by Nate Kenyon
“And you kept up the charade this whole time, even when the world was falling apart?”
“I figured it was better to stay quiet until I figured out what was really going on.” He took a step closer. “I think I’ve got a pretty good handle on it now. I gotta say, it’s even crazier than I thought.”
“Stay away from me,” Hawke said. “I’m getting out of New York, and nobody’s going to stop me.”
A gun had appeared in Vasco’s hand. The same gun Hawke had tossed his way during their run-in with the men in black suits. “Can’t let you do that,” Vasco said. “You leave this overpass and we’re both dead.”
Hawke glanced back toward where they had left Weller. He was out of sight behind the cars and thick trunklike supports of the overpass. “Don’t be stupid, Jason,” Hawke said. “If we don’t leave now, we’re dead for sure. This place is going to be rubble any second, once she figures out what Jim’s done.”
“My name’s not Jason; it’s Tom. And I’m not stupid. At least we’re out of sight. As soon as you break cover, she’s going to find you. Satellites, security cams, whatever it takes, she’s going to see you and target this spot. Much better to hide and wait for the troops to come in. They’ll lock the city down eventually, stop this madness.”
“They’ll kill us. They have orders.”
“You, maybe. Me, on the other hand, they have no beef with at all. This game is over. I just want to get out of here in one piece.”
“What about your wife? You just going to wait here and hope she’s okay?”
Vasco’s face darkened with anger. “Don’t you talk about her—”
A small red mark appeared on the man’s forehead a split second before Hawke heard the soft bark of the rifle. Vasco (or whoever he was) crumpled without a sound, a look of surprise frozen on his face, his hand still clutching the gun. Hawke dove for cover behind the half wall, waiting for the second shot, knowing that he’d likely be dead before he heard anything.
Sniper. Military. It had to be. They were on the ground already, and Hawke’s time had finally run out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
6:01 P.M.
THE SHOT MUST HAVE COME from somewhere near the old building with the scaffolding. It had been incredibly accurate. The marksman was almost completely hidden under the overpass; there wasn’t much space to hit the target between the top of it and the concrete wall that ran along the lower edge of the space, and it was dark inside here, difficult to see.
Hawke scrambled behind a support pillar, slowly lifted his head and peered around it. How was he supposed to avoid a bullet from a shooter like that? He saw nothing at first but lines of blank windows between red brick and worn gray concrete. Then he saw movement, a flash of camouflage slipping behind the far corner, another shifting on the roof. More than one, impossible to tell how many.
He looked for security cameras, saw nothing visible, but he knew that they could be anywhere: inside the lobby of the building, hidden in doorways, the parking lot next door. Satellites could scan the earth and find him, anytime, anywhere. It seemed hopeless. But what choice did he have? He had to run, and trust Weller now to keep her eyes off him for a few seconds longer.
He was so close. Freedom was a couple of blocks away. A way back to his family, or what was left of them. Hang on, Robin. Please. I’m coming.
Hawke looked back at where Vasco lay still, blood oozing from the hole in his forehead, his mouth slightly open, as if he were about to speak. The gun was still in his hand. Hawke slipped from behind the pillar, crawled on hands and knees, wrenched the gun away and stuck it in his pants, then crawled low to the wall and sat. If he could get over and through the gap without being shot, he had a chance. The ramp was about ten feet below ground level here. He’d have to risk it.
He took a deep breath, then stood and vaulted over the top of the wall, rolling down a steep, grassy slope. He bounced off the slope and hit the roof of a car, his shoulder stinging from the impact, rolled again and dropped to his feet between a minivan and a hatchback.
Hawke knew he was below the shooter’s line of sight now, and temporarily shielded from view. The ramp was cluttered with vehicles and smelled of oil and dust. He glanced into the gloom of the tunnel entrance, saw nothing and turned toward street level. Directly before him was open space where the tunnel passed 39th Street before diving back underground.
