by David Meyer
Bending my knees on impact, I absorbed some of the blow. But the landing still jarred me to my core and my right leg began to throb uncontrollably. Shaking it off, I hobbled over to the elevator doors.
My hands stretched out, gripping their edges. I pulled with all my strength.
And they didn’t budge an inch.
As the whirring noise grew louder, I looked up. The elevator soared down at me at an incredible clip. My gaze shot to the open access panel. If I positioned myself under it, I could reenter the car and…
Metal slammed against metal.
And suddenly, the access panel was closed.
There was nowhere to hide. The elevator was freshly pressed to the rails, leaving just a few inches of room on all sides. I had no more than thirty seconds before it landed on top of me.
Thirty seconds until it crushed me.
Thirty seconds until I died.
I twisted back to the doors. My hand flew to my belt, extracting my machete. Rearing back, I stabbed it at the thin opening. It slid in a little bit but when I tried to maneuver it, the blade slipped out again.
I felt the elevator car looming above me.
Fifteen seconds until impact.
Balancing myself, I reared back again and stabbed my machete at the crack. This time, it neatly slid into the space.
I pulled hard and the doors opened an inch or two. Jamming my hand inside the space, I lifted myself onto a small platform.
Ten seconds.
I struggled to pull the doors open.
Five seconds.
Four seconds.
Three seconds.
The doors opened a foot. I dove through them and rolled. As they slammed shut behind me, I heard the elevator car settle into its berth.
Standing up, I shoved the machete into my sheath and sprinted across the lobby.
I heard a dinging noise followed by the sound of angry shouts. Ignoring them, I grabbed my pistol and took aim at the glass doors separating me from the streets.
I squeezed the trigger. The glass cracked as bullets collided with its smooth surface. Ducking my head, I leapt forward.
As I soared through the doors, they shattered into a million pieces. I felt a surge of adrenaline.
I was exhausted. I was bleeding like a stuck pig. And I was sore as hell.
But I was alive.
Sorry, Reaper. Maybe next time.
Chapter 37
Rain stung my neck and shoulders as my momentum carried me onto the sidewalk. I didn’t want to do a face plant but there was no time to tuck and roll. With no other alternative, I curved my legs downward and bent my knees, hoping to somehow land on my feet.
My right leg crunched on impact and I heard a pop. Somehow, I managed to kick off the sidewalk, tuck my head, and roll.
As I stood up again, my leg buckled underneath me. Gritting my teeth, I tried to run through the pain but came up limping. It didn’t feel broken. But that didn’t improve my mood.
Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. My lungs gasped for air but my throat refused to abide. Dimly, I became aware of a thin, wiry arm. It wrapped around my neck and started to squeeze the life out of me.
“Remember me?”
It took me a moment to place the harsh voice whispering into my ear. Then, I recalled the Town Car that picked me up at the airport.
“Walker?” I gasped.
“In the flesh.”
The driver? I escaped that hellhole only to get caught by Chase’s personal driver? That’s just embarrassing.
I struggled to escape. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Do you know how much trouble you got me in? I was just doing my job, minding my business. Next thing, I know you’re running away and I’m getting my ass reamed out.”
“It wasn’t…”
His arm muscle tightened. “Mr. Chase docked me a month’s pay for that little stunt of yours. Now, it’s your turn to suffer.”
I clawed at his arm but it didn’t budge. Blinking my eyes, I saw Chase, Standish, and several guards running toward me.
I gulped in a few breaths of air and gathered my strength. Abruptly, I pushed out with my good leg. Stumbling backward, I fell.
With a jolt, I collided with Walker. He collided with the sidewalk.
The grip around my neck loosened.
Gasping for air, I spun around. Walker lay crumpled on the ground next to his Lincoln Town Car. I reached into his pocket and removed a ring of five keys.
Car keys.
Sorry, Walker. You’re about to get docked another month’s pay.
As I stood up, I glanced over my shoulder. Chase, Standish, and the others were almost at the doors. I began ramming the keys into the lock.
I tried one key.
And then another.
A loud pop filled the air. Instinctively, I ducked. The driver’s side window exploded, sending shards of glass flying into my face.
I dove headfirst through the broken window. Jagged edges slashed my sides, drawing blood. They hurt like hell.
I slid into the footwell beneath the steering wheel, praying that the sides held up to the firestorm. Reaching up, I placed the third key into the ignition. It didn’t fit.
Tiny pings flicked against my back as bullets dented the door.
I tried the fourth key.
No dice.
Pounding footsteps caught my attention. They were close and getting closer. That meant one thing. Chase and his men were closing in for a direct shot.
A kill shot.
My fingers trembled as I stuck the fifth key into the ignition. Unbelievably, it slid in. Quickly, I turned it.
But it didn’t move.
Desperately, I jiggled it and tried again.
This time, it turned. The engine roared to life. Releasing the emergency brake, I stomped on the gas.
As the car shot forward, I climbed out of the footwell, keeping one foot on the accelerator and one hand on the steering wheel.
The rear window exploded. Shards of glass sailed through the car’s interior, embedding deep into the fabric.
