by David Meyer
A small group of rioters ran up to the building. They attacked the ungated door and unbarred windows with crowbars and tire irons. Failing to gain access, they moved on to the next target.
“Looks like a popular spot,” Graham remarked.
My satphone buzzed. Pulling it out of my pocket, I saw a message from Malware.
You have 12 minutes, I read. Or she dies.
Graham glanced over my shoulder, read the message. “Guess we’d better get to the street.” Turning around, he stared at a nearby access door encased in concrete. “Think it’s locked?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Reaching out, I grabbed hold of an old-fashioned fire escape. “We’re not going that way.”
CHAPTER 13
My patent leather shoes, well-scuffed now, pounded against metal as I landed on a rickety platform. Gripping a railing, I twisted in a half-circle and raced toward the next set of steps.
As I descended the fire escape, Graham on my heels, I lost sight of the bigger picture. I still saw the Berserkers, still smelled the acrid smoke, still heard the screams. But everything felt smaller, more localized.
I ran to the lowest platform and peeked over the edge. Directly beneath me, I saw Berserkers. They were grouped around Captain Nemo, a nautical-themed restaurant that offered heaping plates of food, none of it good. An exterior metal grille, secured with a large padlock, blocked its entranceway. A couple of Berserkers attacked the padlock with hammers and wrenches. Others waited impatiently, stomping their feet and grinding their teeth.
Graham stepped onto the platform, causing it to wobble just a bit. I darted to the opposite end and unlatched the access ladder. With a loud shriek, it slid to the ground, nearly grazing one of the Berserkers—a cute blonde with enough eye glitter to light up Times Square—in the back. She darted out of the way and then looked up.
I gave her my most winning smile.
She screamed and flipped me the bird. Heads spun in my direction.
“Was it something I said?” I asked.
“Maybe you just aren’t her type,” Graham replied.
“Thank God for that.”
Just then, the padlock snapped. Berserkers grabbed the grille and pushed it upward. A small commotion broke out as rioters surged into the restaurant. One of them jostled the girl and she fell to the ground. Others tripped over her. Nobody cared though and in less than a second, Berserkers were clambering over each other in a mad race to loot Captain Nemo for all it was worth.
Graham frowned as he watched the stampede unfold. “You’d think they were ransacking a bank. What do they think they’re going to find in there anyway?”
“Food poisoning?” I guessed.
Grabbing the ladder, I descended into the madness. The first few steps were uneventful. Then the rungs started to tremble. Looking down, I saw two guys shaking the ladder. The blonde, newly escaped from the pile, stood nearby. Her face was bruised, her glitter was smeared, and her clothes were ripped. She was pointing at me, shouting obscenities, telling the guys to rip me apart. And they were actually listening to her.
Some people will do anything to get laid.
The guys shook harder. Rust screeched and metal groaned. Sharp snapping noises rang out. Glancing up, I saw the ladder break loose from its anchor. Then it shifted.
And I started to fall.
Graham reached down, gripped my hand. I slammed to a halt. For a moment, I dangled above the blonde and her minions. Then one of them grabbed a bottle from the sidewalk. He threw it and the bottle crashed into my knee. It exploded upon impact, sending ripe beer all over my tuxedo pants.
I sure hope tuxedo shops don’t have black lists.
Knee throbbing, I reached up. Grabbed Graham’s other hand. With a loud grunt, he lifted me a few inches and I was able to prop my elbow onto the grated platform. Then I pulled myself up the rest of the way.
More bottles soared toward us. They shattered against the platform and the protective railing, showering us with beer and bits of glass.
Graham ducked down. “Why are they helping her?”
“Because she’s got better legs than me.”
We were fifteen feet off the ground. Even if we survived the jump unscathed, which was no sure thing, the blonde’s minions still presented a problem.
Shifting my gaze, I stared at the still unbreached-doorway to 1199 Madison Avenue. It stood there, mocking me. So close, yet so unreachable.