Hawke ran full bore up the ramp, darting left and right to try to make it more difficult for the shooter, his shoes pounding on the sidewalk. He didn’t know how long he could go before a bullet took him; he was fully exposed now, nothing but a few thin trees between him and the sniper. Someone shouted what sounded like a command to halt. He would have to make a choice, either head left into more open space or go down again, toward the second tunnel entrance that was hopelessly jammed with cars and black as pitch inside.
Open space was dangerous, but the tunnel was worse. There was no way he could navigate through the darkness and stopped traffic all the way to New Jersey. He had a better way.
Hawke ducked and dodged, but no shots came. A familiar noise came from somewhere far away, growing rapidly louder. He clapped his hands to his ears as the rocket roared and the ground exploded behind him. He stumbled and almost fell, the pavement shaking like an earthquake had hit, and he looked back to see the overpass where he had just been lying in ruin, a small mushroom cloud of dust rising up from below.
Jesus God. He couldn’t tell how bad the damage was, or whether Weller might have escaped or not. Maybe he had moved locations before the strike; maybe he was already set up again a few hundred feet from here. Or maybe he was still running.
The dust cloud spread quickly to envelop the brick and concrete building where the sniper hid, obscuring his line of sight. Hawke took the opportunity to dart left onto 39th Street, running past an auto repair shop with two open garage bays and a giant billboard advertising a luxury vehicle. An open parking lot was on his left. Surely there are security cameras here, he thought, but nothing happened and he didn’t see anything as he kept running, breathing hard, closer now to his goal. The Javits Center was directly ahead of him, but as he hit Eleventh Avenue he veered right, cutting across the intersection toward more warehouses and parking lots on 40th Street.
* * *
At the end of 40th, he could see the Hudson, the flat, gray surface stretching away into the distance, almost close enough to touch. Hope blossomed inside him for the first time. However, he knew there were cameras here; he saw two mounted in a garage doorway of the bus depot that lined the block. Hawke kept looking straight ahead and ran, breath whistling in his lungs, the headache that had plagued him pounding harder with every step. His mouth was filled with cotton, his body aching for something to drink. He thought of plunging his face in the dirty river water and sucking down mouthfuls of it as if it were the finest mountain spring. He thought of his little boy drinking from a silver fountain at the preschool they had visited last week, climbing the short stepstool and still barely able to reach the nozzle, Hawke helping him manage it by holding Thomas around the waist and gently lifting. A little boy like that needed his father. The memory urged Hawke on faster.
As he reached the Lincoln Highway, another rocket streaked through the sky. He grew paralyzed with fear as it continued low to the ground, a silver bullet racing over the closest rooftop toward its target.
The rocket hit the Javits Convention Center with a dull boom, taking out the top half of the building and sending debris raining down across the adjacent parking lot. Hawke felt his insides clench as the heat washed over him. Doe was close, but she didn’t have him yet, for whatever reason. Weller must have done something before the last rocket hit, enough to throw her off in some way. Hawke still had a chance.
He ran again. Another rocket screamed overhead, racing past him to hit the end of the bus depot near Eleventh. The strike lit up gas tanks in quick succession, sending booming clouds of black smoke into the air, along with the smell of si
nged metal and rubber and another wave of heat. The world was exploding. Doe was raging now, blindly attacking along the route he’d taken, but getting closer.
There was a security camera mounted on the corner of the building on his left. He raced past it and prayed that her eyes were still blinded, vaulted over the hoods of two cars that had collided, then crawled across two more to reach the other side of the intersection and a small patch of green lawn.
Edgewater Landing was directly in front of him.
* * *
Last year, after a trip to the park to see the zoo, they had taken Thomas on a sightseeing cruise. It had been more for Robin than their son, really; he had been too young to appreciate the scenery as they plowed through the water and looked back at the city as night fell and the lights glowed like glittering jewels.
Less than halfway through, Thomas had thrown a full-blown tantrum on the deck, kicking his legs and screaming, and Hawke had regretted pushing the day so far, but he hadn’t wanted it to end. He remembered thinking about how easy it was to get in and out of New York by boat, and vowing to take the ferry more often.
