by Nate Kenyon
The sound of Weller’s voice brought Hawke back to himself. Weller had Young and Vasco with him, and he was carrying the hard-shelled security case from his office in both arms, hugging it like it was a child. Was that why he had lingered in the office suite? Hawke thought of Young, ready to charge back upstairs to rescue Weller without a second thought. Anger flared, white-hot at Hawke’s core. Suddenly he wanted to get his hands around Weller’s throat, and the urge was so strong he balled his fists to keep from leaping at him.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“Got disoriented up there for a few minutes, with the smoke,” he said, “but I found my way down.”
Gas explosion. He was right about the hole on Second Avenue; Hawke could smell it in the air. But it didn’t explain the other plumes of smoke rising up across New York, or the number of cars run off the street and crumpled into one another. It didn’t explain the traffic lights cycling randomly down 79th Street as he watched, or the way Bradbury had danced a jig across the office floor with the office lamp, hair standing on end.
Something else Weller had said finally registered. “What do you mean, it’s easy enough to do?” Hawke said. “You think this was deliberate?”
“We need to get somewhere safe,” Weller said. “Things have changed.”
“What’s changed? And where is safe? People are dead. Don’t you give a damn about Susan Kessler? She bled out in the lobby. And Price over there needs to be treated for shock. What the hell is going on?”
Weller turned toward Hawke, who realized that the man’s calm was an illusion; his eyes held that same glittering light they’d had earlier in his office, pure energy pouring off him like some kind of gospel preacher at the pulpit as another distant explosion shook the ground. “They’re not just coming after me now. I think she’s involved. This is going to get worse.”
CHAPTER TEN
11:23 A.M.
WHO WAS INVOLVED? Did he mean Kessler? Before Hawke could say a word, Weller took a step into the street, still clutching his laptop case. Young shouted a warning as a brand-new Cadillac Escalade, careening on and off the sidewalk around the choked traffic, suddenly swerved violently to the left through an opening and accelerated toward him, its engine screaming.
The huge machine missed Price by less than three feet. Hawke shoved Weller out of the way and dove to the ground, getting a split-second glimpse of the terrified face of the driver, her hands completely up and off the wheel as the vehicle slid past and slammed into a light post.
The post toppled over, crashing into the face of the office building, bouncing off and sending sparks flying as the SUV hung on the light-post base, engine still growling. Hawke lay still for a moment, stunned, the fresh surge of adrenaline making his stomach lurch.
He tasted grit, spat on the concrete and grimaced. His palms were scraped raw. The pain was like a stinging slap to the face, enough to rouse him again, and he sat up as Young tried to get Weller to a sitting position. The man’s head lolled loosely on his shoulders. He was out cold after cracking his head in the fall. Young spoke into his face, “Come on, Jim, wake up.…”
Hawke got to his feet and went to the Cadillac, where Vasco was yanking at the driver’s door. He could hear the woman screaming inside, battering at the window with her fists. “Unlock it,” Vasco said, cupping his hands to the glass. He repeated it slowly, as if to a stubborn child. “Unlock … the … fucking … door!”
“She okay?”
Vasco turned to glance at Hawke, breathing hard, and shook his head as the engine continued to race out of control, nearly drowning him out. “It’s in neutral, but if she hits that shifter it’s gonna go like a bat out of hell.… I can’t get through to her; she’s out of her frigging mind here.…”
Hawke looked around for more speeding vehicles. Most drivers seemed to have given up amid the traffic and left their cars where they stood. People were still running away from the fire on 78th.
Another low, deep rumble shook the street, something far away or underground. He found a fist-sized chunk of concrete torn loose from the light post’s fall, hefted it and went to the SUV, shattering the window as the driver cowered away from him. He reached in to unlock the door and the woman tumbled out into the street, sobbing and scrambling on all fours away from the vehicle.
