Winslade’s other major business venture, producing much-needed lab-grown meat for increasing human demand, proudly made in the USA. He’s got plants in every state. I read the name over and over again, resisting the shivers that want to come. Javier looks back and forth between me and the sign.
‘Modern Harvest? You hungry or something?’
‘This is the place,’ I say. ‘We need to get inside.’
The front entrance features reinforced doors with keypad access and security cameras. We avoid it and circle the building, looking for another way in, making our way around back. Both of us freeze when we turn the corner. There is a white company van parked in the alley, pulled up to a set of double doors even though it’s the middle of the night. Parked in front of it is a brand new Cadillac CTS, black with silver trim. We wait a minute, looking for any sign of activity. Dumpsters and bins line the alley, stinking of rotten meat, flies buzzing through the stench. Only one security camera covers the back entrance, hanging loose on its hinge, broken a long time ago. Javier and I move cautiously down the alley and approach the vehicles. Both are empty, but the keys dangle from the ignition of the van. I move to the back door of the building and try the handle. It’s locked.
‘Shit.’
Javier pulls me aside, looking at the second-storey windows. ‘I’ve got an idea.’
We retrace our steps back along the alley to a dumpster positioned under a fire escape. He climbs onto it and motions for me to do the same.
‘Gimme a boost,’ he says. ‘I think I can reach the ladder.’
I climb atop it and brace myself as I lace my fingers together for his foot. He steps into my hands and I lift him just high enough to reach the bottom rung. I watch as he pulls himself up, then releases the latch and lowers the ladder for me. We quickly find that all the windows adjacent to the fire escape are locked. Javier takes off his coat, holds it against a pane, and kicks in the glass with a subtle smash. No alarm sounds. Whoever is already in the building has turned off the security system.
‘After you,’ Javier says.
I slip through the window, careful to avoid the broken glass, Javier following close behind. Near darkness inside. My eyes take a minute to adjust. In the gloom I see a large open office space, outlines of cubicles stretching from one side of the room to the other, tiny lights on desks from computers blinking in their sleep. In the far corner is a glowing red exit sign. We cross the room and find it leads to a stairwell. Inside the stairwell a sign denotes each floor of Modern Harvest NYC, Ltd.
3rd Floor: Laboratories, Research & Development
2nd Floor: Offices
1st Floor: Production, Shipping & Receiving
Javier and I take the stairs down one flight to the factory floor.
Most of the lights are turned off on the production level. In the gloom the place looks fucking creepy, one part aquarium and one part slaughterhouse, something dreamed up in the mind of a mad scientist. We walk cautiously down rows of large glass vats, cloned headless and limbless pig or cow carcasses suspended in each, growing imperceptibly in green-tinged amniotic fluid. We watch stomachs and sides expand and contract with breaths fed from oxygen tubes connected directly to tracheas. The feeling of déjà vu comes in a wave. I realize I’ve seen this all before, more than in my visions and nightmares. My gut churns as I look at these living, breathing, brainless meat-bags waiting to be used.
I can relate, I think.
We pass a temperature-controlled section of the floor where large glass partitions have been erected. Inside chicken breasts and lamb shanks are slowly being printed on stainless-steel slabs by industrial 3D printers feeding genetic code into base stocks of proteins and fats, building dinner portions cell by cell. The areas cordoned off beside it feature the headless bodies of cattle in long lines being fed nutrients and hormones intravenously, their udders permanently connected to milking machines. The air is damp with a fine spray descending from nozzles in the ceiling. The stench is almost unbearable, ammonia and flesh and something else that smells like medicine. Javier retches. I hold my hands over my nose and mouth and continue on.
Suddenly we hear a loud whirring and grinding, some kind of machinery activated at the far end of the building. The noises squeal and stop, squeal and stop. We approach in silence, advancing on a brightly lit back corner of the warehouse, trying to stay hidden among shadows and production equipment. Soon we hear voices of men talking. I recognize the French accent instantly.