Weller’s last words came back to him: Keep away from cameras and find a way to stay undercover and maybe you’ll have a chance.
There were no cameras in the middle of the Hudson, and even the satellites would have a hard time finding a small craft once it reached the ocean.
Hawke reached the docks a moment later. It was cooler here by the water, the day’s heat beginning to bleed away with the sun. Several large cruise ships were anchored in the oily water, but it wasn’t the large ones he was interested in. He needed something small and nimble, able to slip under the radar and disappear into the open arms of the river.
A moment later, he found it, lashed to the pier near one of the largest cruisers: an old tugboat, rusted and battered and brown with rust and grime, with an inflatable dinghy tethered to the back.
He boarded the tugboat, slipping across the silent deck, and peered over the side to the dinghy. The outboard motor looked newer, a Mercury with fresh paint and an electric starter. The dinghy was similar to one that he’d used on Cuttyhunk Island to putter around the shoreline when he was a teenager.
As he climbed down the side of the tugboat, boarded the dinghy and set the choke, another low boom sounded from somewhere beyond Manhattan. He pushed the electric start button on the engine and listened to it turn over with a high whine before he remembered to prime the gas bulb. Frantically he pushed the start button again. The Mercury coughed and started up with a burbling chatter.
A prickling fear ran up Hawke’s back as he worked at the tie ropes with trembling fingers, the knots slimy and tight and refusing to let go. The whistling was getting louder. How close was Doe now? How much had she seen of his mad rush to this place? Come on!
The last knot finally gave. Hawke threw off the rope, dove toward the engine and pushed the throttle forward. The little boat leaped forward, nearly tossing him into the water as he grabbed for the tiller and turned, watching the skies as death streaked toward him with a thin silver tail.
* * *
The dinghy was about fifty feet from land when the final strike hit.
Hawke whipped the little boat around the larger sightseeing cruiser that sat farther down the pier like a fat toad, low in the water and motionless, its sightless glass portholes winking at him with the reflection of the approaching rocket. The ship partially shielded him from the explosion and probably, he thought, saved his life; at the very least it obscured whatever view Jane Doe might have had of his fate.
The rocket hit the end of the pier closest to Eleventh Avenue, taking great chunks of rock and wood timbers and flinging them into the air like splinters in the wind. The debris and shock wave ripped holes through the heavy cruise ship and pushed it onto its side, a dead carcass wallowing in choppy surf, the remains torn apart as if it were nothing more than a toy.
A wave of water picked up Hawke’s little dinghy and gave it a violent shove. He clung on to the rope that lined the sides of the boat with both hands, abandoning the tiller and falling to the rubber floor as chunks of metal and wood rained down, bouncing off the sides of the boat and pattering into the river around him.
Somehow, the boat survived. It rocked and spun like a top, rearing up and nearly throwing him into the waves before it crested the huge surge of water and began to settle back into the frothy surf, still whole, still floating.
As the whirlwind subsided, Hawke grabbed the tiller and straightened out the little craft. He glanced back at the shoreline, saw the last remaining husk of the cruise ship rear up and then slip beneath the dark surface of the river and the black columns of smoke rising up behind it, the dock obliterated, the Javits Center a smoking, caved-in bubble, the bus depot a raging inferno. Orange flames towered skyward, turning the smoke into reflective clouds of reaching fingers.
New York was burning.
He was alive, though. He had made it out somehow, and now he was gone, a shadow slipping through the whitecapped waves toward home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
6:42 P.M.
THE SCREAMS WOKE HIM.
He’d been dreaming. In his dream, he’d been trying to run away from someone threatening him, but he couldn’t get his legs to work. It was like trying to push through quicksand.
He gasped awake, staring up into the dark.
Thomas shrieked again, the sound like a gunshot in the silence: “Daaaaddy!”