She got to her feet a few yards away and turned back to them, holding a small leopard-print clutch, swaying like a drunk and shivering, her mascara running down her face in two black lines. She wiped snot from her nose with a sleeve. “That … fucking thing … it tried to kill me.…”
“Easy,” Hawke said. He took a step toward her with his hand out, but she screamed and shrank back, and he stopped dead, not wanting to spook her further. “It kinda looked like you tried to kill us.”
“I … I didn’t!” she screamed, the words torn from her raw throat. She was probably in her early fifties, but with work done around her eyes and neck, a well-kept woman who was going to pieces. “The wheel jumped right out of my fucking hands; I didn’t even touch the accelerator.…” She looked wildly from one man to the other, then at the SUV, slowly backing away.
A thud came from the hole on East 78th, and more smoke rushed skyward. Three people coming up Second Avenue ran in between them, a woman in a full business suit with two men dressed like couriers, darting hard and fast, not even bothering to look at Hawke and the others. The woman from the SUV shrank away like an abused dog as they went by, going into a half crouch, hands up around her head. Other people were screaming, and a man kept shouting over and over again from somewhere inside one of the nearby buildings, his voice ragged.
Hawke reached in through the open door and shut off the engine. He got in and switched the radio on, his heart thudding so loud he could barely hear. An automated message blared through the high-end audio system: “This is the emergency broadcast system.… This is not a test.… Mayor Weber has declared a state of emergency.… Please go immediately to your nearest safety checkpoint.…”
Hawke found himself breathing too fast and shallow again, getting light-headed. The radio broadcast was listing the checkpoints now. He listened until the message began to repeat, and pressed the OnStar button, praying that the network wasn’t down.
“OnStar. How may I help you?”
Thank God. “I’d like to report an accident,” he said, words tumbling out. Just slow down.
“Name and location?”
“We need an ambulance at the corner of Seventy-ninth and Second; a woman is bleeding to death!” Hawke couldn’t bring himself to say that Kessler was already dead. Maybe we made a mistake. Maybe they can still save her life. He thought of asking for assistance with a possible B and E and giving the operator his apartment address. But something bothered him about the voice; he couldn’t put his finger on what.
“Vocal patterns suggest extreme stress,” the voice said. “Emotional reaction analysis. Recognition algorithms processing.” There was a long pause, and the voice recited his name and his Social Security number. “Please remain in the vehicle. Help is on the way.”
What? Fresh adrenaline flooded through him. He exited the Cadillac and slammed the door just as the locks clicked down again. He backed away, watching it as if it might jump at him at any moment. It was just a car, right? But the voice, although clearly female, had been too calm, too devoid of emotion even for an emergency services worker.
The operator had been trying to trap him.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he shook it off. Ridiculous. He could use the Cadillac to get out of the city, get him home to Robin and Thomas. It made the most sense, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to get back in. He had the feeling he might not make it out of the SUV a second time.
Another rattling boom shook the street and spun Hawke around. A fresh, blossoming flower of fire rose up from the hole in Second Avenue as the city bus toppled into the abyss. It was getting harder to breathe with the smoke. The immediacy of the situation came back to hi
m. There was no time to think, not out here, exposed and vulnerable. They needed shelter and a plan.
He watched a figure disappear into a Jewish temple across the street. The building was a solid square of concrete, short and squat, small windows set deep into its surface, with a set of solid wooden doors that looked strong enough to hold off an army. Young and Vasco had gotten Weller upright between them, and Hawke ran toward Price, his shoulders hunched as fresh debris pattered down like hail, afraid a chunk of asphalt would come hurtling to earth and crush him. “Get up,” Hawke said, grabbing the man by the arm. “We’ve got to get to cover.”
Price shook him off but got to his feet, eyes still glassy with shock. “I’m okay,” he said. “I’m fine.”
Hawke considered giving him a helping hand, but Price took a step back and shook his head. Instead he helped carry Weller across the street to the temple, Price and the woman from the Cadillac following them at a short distance as if wary of their intentions but too terrified to let them go.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
11:46 A.M.