I ducked my head and then looked in the rear view mirror. Chase and Standish stood in the center of the street, flanked by three other men.
Pressing down on the accelerator, I spun the wheel, sending the Town Car lurching onto another street. I let out a long breath.
Well, that could’ve gone better.
At least I was free. But even as that welcome thought passed through my brain, another disturbing one popped up to take its place. Chase was way too motivated to stop now. He wouldn’t give up until he had his hands on Hartek’s journal. And since I’d escaped, he’d turn his attention to the one person he knew could get me to give it up.
Diane.
The Town Car hit a puddle and skidded. For a few seconds, I nearly lost control of the vehicle. But I managed to slide through the turn.
It was hard to believe that I still cared for Diane after all of these years. Maybe it was just a passing phase. Maybe not. Either way, even thinking about her brought a smile to my face. That had to count for something.
Keeping one bleeding, aching hand on the wheel, I felt around the immediate area, searching for a phone. Finding nothing, I opened the glove compartment and rummaged through its contents. Still, no phone.
I turned my attention back to the street. A phone wouldn’t have helped much anyway. It’s not like I had her phone number. And after what Beverly told me about Chase’s influence, calling the police seemed like a fool’s errand.
Three minutes. As far as I could figure, that was the length of time it would take me to reach Diane’s apartment. It would take another few minutes to convince her to come with me. If that failed, I’d drag her out by her hair.
Caveman-style.
Thanks to the late hour, lockout-related traffic was limited and the streets were largely clear. I drove as fast as I dared on the soaked, mist-covered streets.
The Town Car hit another puddle. Tapping the
brakes, I gripped the wheel to maneuver my way out of the slide.
My body jerked like a puppet on strings. The engine cut off and the air bag deployed, smashing into my face with a vengeance.
Clouds filled my brain and I felt my tongue loll out of my mouth. Somehow, I managed to squeeze my hand toward my side.
Grabbing the machete, I punctured the bag. It deflated a bit and I used the opportunity to poke a few more holes in it. After a few deep breaths, I returned the machete to its sheath and pressed down on the bag, driving the rest of the air out.
Sluggishly, I stared out the window. The front of the Town Car was completely crushed up against a streetlight. The light hung loosely in the air, bent at a crazy forty-five degree angle.
Glad I’m not paying for that.
I turned the ignition off, then on. But the engine stayed quiet. I frowned and tried again. Still, the engine failed to sputter to life.
I tried yet again.
Nothing.
Cursing, I slammed my hand against the steering wheel.
Can this day get any worse?
I forced the door open into a roaring wind. Rain flew at me from an almost horizontal direction. It was like an endless cloud of bullets, attacking my arms and splattering against my face.
I extracted myself from the wreck. Pain in my chest spread slowly through the rest of my body. Each breath that passed through my lungs brought with it excruciating agony.
Looking around, I got my bearings. Then I began hobbling in the direction of Diane’s apartment.
The powerful rain brought me more misery and after just a few steps, I was already sick of it. Picking up my pace, I started jogging. Soon, I was half-running, half-limping.
At half-speed of course.
I don’t know how long I ran. But by the time I stumbled around the corner of Diane’s street, I could barely move. My body ached and my right leg felt like it might fall off at any second.
But all that was forgotten the moment I glimpsed the light in her apartment. It drifted down to the street, blazing a path through the darkness.
I’d made it.
And then I saw the Land Rover.
It was parked just outside her building, smoke rising from the exhaust.
Abruptly, Diane emerged. Two large figures propelled her out of the apartment building and onto the sidewalk. After shoving her into the Land Rover’s backseat, they climbed in after her.
As the vehicle zoomed toward me, I felt the sudden urge to grab hold of my pistol and start firing away. But I couldn’t risk hurting her.
I ducked into the shadows. As the car sped past me, I caught a glimpse inside the rear window. Diane sat inside, flanked by the two men. The image of her livid, yet alarmed visage seared itself onto my brain.
A moment later, the vehicle hurtled around the corner and she was gone, swallowed up into the night.
Chapter 38
Why’d you drive so carelessly?
Why didn’t you run faster?
Why, why, why?
Twenty minutes later, I stumbled down the street. Twenty minutes since I’d left 78th Street and 2nd Avenue. Twenty minutes since Chase’s men kidnapped Diane.
Ordinarily, I would’ve covered the distance to 116th Street and Frederick Douglass Boulevard in forty-five minutes. Thirty-five minutes tops. But despite the pounding rain and my aching body, wave after wave of furious thoughts spurred me on.
At the corner of West 116th, I turned and walked past a few empty storefronts and a fried chicken restaurant. Stopping in front of the 116th Street station, I took a few seconds to stretch my rubbery, tired legs.
The station served the IND 8th Avenue Line and thus wasn’t directly connected to the layup yard or Hartek’s laboratory. I could still access those areas via maintenance tunnels and other shortcuts. Still, I found myself wishing I’d chosen a different place to re-enter the tunnels. Preferably, somewhere I could accidentally run into Chase’s guys.
And beat the crap out of them.
A hand gripped my shoulder. I wheeled around, fists cocked.