‘Son of a bitch,’ I mutter.
Renard and his two enforcers come partially into view, hunched over something laid out before an ominous-looking mechanism. A wide concrete pillar blocks most of my view, but I can make out enough as they move about. They wear white coveralls, rubber gloves, face shields. Red is smeared on both them and the metal surface of the machine they’re working at. When Renard and his men step back, Javier and I both have to stifle a cry of shock.
The naked body of a young woman lies on a steel slab, her face turned out way, dead eyes staring past us. There is a deep, dried cut in her neck. It’s the girl Winslade used me to murder in the apartments above. The men move to the left, disappearing behind the pillar. The girl’s body slides away with them out of sight. Whirring sounds start up again. The pitch soon becomes a squeal, then falls off. This repeats over and over. I can’t see what’s happening, but I dare not try for a better look. On the far side of the pillar I notice automated meat processers and grinders in operation. I realize the sound I’m hearing is that of a bandsaw, the kind used for sectioning meat. Everything comes together in an instant. This is how Winslade disposes of his victims, feeding the evidence of his crimes to the unsuspecting people of New York City. My client regards the population as little more than livestock. He’s a case of affluenza gone critical.
‘Hurry up and finish,’ Renard tells his men. ‘There are other loose ends we need to take care of.’
He’s talking about me no doubt. I take the camera out of my knapsack and hit record. The pillar blocks too much of the view. Javier’s position a few feet away allows him a better angle. I flag his attention, slide the camera carefully across the floor, motion for him to pick it up and film. He raises it and begins capturing the crimes, watching it all on the display with wide and frightened eyes. I realize I’m turning him into more and more of an accomplice and regret it. Among the whirring there is a loud grating followed by a sudden clunk sound. A chunk of something bloody goes skidding across the floor, disappearing under a table. Renard swears aloud. Javier covers his mouth, makes a whimpering sound. I watch as he lowers his face to the floor and pukes, trying his damnedest to keep it quiet. The stink of it wafts up, threatening to make me throw up as well. I choke it back and signal Javier to record more of the evidence while it’s relatively still in one piece.
‘Christ,’ he whispers, wiping his lips and chin, unable to look at the display any more. ‘This is insane, man.’
‘Insanity doesn’t even begin to describe it.’
‘Is this what you were hoping to find?’
‘It’ll do,’ he replies
Javier leans toward me, hands the camera back. ‘We need to get the fuck out of here, like right now.’
‘Just one minute more. That’s all I need.’
Renard and his men walk back into my line of sight, searching for the piece that escaped. I slink away, focusing the camera on their faces, making sure I get the company logo painted on the wall in the background. When I feel I’ve got all the damning evidence I need I turn the camera off and stuff it back in my knapsack. Keeping my eyes on the enemy, I reach out and tap Javier on the shoulder.
‘Okay,’ I whisper. ‘Let’s get out of here –’
Renard suddenly turns in our direction, lifting the visor of his face shield and sniffing the air, catching the scent of Javier’s vomit. His expression hardens. I watch as he reaches into his coveralls and draws out his Rapier, flagging to his men with his other hand.
‘Something is wrong,
’ he says. ‘We may have a breach.’
His men remove their face shields and draw their weapons. Renard signals them to investigate the factory floor on the left and right while he takes the middle. The three of them fan out, advancing slowly. Javier and I melt into the shadows, keeping tabs on their progress as we retreat through the rows of vats to the back of the building. Their white coveralls make them easy to spot in the gloom. Just when I think we’re going to get out without being detected, all hell breaks loose.
The first Rapier round rockets past my head and shatters a vat behind. Glass and fluid and meat flood out, sweeping me off my feet. I hit the ground hard. Javier picks me up from the floor as Renard shouts orders to his men and squeezes off two more rounds. Another vat explodes, then another.
‘Run,’ Javier shouts.
