. What may have been an attempt to say my name.
“I told you you were an idiot, didn’t I?”
He just stared back at me.
“You could have trusted us. We were family. We would have done whatever it took to take care of each other.”
Ian said nothing. His eyes, however, spoke volumes.
In my ear, the Kid said, “Is that Ian?”
“Yes.”
“They fuck him up?”
“Yes.”
“What does he want?”
“To kill him, I think. Is that what you want, Ian?”
Those eyes just stared back at me. Begging. Pleading.
“Goodbye, Ian.”
I stepped back out of the room and closed the door. I did it slow enough this time that the hinges didn’t make a sound.
77
The lobby had become packed with bodies, both living and dead. Most of those in the Inner Circle still alive were trying to push their way past everyone else. Many had taken off their masks, their faces wet and eyes red from the tear gas. Others still kept their masks on, wanting to protect their identities. None of them seemed to know where to go, only that they didn’t want to stay stationary for too long. Some realized they could escape to the street through the destruction the armored truck had caused when it crashed through the front doors.
A few were spilling out onto the sidewalk when I came barreling down the stairs.
Ronny and Maya were already in the truck. Carver was loaded in the back.
I pushed past bodies without much thought. They were simply in the way. I kept my focus on the truck. I was halfway to it when behind me someone shouted my name.
I turned, raising my gun.
Coming my way was Mason and Chin. They weren’t alone. Mason was carrying his wife. Chin was carrying Mason’s son.
I hurried back, fighting through the crowd, trying to make room for them. Mason’s eyes were red, though it clearly wasn’t because of the tear gas. His face was stone. He glared at me, and for an instant I thought it was because he knew I had been there when the cloth bags came off his wife’s and son’s heads, that I could have done more.
“He’s dead,” Mason said to me.
“Who?”
“My son. They fucking killed him. They fucking killed him!”
He still had the Uzi in one hand, and emphasized this last point by letting off several rounds into the crowd. Many of the bodies screamed or cried out. A few fell down, either struck by the bullets or out of common sense.
I asked, “Your wife?”
Mason looked down at what was left of her in his arms. “I think she’ll survive. Ben, there are others in that room. Some of them are still alive.”
Chin said, “We do not have time to save them all. Bae is ready to blow this place at any moment.”
I looked at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Seung and I brought explosives. We set them up around the building. Bae is going to set them off as soon as we are out.”
“Seung is dead.”
Chin looked stricken. “Where?”
“The third floor.”
We were fighting through the crowd, toward the armored truck. Because the alarm had stopped, I could hear the engine rumbling. I could also hear Maya, calling my name. She was out of the truck now, waving at us to hurry.
“Let’s go,” I shouted, pushing Mason and Chin on. We were only twenty yards away from the truck. Not too far in the greater scheme of things, but when hundreds of hysterical people are surrounding you, it can feel like a mile.
Maya called my name again. She was pushing through the crowd, trying to meet us. She saw the woman in Mason’s arms and the child in Chin’s arms and her mouth fell open.
“Mason’s wife and son,” I said.
Maya nodded distantly, staring at their crumpled bodies. “Are they ... are they still—”
“We need to get them loaded and get the fuck out of here.”
We reached the truck seconds later. A few members of the Inner Circle got in our way and I shoved them aside. A few tripped over their own feet, fell to the floor, causing several others to fall. Maya got the side door open for Mason and Chin and started helping them put in the bodies. I turned back and went to the front of the truck, watching the crowd, searching for any black masks in the sea of white masks. I figured by now any of Caesar’s people would have lost their masks, but you could never be so sure.
Behind me, Maya called my name again.
I turned, started toward her, but stopped when I saw her face. She was looking past me, her eyes going wide. She opened her mouth, meaning to shout something, but instead stepped forward. Pushed me aside. I fell into more bodies but managed to catch my balance and turn back around. It was only then that I heard the echo of a single gunshot. My ears were already echoing from the earlier gunfire, but this gunshot was different. Like it had been spliced from tonight’s chaotic soundtrack and given its very own track.
I blinked and the next thing I knew Maya was falling to her knees. Dropping her gun. Reaching for her throat.
Blood poured through her fingers.
I raised my gun, searching the crowd, seeing only the white masks ... until I spotted the white mask standing across the lobby. This white mask was holding a gun, aimed right at me. I ducked before it fired again, then popped back up, returned fire. A few bodies got caught in the crossfire.