“Whoa, boy,” Beverly said with a grin. “No need for violence.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“What happened to your forehead? It looks like someone beat you with a cheese grater.”
“That’s good to hear. It feels a lot worse than that.”
“I take it Jack didn’t appreciate your visit.”
“Oh, he appreciated it all right. In fact, he appreciated it so much he decided to return the favor with a little visit of his own…to an old friend of mine.”
“Who?”
“Diane Blair. We used to be close.”
“Is she…?”
“She’s alive, at least for now.”
Beverly led me down a small set of stairs into the 116th Street Station. As she fumbled with the gate, my anger resurged. Diane didn’t deserve this. She just happened to know the wrong person at the wrong time.
Why does everyone I care about end up getting hurt? What am I? The human equivalent of a broken mirror?
Beverly opened the gate and let me through. Then she closed it and walked down the stairs, joining me in the station’s interior. “Sorry about your friend. I should’ve suspected that Jack would go after someone you knew.”
“Not your fault. You didn’t kidnap her.”
“Well, how do we get her back?”
I thought for a second. “Chase wants Hartek’s journal. That’s the whole reason he kidnapped her in the first place. He’s hoping to pressure me into handing it over.”
“We’re not trading. Even if the book were useless, I still wouldn’t trade it to him. The instant he gets his hands on it, he doesn’t need us anymore. We become liabilities.”
“Agreed. Anyways, I’m not letting him get his hands on the Bell. Hartek didn’t exactly build a giant coffee maker in that lab of his. He built a machine that could generate a fuel called Red Mercury.”
“A fuel for what?”
“Hydrogen bombs,” I replied. “Chase wants to recreate Hartek’s research and sell Red Mercury across the globe.”
She gasped. “Are you serious?”
“It gets worse.” I gritted my teeth. “In order to prove that Red Mercury works, he’s going to detonate a hydrogen bomb in the middle of Manhattan.”
She stared at me.
“What can I say?” I held out my hands, palms up. “He’s got a shitload of anger left over from the Hiroshima bombing…and the scars to prove it.”
“We have to stop him.”
“First, we need to rescue Diane.”
She shook her head. “Chase has the numbers and the firepower to beat back any attack we could manage. And besides, we don’t even know where he’s keeping her.”
I frowned. “We can’t trade for her and we can’t rescue her. We can’t trust the police and I’m betting the same goes for the military. So, what the hell can we do?”
“I wish I knew.”
I thought for a second. “Where’s Hartek’s journal?”
She shrugged off her bag and groped around inside of it. “Here you go.” She handed me the book. “What are you going to do with it?”
I set the journal on the ground and opened it to a random page. Then I removed a chunk of flint from my satchel and extracted my machete from its sheath.
“You’re going to burn it? Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
I nodded. “We don’t need it. And I’m not willing to let Chase get his hands on Hartek’s research.”
As I placed the back of the blade against the rock, I felt a hint of trepidation. Throughout history, people had destroyed artifacts for the greater good. When Bishop Diego de Landa staged his Inquisition of the Yucatán Mayans in 1562, he thought he was saving their souls. But centuries later, archaeologists cursed his name for burning forty irreplaceable codices as well as the rest of that civilization’s rich history.
What made me different than the Bishop? Would future archae
ologists curse my name? After all, Hartek’s journal could shed new light on the Nazi’s atomic weapons program.
But the treasure hunter in me disagreed.
Strongly.
The journal was no ordinary artifact. Its very existence could enable the creation of the Bell and Red Mercury. It could be used to destroy lives.
It could be used to set the world aflame.
My mind wrestled itself for a minute or two. But I was unable to fully reconcile the differences between my archaeologist and treasure hunter sides. They were both part of me, even as they stood in stark opposition to each other. Like it or not, eternal inner conflict was my fate.
I looked at Beverly. Her solemn expression told me that something was on her mind. “Last chance,” I said. “Any reason we should keep it around?”
She furrowed her brow. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Remember what Jenson told us? He said the Sand Demons couldn’t or wouldn’t destroy the Bell.”
I shrugged. “So?”
“So, if it’s the former, maybe we should keep the journal around. If we find the Bell, the journal might help us figure out a way to destroy it.”
I exhaled loudly. A single brush against the flint would send tiny sparks hurtling toward the journal, igniting it instantly. Tiny, golden flames would lick the air, adding light to the dim station. It would take just a moment. And then, I could forget all about Hartek’s journal.
Do it. Do it already.
With a deep sigh, I shoved the machete back into the sheath. As I picked up the book, I glanced at Beverly. “We’ll keep it. For now.”
She nodded. “So now what?”
“Chase is searching for us. There’s no question about that. But he’s not the type to place his eggs in a single basket.”
“You mean he might go after the Bell itself?”
“Exactly. And if he finds it before us, he’ll kill Diane and half the city of New York. Our best bet is to beat him to the Bell and destroy it. Then we’ll figure out a way to rescue Diane.”
“But how are we going to find the Bell?
“Jenson told me Rictor used the Omega to remove it. According to Chase’s files, the Omega was a subway car.”