Act of Revenge

by Dale Brown

  Bowles veered into a U-turn. The street ahead was clear.

  “Drop me here,” shouted Johnny. He unlocked the door and put his hand on the handle as Bowles screeched to a halt.

  “I love you,” he told Chelsea as he went out the door, the SUV still moving.

  “Me, too,” she said weakly.

  It was the first time either of them had said that to each other, or to themselves.

  100

  Smart Metal Headquarters, Boston—about the same time

  The blast of the helicopter striking the external wall of the building threw Massina against the glass at the front of his outer office. He managed to put his prosthetic right arm up as he hit, which absorbed some of the shock and saved him from a concussion. But the blow disabled the mechanics in his arm, bending one of the main “bones” or rods. Rising slowly, he saw his assistant, Teri, fumbling for the door a few feet away.

  “Come on,” he told her, pushing it open with his good arm.

  The building’s original early-twentieth-century curtain wall had been reinforced with heavy steel, and while not designed specifically to withstand an explosion, it withstood the crash without catastrophic failure. The glass was another matter—the helicopter impaled itself in the office, its nose a few inches from Massina’s desk. Exactly thirty seconds after impact, a timer ignited a bomb located in the rear of the cockpit; the explosion brought down a good portion of the ceiling and floor, along with part of the interior walls and roof above the room, damaging the structural members and starting a mini landslide of material toward the ground. At the same time, it ignited the fuel that had leaked from the aircraft. Flames quickly spread into the building, lapping at the carpet and whatever wood and plastic they could find. Two of the three zones of sprinklers covering the floor had been damaged by the crash and explosion; the fire leaped through those sections, racing toward the elevators.

  Massina and Teri struggled down the hall, dazed by the smoke and dust as well as the explosion.

  “Stairs,” said Massina. “We need the stairs.”

  Finding the door, Massina pushed it open, bracing himself for he knew not what: flames, maybe, or a gaping hole. But instead, fresh air surged into his face.

  Safety.

  “I’ll be down in a minute,” Massina told Teri, pushing her through the threshold. “I need to make sure everyone’s out.”

  Teri started to protest, but Massina stepped back quickly and shut the door. Alarms blared; water whistled through the broken pipes of the extinguisher system. Smoke, heavy with toxins from the carpet and other materials, stung Massina’s face. A spray of water doused him as he turned back to check the other hall for his people; he could feel soot caking on his head and face.

  “Out! This way!” he yelled, pushing open the door to the Administrative Functions suite, where personnel and related matters were handled. Smoke seeped through the walls and water sprayed from the ceiling; the emergency lights were on, along with an alarm light that blinked on and off like a lazy strobe. The office and its cluster of desks and cabinets looked empty, and Massina was just about to go back out to the hall when he heard a moan from the back.

  Jason Vendez, the head of Finance, lay on the floor, pinned between a desk and part of the caved-in wall. Massina tried to grab the desk with his prosthetic arm, which ordinarily would have had no trouble leveraging the furniture out of the way. But the arm was broken, unable to respond properly—it was an odd sensation, his brain thinking it was moving yet his eyes registering that it wasn’t.

  Massina squeezed between the desk and the wall, aiming to lever his feet against the desk. That didn’t work; he swung around, butt against the desk, feet against the wall, and tried again. The desk shifted and he fell to the floor as Vendez crawled free.

  “I’m OK, I’m OK,” Vendez repeated as Massina helped him to his feet.

  “Who else is here?”

  “No one.”

  “The smoke is coming in—we have to get out.”

  Out in the hallway, flames flickered along the bottom of the wall. A layer of smoke had risen to the ceiling, a poisonous cloud layer dividing the air. The smoke drifted toward them slowly, lowering itself as it went.

  “Who’s here! Who’s here!” shouted Massina. “Go to the stairs!”

  If anyone answered, he didn’t hear. He pushed Vendez toward the stairs, then went down to the next suite, looking inside. The rooms on this side were farthest from the explosion and appeared intact—and fortunately empty.

  Massina pushed open the door to the last office and yelled inside. No one answered.

  Water from one of the burst pipes shot down from the ceiling. He stepped into the office, crossing through the spray.

  “Anyone!” he yelled. “Anyone!”

  The room was empty.

  He turned and nearly knocked over Vendez.

  “I told you to go down,” Massina screamed, angry.

  “I’m not leaving without you, Louis.”

  “Come on, then,” said Massina. “Crawl.”

  The smoke had sunk so low there was less than three feet of clear air left. Knots of toxins swirled downward, tiny twisters of poison. Water dripped in large drops, springing from the leaks in the pipes above, impotent against the fiery onslaught.

  They had just reached the door when the building shook again, the tremor so strong both men lost their balance. As Massina fell on his back, he saw the hallway wall begin to collapse. He held his breath and leaped upward to grab the door handle. As he did, the wall next to it began to crumble. Massina’s fingers touched the handle, then involuntarily pulled back—the fire had warmed the metal to well over a hundred degrees. He fell back to his knees; before he could rise, the ceiling collapsed, knocking him to his stomach next to Vendez, burying them both in a wet spray of mud and Sheetrock.