Hawke got out of bed, heart pounding as Robin sat up, mumbling something, her arm reaching for him as she rolled over and slumped back again, still half-asleep. Hawke knew from experience that she tended not to remember things like this; in the morning, when he explained that he had been up for hours dealing with night terrors, she would look at him like he was crazy. So he had become the de facto nighttime riser, handling the soiled diapers, nightmares and fevers.
He felt his way around the edge of the bed frame and made it into the hall, stumbling through the shadows. Thomas’s night-light glowed from beyond his half-open door.
The boy was sitting up against his headboard, holding his lion. They had just switched him out of his toddler bed to a full-size twin, and he looked swallowed by it, just a small lump at the top, like an extra pillow. Thomas’s eyes were shining, his tiny shoulders moving up and down.
Hawke went to the bed, climbed in and hugged the boy to his chest. Thomas wrapped his arms around him, sobbing, his little fingers clutching at Hawke’s undershirt. At first, Thomas didn’t say anything, and Hawke waited, not pushing him.
Finally, Thomas’s tears began to slow. He looked up at Hawke, his little moon face wet.
“What’s wrong, little man?”
“I had a bad thing in my head. And I was scared.”
Hawke kissed his son’s head. “Shhhh … it’s okay now. What happened? Can you tell me?”
“We were in the park, and you said we should go, but Mommy said we should wait and have a snack first. And then she gave me an apple. But I didn’t finish my snack. And then I didn’t want to stay because you left and I was alone. And I tried to find home.”
“You were lost?”
“Yes.” The little boy nodded soberly. “And there were people, but nobody would help me.”
“Didn’t Mommy or Daddy help you?”
“Daddy, you don’t live at the park.”
“No, but if you were lost, we’d come find you. We wouldn’t leave you like that.”
“Oh. Well, I heard a noise. Sort of like a ghost. Whoooooo … like that. And there was a bridge to cross if you wanted to get away, but I couldn’t get on it.”
“And then what happened?”
“And then I was in my room, and you were in your room. And a bad guy came in and he wouldn’t let me go to your room, and he took me away.”
Hawke had come to cherish these moments, because they were the only times Thomas really spoke freely. Robin didn’t hear it; it was as if Thomas knew she was a heavy
sleeper. The boy always called for his father at night.
He smoothed his son’s damp hair, rocked him softly. “Don’t worry, buddy. There are no bad guys here. You’re safe in your room. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, ever.”
“What if you can’t find me, Daddy? What if I disappear?”
A noise came from the hall outside the apartment. A door slamming, loud enough to make Thomas jump. Hawke hugged his son closer.
“I’d find you,” he said. “If I had to go to the end of the earth, I would find you and bring you home.”
* * *
Home. The idea was almost too much to bear, but Hawke kept it in his mind, sitting alone in the little dinghy, his hand shaking on the tiller as he pointed the craft toward the other shore. Getting to this point had taken everything he had in him, but now that he was finally able to breathe again he found himself unable to cope with all that had occurred.
The trip across the river was less than twenty minutes. Hawke sat as close to the motor as possible, keeping the weight in the back to lift the prow and keep the dinghy above the chop. He scanned the water for more boats but saw nothing. Wherever the military ship was that had fired on them, it wasn’t visible.
He felt a brief moment of loneliness, of things settling, this new future becoming permanent as it coalesced before him. The others were all dead; whatever had happened was done, and there was nothing he could do to change it. But his wife and son could still be alive, had to be alive. He would find them, no matter what it took. He would keep them safe. In the back of his mind, another voice kept nagging at him, one that was more cynical: Even if they had survived, what were the chances of them still being at the apartment? Wouldn’t they have tried to run by now, get to safety, find help? Hawke’s excitement mixed with dread as he huddled against the chill wind and sped across the waves, praying for them to be safe. The words became a mantra, repeated over and over as he got closer: “Please, God, let them be okay. I don’t care about anything else but seeing them again. I can handle anything else you throw at me; just please let them be okay.”