We sprint through the rows, dodging in and out so our attackers can’t get a bead on us. More rounds go off, destroying the surrounding equipment, punching holes in suspended carcasses as they blow through the tanks. Javier and I manage to make it to the rear of the building in one piece. As we burst out of the back doors and into the alley my eyes fall on the van parked nearby.
‘Get in the van,’ I yell to Javier, pointing. ‘The keys are inside.’
We wrench open the doors and jump in. I crank the ignition, floor the gas pedal. Renard crashes through the back door behind us and raises his Rapier, levelling it at us as we take off. Three rounds rip softball-size holes in the side of the van as we speed down the alley.
‘Goddamn it,’ I seethe, smacking the steering wheel with an open hand. ‘We’re like fish in a fucking barrel.’
‘We need guns,’ Javier pants. ‘I know where we can get them.’
‘Where?’
‘Occupy Central Park.’
‘What?’ I skid onto the street with a screech and accelerate. ‘You’re kidding?’
‘There’s a core group of protesters who call themselves Integris, a real diehard faction, armed and ready. They’ve been sneaking in weapons for days now, anticipating an attack by the NYPD.’
Something doesn’t sit right with me. ‘How the hell do you know all that?’
Javier swallows, says nothing. I shoot him an accusatory look and begin to repeat my question. He is quick to cut me off.
‘Okay, I’ll level with you,’ he says, throwing up his hands. ‘I’m not really part of the movement.’
‘What are you then?’
‘An informant.’
I could punch the motherfucker. ‘You’re a goddamn snitch?’
‘I don’t know what I am!’ he yells back. ‘All I know is I’m poor and sometimes starving and I feed the cops information about what’s going on inside OCP when I need the money bad enough.’
‘So, you get paid to report on the occupiers?’
‘The occupiers, Integris …’ Javier shoots me a nervous look. ‘And you.’
I almost hit the brakes. ‘Me?’
‘You were brought to my attention as a person of interest.’
‘By who?’
Javier throws up his hands again. ‘Fuck, I don’t know. I never deal with actual people. They email me targets and give me links where I can send back results. The information I collect is uploaded for retrieval. I don’t know names, I don’t see faces. I make a report, send some photos, and money is released to my account.’
‘So, you’ve been spying on me this whole fucking time?’
‘No,’ Javier snarls. ‘I haven’t told them a thing about you for weeks now.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they got you figured all wrong, man,’ he replies. ‘They must think you’re some sort of criminal, some kind of threat, but I know you’re not. Like I said, you’re one of the good guys, man.’
Javier’s no fool. I believe what he’s telling me. I also believe that whoever was looking at me as a person of interest had me figured right, marking me as a murder suspect, a possible kidnapper and killer of young women in Manhattan. I check my side mirror, see nothing behind us.
‘All right,’ I say. ‘You said OCP’s got guns?’
Javier nods vigorously. ‘Those Integris guys are armed to the fucking teeth, ready for war. Any police brutality that happens against the movement is going to be met with some fierce opposition, I can tell you that.’
‘And they’ll hook us up?’
‘I know the people involved. I can get us both a piece.’
We speed down 14th Street, run two red lights and make a hard left on 8th Avenue. My driving skills are shit, and I hit the horn to warn people out of my way. I try to weave in and out of traffic, but end up jumping kerbs and sideswiping cars. I expect police sirens and lights to go off behind me any minute, but they don’t. Javier looks in his side mirror, then over his shoulder and out the back windows.
‘That Cadillac is back there,’ he says. ‘They’re gaining on us quick.’
‘How close are they?’
‘Just drive faster.’
I floor it, pushing the van as fast as it will go. The Cadillac races up behind, rams us, trying to force us off the road. They try to come alongside, but I use the van’s bulk to keep them at bay.
‘Keep going,’ Javier shouts. ‘We’re almost there.’
The chase through the concrete jungle is a blur until we reach Central Park. As I enter an intersection I hear the screeching of tyres. Then everything goes black with the force of sudden impact.