  101

  Boston—a moment later

  “I need my laptop,” Chelsea told Bowles. “Stop at the Annex.”

  “Johnny told us to go to the Mountain.”

  “He didn’t say I couldn’t get my laptop. I can work from the Mountain.”

  Bowles didn’t answer.

  “It’ll only take me a minute,” Chelsea added. “We’re going right past it. There’s no attack there. Take the ramp.”

  Bowles waited until the last moment to veer off the highway. He ran through the light and sped up toward the complex.

  Looking through the front windshield, everything seemed normal. Aside from a small cluster of white clouds, the sky was azure blue, the sun bright yellow.

  Behind the car, black smoke rose from downtown.

  Greta Torbin turned on the radio, fiddling until she found a news station.

  A helicopter has struck a building downtown, believed to be the Smart Metal Company Headquarters. There are reports of several IEDs and explosions, and a shooting in the T line . . .

  “Maybe you should turn it off,” suggested Bowles. “We don’t need a play-by-play.”

  “Leave it on,” said Chelsea.

  The reporter continued almost breathlessly, describing various attacks, some based on things he had heard over the police scanner, some on Twitter, some from other stations. A few of the reports were clearly wrong—he claimed Logan Airport had been shut down, but Chelsea could see airplanes rising in the sky on a clear path to and from it.

  “Five minutes,” said Bowles, pulling into the entrance to the mall. “Five minutes or we are coming down and dragging you out.”

  “Five minutes,” answered Chelsea.

  Bowles sped toward the entrance, then did a power skid to turn sideways so he could let Chelsea out as close as possible. She hopped out of the car, leaving the door open as she sprinted to the security station. The two men on guard raised their weapons, then realized it was her. One pointed around the X-ray machine, indicating she should skip the check—a violation of protocol, even for her, but understandable under the circumstances.

  She had gone around the machine when something
exploded in the lot behind her. Chelsea spun back and saw flames leaping from the SUV—it had been hit by an antitank missile.

  The two guards ran toward the vehicle. Chelsea started to follow, then stopped, unsure what to do.

  “No, keep going,” ordered a man behind her.

  He grabbed her by the midsection. She kicked his kneecap and elbowed his stomach, but was hit hard in the side of the head before she could spin out of his grip. She fell to the pavement, her head rebounding off the concrete. The world dimmed.

  “Finally we meet,” said the man, pushing his face into hers.

  Ghadab, she thought as she blacked out.

  102

  Smart Metal Headquarters, Boston—around the same time

  A man driving a delivery van had crashed into the steel barriers between the street and the sidewalk in front of the Smart Metal building; a moment before impact, he set off the fertilizer-based bomb packed into the rear. The explosion had buckled a portion of the front of the building, but had done far more damage to the structure across the street.

  Johnny Givens reached the scene two minutes after the explosion. Combusted metal and concrete filled the air, thick enough to obscure the sun. Sirens roared in the distance but so far neither police nor firemen had arrived. Two or three cars, so twisted and split they couldn’t be identified, sat like discarded bones in the street.

  There were body parts everywhere, but no live people, at least none that Johnny could see.

  He picked his way through the street, jumping past a long gash in the asphalt, nearly tripping over a jagged claw of concrete on the sidewalk. The stone facade at the Smart Metal entrance was scarred black; a slab of metal blocked the doorway, having fallen from above. Johnny doubled back around the side to a second entrance.

  The two security men there raised their rifles as soon as he turned the corner.

  “It’s me, it’s me!” he shouted, raising his hands. “It’s Johnny!”

  They looked spooked. Johnny felt his heart clutch—they were going to shoot.

  “It’s me!” he shouted again, stopping.

  Finally, they lowered their weapons. He walked toward them quickly.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Beefy’s downstairs,” said one of the men—“Snake” Boone. “He’s pretty hurt. He was outside when the first suicide bomber hit.”

  Two men in suicide vests had arrived at almost the exact moment the helicopter struck the building. The truck bomb had followed a few minutes later, either delayed or purposely timed in an effort to catch people as they evacuated.

  “Keep the place locked down,” said Johnny. “No one in or out.”

  “Right.”

  “Not even Massina himself,” added Johnny. “No one!”

  He pushed inside. Expecting chaos, he found silence instead. The entire first-floor lobby was empty, except for security teams crouched in defensive positions at the center of the hall and behind the mashed front entrance. Johnny ran to the post at the main entrance.

  “Most of the employees are in the basement,” said Corey Draken, who was in charge of floor security. “Sweep teams are working their way up.”

  “Where’s Massina?”

  “Computer has him on the executive floor still. Where the helicopter hit. Vendez is with him.”

  Massina coughed so hard it felt as if his chest was turning itself inside out. He crawled forward, trying to escape the blanket of soaked Sheetrock. Water cascaded down the side of the left wall. But the right wall, still dry, turned blue with flames as the fire reached it.

  Vendez, struck by part of the wall as it fell, lay on his stomach a few feet away. Massina shook him, but got only a moan in response.

  “Time to go,” said Massina.