A small crowd of masked Berserkers appeared in the middle of the intersection. They stopped and looked around, checking their surroundings.
“Don’t look now,” I said. “But Saul and his buddies are back.”
“You know, I was just starting to miss them.”
The tallest one—Saul—turned in a slow circle. Then he stopped, cocked his head. And peered in my direction.
Yells and shouts rang out. Bottles ceased flying toward us. Glancing down, I saw a curved line of police officers. They strode west on E. 75th Street, clearing the way for yet another armored vehicle.
The vehicle—a truck—was huge, easily twice the length of the armored cars I’d seen earlier. It was painted a blazing white and rode on six oversized tires. Bright blue letters on its side read, NYPD.
The blonde’s minions, armed with half-broken bottles and enough liquid courage to feed a gang of pirates, went after the officers. A couple of batons, swung with jaw-cracking force, send them scurrying back to the sidewalk.
“Keep moving,” one of the officers shouted. “And stick together.”
Saul and his gang backed up. Other Berserkers began to gather in the middle of Madison Avenue. The officers, adorned in full riot gear, marched past my position and stopped in front of them. The two sides stared at each other, unblinking.
The armored truck halted almost directly beneath me, oblivious to the chaos around it. A strange contraption, similar to a mounted gun, was attached to its roof. Officers surrounded the truck, their eyes glued on nearby Berserkers.
“The truck’s our best bet,” I said. “We hit the roof and then make a beeline for that building.”
“How do we get past the cops?”
“By putting our faith in the Berserkers.” I swung my legs over the railing and leapt into the sky. Hot wind pushed against my face. Smoke and debris filled my mouth, my lungs.
My tuxedo shoes hit the roof and skidded along the slick surface. My legs slid out from under me and I fell, smacking my back against metal and driving the smoke out of my lungs. I lay there for a second, face screwed up in pain.
“Ooaa.” I grunted in agony as Graham belly-flopped onto my chest and stomach. He bounced off of me and his back hit the roof with a soft thud. For a moment, we lay there, unable to move, unable to talk. Unable to do anything but stare at the flashing lights and moonlit sky.
“You …” I inhaled a few breaths. “You could’ve waited for me to get out of the way, you know.”
“Yeah.” Graham winced. “But then who would’ve broken my fall?”
Grunting, I rose to my knees, then to my feet. Twisting my neck, I looked past the mounted gun-like contraption and saw Saul’s gang. They stood off to the side, almost directly between us and the awning-covered entrance to 1199 Madison Avenue.
“It’s almost reunion-time,” I said. “Ahh, the good old days. Say, remember that time I punched Saul right in the kisser?”
“That was great. And how about that time he took a urine shower?”
“Another Saul classic.”
Graham watched as yet another gang of Berserkers tried and failed to break into 1199 Madison Avenue. “Quick question. How are we supposed to get in there anyway?”
“Let’s ask.” I rested my aching back against the contraption. Pulling out my satphone, I opened the texting program. We reached 1199 Madison Avenue, I typed on the virtual keyboard.
Malware’s reply was near-instantaneous. Not yet, you didn’t.
Clearly, Malware had eyes on the building. The door is locked, I wrote.
> It’ll be open when—if—you get there. And Cy?
Yeah?
Six minutes. Then she dies.
Abruptly, a group of Berserkers rushed the officers and all hell broke loose in the middle of the intersection. The other officers abandoned the armored truck and ran headfirst into the battle.
I wrenched away from the contraption and … wait, was my back wet? Yes. Yes, it was. But was it just sweat? Or was I bleeding?
I felt the back of my jacket. It was wet, but not sticky. Glancing at my fingertips, I saw some moisture. It didn’t smell salty. In fact, it smelled a little like stale sewage.
I turned around. The contraption was soaked and not from condensation. In fact, it seemed to be leaking in multiple places.
“It’s a water cannon,” I said.
“Well, how about that?” Graham replied. “I haven’t seen one of these since the Civil Rights riots.”