The gunman tore off its mask, confirming what I already knew.
Clark.
He went to fire again but nothing happened. His gun was empty. He swore and bolted for the street.
I tracked him, firing off three more rounds, one of them striking him in the shoulder. He fell back against some bodies, maintained his balance, and disappeared onto the sidewalk.
It all happened much too qui
ckly. Only seconds, really. Ronny got out of the truck, but by then Clark had already hurried past him. Maya was on the ground, her hands still to her throat, holding in the blood. Mason shouted my name, came up behind me. Ronny pushed his way past bodies to reach us. I heard the Kid in my ear, shouting something.
For a moment, I wasn’t sure what to do.
Then, quite suddenly, I shouted to Mason and Ronny, “Get her loaded up and get the fuck out of here. Tell Chin to have Bae blow this fucking place as soon as possible.”
I didn’t wait for them to respond. I turned and hurried past the truck and rubble into the street.
78
I spotted Clark almost immediately. He was headed east, toward Times Square, already a block away.
I raised my gun, lined up the shot. I was about to pull the trigger when I thought better of it. Several members of the Inner Circle had managed to flee the Fillmore and were spread out in the street and on the sidewalks. I didn’t care at all if any of them fell victim to a stray bullet, but farther up the block a crowd of civilians had formed. Too much chance of the bullet striking one of them. Too many innocent people had already died tonight. I didn’t want to add any more to the list.
I started running. I was still only in my socks, and the concrete was cold, but that didn’t slow me. As I ran, I called Drew’s name. There was a moment or two of silence, and then his voice came from the tiny transmitter in my ear.
“What’s up?”
“Do you see me?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you see the guy I’m chasing?”
“Yeah.”
“Take him out.”
There was more silence, as Drew lined up the shot from his rooftop perch. I could even picture him there, his eye to the scope, Beverly next to him.
Then I said, “Wait, don’t take him out.”
“Say again?”
“Take out one of his legs instead. Slow him down.”
Clark was already halfway up the next block. He had torn through the crowd of civilians on the corner seconds earlier, and they, having learned their lesson, gave me a wide berth. I ran straight past them, pausing only momentarily for the traffic, before sprinting across the street and continuing down the sidewalk. Two blocks up, the lights of Times Square beckoned.
Clark was still running at full speed. Without my shoes, and the fact my body still felt like shit, there was no way I was going to catch up with him.
“Goddamn it, Drew, slow him down!”
I couldn’t hear the bullet—not on a New York City street with sirens in the distance and traffic zooming by and blood pounding in my ears—but I knew it had made its mark.
Farther up the block, Clark had immediately taken a fall. It almost looked as if he’d tripped over something that hadn’t been there an instant before. He fell, grabbing at his leg. He started to get up, fell again, then glanced back and saw me coming. He grimaced as he climbed to his feet and started running with a limp.
The brief fear I saw in his eyes alone was enough to give me a second wind. I pushed on even harder, keeping him in my sights.
Clark had just reached the corner into Times Square, looking left and right again before continuing out into traffic.
I made it there seconds later. Clark had reached the middle island between Seventh and Eighth Avenues, was taking a few steps forward but a heavy swarm of traffic passed at once, forcing him to stay where he was. He glanced over his shoulder, saw me coming.
He raised his gun at me. He knew it was empty, just as I knew, but he didn’t seem to care.
The leg Drew had shot him in was his left.
I shot him in the right.
He dropped the empty gun, fell to the ground.
I tossed my gun aside and reached into my pocket as I approached. I withdrew the switchblade, flicked it open. I knelt on top of him and drove the blade into his stomach.
“Don’t worry about it, baby.”
I twisted the knife.
“You’re not gonna feel a thing.”
His body bucked, squirming beneath me, but nearly all his strength was drained, his face going pale.
“Just a slight discomfort,” I said, “then numbness,” and I twisted the blade in his stomach even more.
Clark coughed up blood. “Don’t you ... want to ... know my ... secret?”
I pulled the knife out, held the bloody tip to his face.
“I’m going to kill you now, Clark.”
I rolled the switchblade with my fingers, squeezing onto the handle, the tip of the knife now pointed down.
I lifted it up over my head, preparing to bring it straight down on his throat, when suddenly the city went dark.
It didn’t happen all at once, but like a line of dominos. First one building went dark, then another building, then another building. The streetlights died just as quick as candles.