  He pulled Vendez with him a few feet, getting away from the worst of the debris. The stairs had been cut off by the collapse of the ceiling and the wall. There was another set at the far end of the building, but that was on the other side of the fire.

  Best bet is to go to the window and wait, Massina thought.

  Not much of a bet.

  Better than being here.

  “Come on,” he told Vendez. “We’ll go into one of the offices. This side, away from where the helicopter crashed.”

  The north stairwell between the fifth and sixth floors had collapsed. One of the three elevator shafts appeared intact, but the car was stuck on the fourth floor and wouldn’t move, even in emergency manual mode.

  Johnny, standing with one of the sweep teams on the fourth floor, had the automated security com operator connect him to Boston’s emergency response center.

  “I have two men trapped on the top floor,” Johnny said. “We’re going to need a ladder truck.”

  “Got it,” said the man. “They’re estimating five minutes.”

  “That’s too damn long,” said Johnny, snapping off the Talk button.

  The small office at the back of the personnel section appeared at first glance a haven; drenched by the water, it was intact and several degrees cooler than the hallway. But as soon as Massina stood up, he realized safety was a mirage: smoke was furling in, choking off the oxygen. He dropped quickly to the floor, his eyes and throat burning.

  Coughing, he crawled to Vendez near the window. Vendez was slipping in and out of consciousness.

  “Stay with me,” said Massina as Vendez’s eyes closed.

  “Oh, yeah,” said the Finance chief.

  “Stay awake. I need you. Not just today, tomorrow.”

  “Uh.”

  Vendez started to slide to the floor. Massina stopped him, then lowered him gently, realizing there was better air there.

  Or at least hoping there was better air.

  “I wonder if the phones are working. What do you think, Jason?”

  Massina didn’t expect an answer, and he didn’t get one. He lowered his face to the floor, took a big gulp of air, and held his breath. Then he jumped up and grabbed a phone from the desk.

  The smoke stung his face so badly he couldn’t open his eyes. He put the receiver to his ear, but heard nothing.

  Dead.

  My cell?

  In all of the confusion he hadn’t thought of using his own phone. He pulled it from his pocket, put his finger on the print reader, then pulled up the directory to call his security desk. Only after pressing the phone icon did he notice the message at the top indicating that he had no service.

  He almost threw it down in anger, but stopped himself. It was important, it was critical, to remain calm, to be calm, to think.

  Think.

  They know we’re here. They’ll send help.

  Maybe a ladder truck.

  The ledge outside. It’s wide enough to stand on.

  Massina knew this from experience—unfortunate experience, but then he’d lived to tell about it, so how bad could it have been, really?

  Not as bad as this.

  “We’re going out the window, Jason. Come on.”

  Vendez didn’t answer. Massina tried to get him over his back, but it was difficult without the use of one hand and arm.

  I’m never going to be able to climb up to the roof with only one hand. I can barely make it with two.

  He pulled Vendez with him anyway, moving backward along the floor. As he reached the glass, a red flare shot into the room near the door. A black cloud rolled in behind it.

  Massina lowered his chest to the floor, trying to find clean air.

  There was a loud pop, then a crash and a crackle, a thousand glasses falling from a cabinet to the floor at the same instant. Massina looked toward the window—a piece of metal had flown through.

  Another aircraft?

  The metal moved back and forth quickly. Another probe appeared, then a dull gray cloud—it was RBT PJT 23-A, better known as Peter, smashing its way inside to rescue them.

  Ten minutes later, Peter deposited Massina in the second-floor lounge, where Smart Metal’s nurse had established a triage center. The bot had taken
Vendez down first, then raced back to get its maker.

  It was a quick and dizzying ride down the face of the building. Peter’s clamps were quite tight—Massina’s first thought when he arrived was that would have to be adjusted.

  Gulping pure oxygen from a tank, he cleared his head and looked for Beefy. Instead, he found Johnny Givens striding across the room.

  “Everyone’s accounted for,” Johnny told him. “We have thirty-three people hurt, two with probable internal injuries, a lot of broken bones, some smoke and light burns. But everybody’s alive.”

  “Where’s Beefy?”

  “He had a head injury and a compound fracture of the arm. Maybe a busted rib. He’s conscious downstairs. The nurse gave him a shot of morphine to ease the pain.”

  “Chelsea?”

  “On her way to the Mountain.”

  “The machines?”

  “Everything downstairs is fine. They went into shutdown mode automatically.”

  “All right. I’m going to the Box.” Massina patted him on the back. “Good decision, sending Peter.”

  “I didn’t,” said Johnny. “Near as we can figure, he went on his own.”

  103

  Boston—around the same time

  Chelsea’s head throbbed. The scent of diesel filled her nose, diesel and something caustic, ammonia-like. She tried to move, but her hands were restrained behind her back—she was in a straitjacket.

  No, just restraints. Not too tight, but enough. No escape.

  Where was she?

  Moving.

  A van.

  Have to get out of here.

  She pushed her arms, trying to free them. But that only made the restraints tighter.

  No one will know where I am.

  They can track my phone.

  Where is my phone?

  She didn’t feel it in her pocket. They’d taken it and her wallet and her keys. Everything but her watch.