32
When I regain consciousness I don’t know where I am or what’s going on. Javier is shaking me hard, yelling in my face. Nothing registers. Sights and sounds warp around me. I smell gasoline, burnt rubber. It isn’t until Javier slaps me across the cheek that things snap into focus.
‘C’mon, move it, man!’
He pulls at my shirt. I stumble out of the wreckage and fall to my knees, looking around wildly. A crowd has begun to gather. We’re on the edge of Central Park, near the Pond. The side of the van is crushed, front crumpled into a tree, loud hissing coming from the engine. Multiple vehicles are strewn about, some on the sidewalk, others on the grass and road. All have shattered windows and dented bodies, results of collision. Fifty yards away I see the black Cadillac CTS rolled on its side in the street, bashed to shit, Renard and his men struggling to get out.
‘What happened?’ I gasp, grabbing my knapsack from the front seat.
‘We ran a red light, caused a clusterfuck of a crash,’ Javier replies, pulling me to my feet. ‘It bought us time though.’
We escape into Central Park, stumbling and staggering as we go. I look back to see Renard and his men freeing themselves from their vehicle, readying for pursuit. I try to quicken our pace, but become more aware of the injuries we’ve sustained in the crash. Mostly cuts and bruises, although Javier has a limp he’s trying to walk off unsuccessfully. As we advance further into the park I pull Javier away from the illuminated pathways and into the shadows.
‘Stick to the dark,’ I say. ‘We have an advantage.’
From the knapsack I retrieve the night-vision glasses I swiped back at the apartment. When I place them over my eyes, the surrounding night is instantly bathed in a soft green glow.
‘Cat’s eyes,’ I say, turning to Javier and tapping the specs. ‘Follow me.’
I lead Javier past the Wollman Rink and onto Bethesda Fountain. The presence of sleeping protesters grows as we progress toward the Great Lawn. They grumble and bitch as we run between them and disturb their rest. Behind we hear Renard angrily shouting orders to his men. They’re hard on our trail, but we manage to stay one step ahead.
Near the boat house shots are fired. Rapier rounds splinter through tree trunks, kicking up dirt around us. People scattered about in sleeping bags and blankets begin to rise up in a panic, screaming and shouting. The spooked crowds start running in all directions, crying for help, allowing us to give our pursuers the slip. By the time we make it to the masses at the Great Lawn, Occupy Central Park is wide awake and alert. Javier and I sl
ip in amongst the thicker crowds and slow down, keeping an eye on the police officers running to the scene, alerted by the sound of screams and gunfire. I look back, see Renard and his men stop at the edge of the lawn and put their weapons away before wading into the crowds to look for us.
‘Okay,’ Javier says, taking me by the elbow. ‘Now you follow me.’
He leads me through the closely packed people to a large orange tent inside one of the baseball diamonds. A tall, muscular guy guarding it stops us, but then lets us pass when he recognizes Javier. Inside the tent a bearded man stands at the centre holding an open gym bag, reaching in and passing out handguns and machine pistols to others who stow them in their jackets and pants. I quickly realize it’s the same guy I’ve seen speaking through the megaphone on the podium, one of the apparent leaders of OCP. I pocket my cat’s eyes and Javier takes me to him. Beard Man finally notices me when we’re within arm’s reach. Before I know it he’s pointing a Desert Eagle in my face, hammer cocked and trigger finger itching to squeeze.
‘Friend or foe?’
‘A friend,’ Javier says quickly. ‘A friend we can trust.’
I hold my hands out, palms up, keeping cool in the situation. I’ve had so many guns pointed at me tonight I’m almost numb to it. Beard Man looks me over suspiciously, the sidearm held steady in the grip of a professional. I suspect he’s ex-military or former law enforcement. He trusts me about as much as I trust him. The fact that I’m showing no fear irritates him. He presses the cold metal of the gun barrel to my forehead.
‘Why did you bring him here?’ he asks Javier.
‘We need guns,’ Javier replies. ‘We’re desperate.’
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