THE HUGE WOODEN DOORS SWUNG SHUT, and the small group stood for a moment, the sound of their harsh breathing echoing in the vestibule. The abrupt change was shocking. The power was out, but enough light filtered through a small window to allow them to see.
“Jesus Christ,” Vasco said finally. He leaned back against the doors for a moment with Weller’s arm still across his broad shoulders, closed his eyes in the shadows and tipped his head. “Jesus. Fuck. This is crazy. I gotta call in—” He banged his head against the door, opened his eyes again and stood up straight, looked around at them all, then shook his head. “We need to set him down. I need to think for a minute.”
Hawke’s limbs were trembling, but he managed to help carry Weller away from the doors as they set him down on the floor. The building was built like a bomb shelter with walls that were probably three feet thick, and the noise outside was barely audible. A second set of doors to the interior of the building was closed.
Weller’s head lolled limply against Young’s shoulder. “Wake up,” Hawke said, straightening Weller’s head and lightly slapping his cheek, trying to force him into consciousness. “I want to know what’s going on. What were you trying to tell me?”
Young stopped his hand. “He’s out,” she said. “Look at the bump on his head. He can’t answer. Leave him alone.”
“How could you leave her like that?” Price said. “All of you. Just leave her bleeding to death in that lobby.”
Hawke let out a long, trembling sigh. He could smell the blood on Price’s shirt. Kessler’s blood. Nobody spoke. There was no answer to give. Hawke had to collect his thoughts, try to make some sense of everything. He wanted to go at Weller until the man answered his questions.
“What do we do?” the woman from the SUV whispered, her voice hoarse with panic. She twisted her hands together around her clutch over and over, squeezing, digging at it with her manicured nails. “I need to find my husband.” Her gaze darted back and forth, refusing to settle on anything for more than a few seconds. “I have to get downtown.”
Hawke thought of Robin and Thomas, the woman ratcheting up his own anxiety again. What was happening right now at home? Not knowing made him wild, his imagination racing. But losing his cool wouldn’t do them any good. He had to focus, figure out the right way to get back to them.
“What’s your name?” he said. When the woman didn’t seem to hear him, he took her by the arms, forcing her to stop and look at him. “Your name,” he said again.
“Sarah Hanscomb,” she said, finally fixing her gaze on his face. The waves of panic pouring off her were going to make them all lose their minds. She nearly crumpled and looked away again, her brows coming together, mouth quivering, but she fought it off. “We’re from Englewood Cliffs. My husband works for Germer Benson; he’s at the office right now. I dropped him at the PATH this morning. I didn’t think—when things started happening I turned around; I wanted—I had to get over the bridge before—oh God.” She seemed to realize what she’d done, trapping herself in the city, everything crashing down on her at once. Her hands trembled as she brought them to her face as if trying to hide behind the clutch. The backs of them were veined, wrinkled. She was older than Hawke had first thought. He pulled them down again.
“Which bridge?” he said. “What happened?”
She shook her head, tears squeezing out over bruised lids. “The GW. He was downtown,” she said, pleading, as if she felt the need to explain herself. “I had to get him out. The radio said there were explosions—”
“How did you get to Second Avenue?”
“The Henry Hudson was gone after the bridge—I took Harlem River Drive and got off on Park, then worked my way over and down. You don’t understand; the streets are all jammed up—”
Hawke saw her eyes go wide a split second before he was shoved violently aside. Vasco grabbed Hanscomb and threw her up against the wall. “Tell us what the fuck is going on out there,” he said, cords standing out in his neck. “There were more explosions? What exactly did you see?”
“Take it easy,” Hawke said. The woman shook her head back and forth, trying to avoid Vasco’s face, inches from her own as he leaned into her.
“Please,” she whispered, “I can’t—I don’t know!”
“I want to hear every fucking detail. You better talk, lady, right now.”