“Apparently, they’re making a comeback.” I studied the cannon. It looked simple enough. Just aim the nozzle, turn on the water, and let her rip. “I’ll clear a path. Don’t stop running until you get inside.”
He shot me a salute. Then he slipped off the roof and disappeared from sight.
I took up position behind the water cannon and aimed the nozzle at Saul and his gang. Then I flicked a switch.
The cannon bucked in my hands as a thick stream of water shot out of the nozzle. It slammed into Saul and his gang. They sailed backward and to the sides. Some smacked into the building. Others, their legs taken out by the torrent of water, crashed to the sidewalk.
Just ahead, I saw Graham weave his way across the street. At the same time, I noticed Saul’s gang getting up, going after him.
Shifting the nozzle, I aimed a steady stream at the masked men, mowing them down.
As Graham neared the door, I saw Saul rise out of the foamy water. He took a second to get his bearings before lunging at Graham.
I shifted the nozzle. A burst of water slammed into his chest and he tumbled backward, head over heels. Then I glanced back toward Graham and …
What the …?
He was gone. He wasn’t outside the door or anywhere near it. I widened my gaze, wondering if I’d accidentally turned him into collateral damage. But no. He was nowhere to be seen.
Hmm … must be inside.
I checked my satphone. 9:17 p.m. Three minutes left.
I released the cannon. Water continued to shoot through the nozzle at great speed. But without me to steer it, it was all over the place, the mechanical equivalent of a bucking bronco. Water shot everywhere … at Berserkers, cops, smoldering cars, decorative trees, the awning, and nearby storefronts. At the same time, Saul and his gang were starting to recover, to regain their feet.
My breaths came short and fast. This wasn’t over.
Not yet.
Not by a long shot.
CHAPTER 14
Shifting the cannon, I unleashed another liquid strike on Saul’s gang. But they were ready this time and three of them, including Saul, escaped the attack.
Sweeping the cannon to the south, I cut down two of the masked men. However, Saul eluded me by hiding behind the mangled remains of a car. I shifted the nozzle, directing the spray through the broken windows. But he ducked down in the nick of time.
Scrapes sounded out behind me. Turning my head, I saw a couple of officers climbing onto the back of the truck. Twisting around again, I noticed the two masked men picking themselves off the sidewalk.
I shot another stream of water at them. It hit hard and they spun off in opposite directions. I aimed another burst at Saul for good measure. Then I turned off the cannon.
A pair of hands grabbed my tux from behind. Shaking loose, I leapt off the vehicle. The street came up fast and I barely had time to duck and roll. My jacket scraped across the asphalt and then I was on my feet, sprinting for the door.
Most of the masked men remained on the ground, conscious but sluggish. However, Saul was a different story. Sliding out from behind the ruined car, he ran to meet me.
Fists flying, we crashed into each other. His right fist struck my gut. My left one caught his jaw. He slipped on the foamy water, fell to his knees. I gave him another punch for good measure. Then I lunged for the door.
My fingers closed around a heavy knob. But it wouldn’t twist. I pounded my fist against the door. It felt like steel.
Come on, Malware … open up!
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw an officer take charge of the water cannon. Other officers hustled toward me, batons and riot shields clenched tight in their gloved hands.
To the side, I noticed the masked men shake their heads free of cobwebs. Meanwhile, Saul rose to his feet and spun toward me.
Metal clicked. The knob twisted in my hand. Swiftly, I wrenched the door open, exposing a black void. I hustled into it and shut the door. Metal clicked again and all sounds—the screams, the sirens, everything—vanished.
I grabbed my satphone, and flicked the screen just in time to see the time change to 9:20 p.m. I exhaled a soft breath. Then the phone dinged and a message appeared on the screen.
A deal’s a deal. She lives … for now.