The only light was from the cars still on the street, the swarm of taxis, but without traffic lights they all now believed they had the right of way.
Clark, beneath me, began coughing a laugh, blood dribbling from between his lips.
“See how ... powerful ... we are?”
Horns blared. Tires screeched. Metal tore against metal.
Screaming and shouting filled the night.
Clark said, gurgling blood, “You will ... never ... beat us.”
A familiar high-pitched whine drifted above the rest of the chaotic city sounds. The Ducati was headed straight toward us. Ho Sook wore her black faceplate helmet again. She skidded to a halt right beside us and, just like back in Miami Beach, held out her gloved hand.
I knew I could get up right now. I could take that hand. I could get on the back of the sport bike and Ho Sook would take us through the city toward safety.
Before I could even move, though, light flickered in the Square.
Despite the rest of the city going dark, the Jumbotron was still on. Instead of an ad for a soda company or an upcoming movie, I was now featured on the gigantic screen. Kneeling on a dying man, a knife raised above my head.
And for the first time I really became aware of where I was, what was around me, the honking, the shouting, the screaming. People were all over the place but none appeared to even notice us, there in the heart of the city’s heart. What they noticed instead was the image on the Jumbotron, the camera focused in so tightly that it was impossible to tell where exactly the man with the knife was located.
Kneeling there, the knife still held above my head, I did one quick look at all the buildings around the Square. From the angle of the image, the camera was somewhere up high. I was being watched—I had been watched this entire time—and now my anger and fury was being broadcasted for everyone to see. A real life murder, a thing Augustus Caesar would say everyone secretly wants to witness, and here they were being given front row seats.
I looked back at Ho Sook, who kept her gloved hand extended toward me.
I looked down at Clark’s face, at the blood bubbling from between his lips.
I knew I could just stop now, stand up, take Ho Sook’s hand. I could leave Clark with what little life he had left, and not give everyone watching what they wanted. I could be better than that. I could prove Caesar wrong.
Clark, his lips covered in blood, smiled up at me.
“Fuck it,” I said, and shoved the blade straight into his throat.
EPILOGUE
The blackout lasted only six hours, but its effect would last for years.
We’re talking about New York City, after all. The greatest city in the world. The mecca for culture and entertainment. Yes, the city was vulnerable—that fateful September day over a decade ago proved it—but something like this was never supposed to happen.
Almost half of Manhattan itself went dark. Parts of Brooklyn and Harlem, too.
It was this last that suffered the most. Around hour five, looting was beginning to increase throughout the city. In Harlem some kids were taking what they could from an electronic store. One
cop happened upon the kids looting the store. He told them to stop. Most of the kids took off running, but one kid wasn’t fast enough. The cop chased him down. The kid reached for something in his pocket—it would be debated what that something was for weeks, as yes, in that pocket he did have a knife, but he also had a cell phone—and the cop, shouting at him to freeze, fired one shot. The bullet struck the kid in the head, killing him instantly. There were several witnesses who saw it happened. Within an hour a small riot began. It would only grow and increase throughout the day and into the week. After all, the cop was white, the kid black.
A dozen hospitals lost power. They all had emergency backup, of course, but that didn’t mean there still wasn’t complications. Staff in all the hospitals went into crisis mode. Some patients were on life support. Others were being monitored by machines. As one hospital administrator would say to the press the next day, “Sometimes you take for granted just how much electricity it takes to run a hospital. Our deepest condolences and sympathies go out to those families who lost loved ones during the blackout.”
How many deaths occurred throughout the city is impossible to say. There were those at the hospitals, yes, but there were also those from numerous traffic accidents. Cars smashing into cars. Cars smashing into buildings. Cars smashing into pedestrians. Traffic lights keep at least some order on the disordered streets. When those lights go dark, chaos reigns.
The police were stretched thin. The mayor had to make one of those agonizing mayoral decisions that would no doubt effect his next election: what areas of the city to try to save first.
In the end, the National Guard was called in. By the next afternoon Humvees roared up and down the streets. Soldiers carrying M16s patrolled the sidewalks and subway stations. It was still only the weekend, and they were preparing for the hellish nightmare that would be Monday morning.
Later that Sunday, there was still no official word on what caused the blackout. All the power stations had seemed to be in working order. Until, one anonymous technician told the press, all hell broke loose.
The Inner Circle (Man of Wax Trilogy) Page 38