“People just … went crazy. Cars and trucks off the road, hitting each other. Most of them were trying to get out, but I was coming in. It was easier that way. The radio talked about a terrorist threat, police hurting protestors, riots and looting, but nobody seemed to know why. I called my husband before the phones went out; he was trapped inside his building with people in the street turning cars over and … and worse. He said the stock market was collapsing, traders were locked out of their systems, including him. The entire market gone, bank and investment accounts drained, funds vanishing, and I was so scared for him, you don’t know. People would kill over this stuff. I just needed to get to him, get him out. After I crossed the bridge, the Henry Hudson exit was just a hole in the ground. I couldn’t cross it. Then I heard a terrible noise, it shook everything, and things fell all around the car and when I looked back I…” She swallowed hard, her throat working like she might be sick, and her voice was little more than a whisper. “The bridge was gone.”
Jesus Christ. How could that be possible? Terrorists had blown up the George Washington? For what reason? Hawke couldn’t imagine what might be happening behind the walls of the building they were hiding in, what kind of scale they were actually facing—and what might be coming next.
This was huge, a story to end all others, and he was one step away from it.
Weller. Weller had let him in for a reason, and the things the man had said this morning made it seem as if he’d known something was coming. Hawke wanted to shake the man until something came loose. His wind was up, he was hungry to chase leads, and he hated himself for thinking about that instead of the reality of their situation. The city was falling apart around them, and his wife and son and unborn child could be in terrible danger. But even as Hawke’s skin crawled with the need to run, to fight, to get home, his instincts made him want to figure out the answers and get at the truth.
The helicopter, the explosions, the madness on the streets. The SUV, and the OnStar voice recognizing him. And Weller’s invitation in his office, like a ticket to the dance. Hawke had the pieces in his hands, and now he wanted to fit them together.
You use technology to tell a story. I want you to tell a story now. The biggest one of your life.
“Gone?” Vasco stared at Hanscomb, shook her once and then released her and slowly stepped back, stunned. “The GW? That can’t be right.”
She nodded, her face crumpling again. “The radio said it was a coordinated attack. All the bridges—some kind of missile strike or other weapons, I don’t know—at the same time…” Something like a whimper escaped
her mouth before she bit it back. “They said it was happening all over the place. Wall Street is a war zone. People are trapped and panicking, going at each other like animals. My husband, he’s never even had a fistfight in his life. What is he going to do?”
“All the bridges?” Young said. She had remained sitting next to Weller on the floor. He was still unconscious, head leaning against her shoulder. “Are you sure?”
Sarah Hanscomb nodded. “That’s what they said, before the broadcast stopped. Then it was just a recorded loop, telling people to get to the security checkpoints.” She wiped at her running nose, smearing more makeup. “All those people on the bridge, there were hundreds of cars.…”
“You tried to run us over,” Vasco said. Hawke could feel the violence rising up in him, the heat and sweat and crackling energy. “I saw you swerve right into us.”
“I didn’t, the car just jumped, I’m telling you—it went crazy, all my lights going on, tire pressure, engine, oil light, and then … I—I wasn’t even touching the wheel!”
Vasco was on the verge of losing control. He moved back toward Hanscomb, and Hawke stepped in between them before anything else could happen, putting a hand gently on Vasco’s chest, just enough to stop his momentum. The touch released something in the other man and he grabbed Hawke by the collar with both fists, his arms trembling and rigid, his mangled finger bleeding again and wetting Hawke’s shirt.
“What the fuck are you doing, huh?” Vasco said. “Protecting this crazy bitch?”
“Don’t,” Hawke said. “We all just want to get home—”
“My wife is in Jersey,” Vasco said, his eyes shimmering now, and Hawke could see his panic about to spill over, could smell it on his breath and skin. “I went through this before, September eleventh. My brother was in the city; I was home with my mother. It took him six hours to get back. I had to watch her waiting.… I thought he was dead. I can’t do that to my wife, you understand? I can’t.”