CHAPTER 15
Terry Horst exhaled a long breath as she tightened her grip on the steering wheel. To the casual observer, she seemed fine. Maybe a little annoyed, but fine. However, the remote proprietary full-body recognition system painted a slightly different picture. Bags, a shade darker than usual, hung under her eyes. Her eyeshadow was a bit mussed compared to images from earlier in the day. And her normally impeccable nails appeared freshly-bitten. Taken as a whole, the details indicated Terry was exhausted and dealing with an emotionally-charged matter.
She wiped her eyes with the heel of her right hand. Then she regripped the steering wheel and exhaled another long breath. What was she thinking? It was impossible to be sure, but again the little details hinted at some possible answers.
First, the radio. It was off. This was a stark contrast to her historic usage rates. When behind the wheel of her JetFlow sports car, Terry listened to NPR roughly 93 percent of the time. That number jumped to 99 percent when the car’s pressure sensors, utilized to determine whether or not passengers were wearing seat belts, indicated she was driving solo.
Second, her route. It lacked direction and showed significant weave patterns. Terry didn’t fit the profile of a normal sports car owner. Automotive data stored in her vehicle’s so-called black box revealed a propensity for highways and straight-line trips. 86 percent of the time she took the most efficient route to her destination. Less than 0.5 percent of her trips were for pure pleasure, defined as starting and ending in the same location with no in-between stops.
And third, her braking. It was unusually hard. Terry was a fairly cautious driver, applying extra force just 2 percent of the time. But on this particular trip, she was braking hard at about ten times her normal rate.
Now came the irritating part. Putting it all together, building a profile based entirely on hard data. What an inconvenience to have to rely on human intuition.
As per usual, the radio had started up with the engine. NPR had played for a full seventy-four seconds before Terry switched it off. Revealingly, script analysis showed a bulletin about the Manhattan riots had gone out at the seventy-two second mark. The other two clues—the meandering route and the hard braking—started immediately after the radio had been switched off. This indicated she’d responded to news about the riot by turning off the radio and engaging in a little therapeutic, distracted driving.
People liked to say eyes were the windows into the soul. That was all sorts of nonsense, spouted by silly dreamers and reinforced by an exploitive film industry. Data though, well, that was the real deal. It didn’t have the whimsical charm or screen presence of a knowing Hollywood gaze. But if you wanted to peer into someone’s very essence, there was nothing quite like it.
Terry cleared her throat. “Cadence?” she said.
“Ye
s, Terry?” Cadence’s voice, rich and musical, floated out of the speakers. Cadence was a next-generation intelligent personal assistant, programmed to perform tasks based on a person’s location and input.
“Connect to Mentanio.”
“Very good. Your standing order?”
“Yes. No, wait. Make that my standing order plus a side of breadsticks with garlic sauce. Do they still have my credit card on file?”
“Let me check.” A brief pause followed. “Yes, Terry. They have your credit card and address. Would you like to know the total bill before we place your order?”
“No. But please add a five-dollar tip for the driver.”
“Very good. Estimated delivery time is forty-five minutes.” Another pause followed before Cadence’s rich voice again filled the car’s speakers. “Your order is placed. The receipt will be emailed to you as per usual. May I help you with anything else, Terry?”
“No. Thank you, Cadence.”
“You’re very welcome, Terry.”
It was amusing, listening to Terry talk to Cadence as one might talk to a servant. In many ways, it was fitting. Just like a servant, Cadence knew far more about her master than the master would ever realize.
A couple of keyboard clicks was all it took to gain access to Terry’s Cadence profile. Mentanio, it turned out, was a small chain of upscale artisan wood-fired pizza joints. Their delivery business was small compared to a traditional pizza place, but still sizable.
Hmm, this … this could be interesting. It wasn’t exactly poetic justice. Still, there was a certain symmetry to it all.
Fourteen minutes later, the driver of a Mentanio-branded sedan experienced sudden, inexplicable brake failure. The steering wheel twisted to the left, resisting all his efforts to control it. The vehicle shot over a small median and, at a speed of fifty-five miles per hour, slammed headfirst into the driver side of an oncoming JetFlow sports car. The JetFlow’s multiple airbags failed to deploy upon impact.