It wasn’t pretty.
He pushed through the crowd.
There was no natural light once inside. Backup generators powered everything. Striplights that made everyone look like wraiths half draped in shadow.
The stairs were jammed even more than usual, and there was absolutely no order to the flow of bodies. No one was managing more than a few steps at a time with the rest of the herd. He didn’t have time for that.
He didn’t know what he was looking for. It wasn’t like they were going to have big neon signs over their heads that proclaimed: Bad guys.
But the last two times he’d come across them, they’d been entering abandoned buildings. The only other time, they’d been tagging the station, and he wasn’t even sure that counted. That didn’t fit the pattern. That was too low-level. Like a distraction from the bigger picture. It didn’t feel right. Penn was far from abandoned; commuters waiting for the first train out of here and the homeless and dispossessed seeking shelter made it feel like Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
Penn was familiar. In times of crisis didn’t people look for the familiar? For known quantities? Things they could trust? Penn Station was a New York institution, not glitzy and touristy like Times Square. There was light, sure, and it was a practical place, a workhorse, solid and reliable—just like New Yorkers pictured themselves. It didn’t hurt that it had a lot of open space for people to congregate in, which made it a good focal point for meeting up. Most of the people here were taking refuge rather than waiting for a train, and that made it tough to spot the terrorist hiding in the mix somewhere.
He used his height and bulk to force his way through the crowd down the long hall, past the Duane Reade and other shops, trying to look everywhere at once, heading toward the ticket booths and platform entries. There was nothing to suggest he wasn’t just chasing shadows. There wasn’t a central computer system like at the stock exchange or the relay station.
At least, not out in the open.
There had to be one, though, he realized—back behind the ticketing booths somewhere. They were all terminals based off a central hub, like the subway. There’d be a control room back there somewhere making sure all the junctions, tracks, and trains interchanged smoothly. Without it, the whole system would devolve into chaos.
That was where these guys would go.
And that changed what he was looking for—the system was off-limits to nonpersonnel, meaning they could hide in plain sight if they were in uniform. All they’d have to do was get back there and they’d have time and privacy.
It also meant that any Amtrak or NJ Transit guys manning the terminals would be an obstacle, and he knew how they dealt with obstacles. But they couldn’t just shoot someone here and shove the body under the tracks. That would cause panic. That wasn’t exactly working from the shadows. It wasn’t their style.
He didn’t sense any panic, only a murmur of how-much-longer-is-this-going-to-last rippling through the crowd.
He rounded the circular Amtrak waiting area. Beneath the big electronic billboard that hung in the middle of the ceiling, crowds of people talked, ate, and some even slept. The billboard flickered like a flattened strobe light. Every single train listed on the board had the word CANCELED beside it. Without that you’d never know there was anything wrong with the world.
New Yorkers at their best. They’re like the cockroaches of the human world. They can weather just about anything, he thought, proud of his people.
He headed across to the Amtrak ticket windows. They were set off to the side, behind several pillars each holding timetables and schedules. There was a maze of chromed stands funneling traffic toward the windows, though nobody was waiting in line right now.
Jake bypassed the maze without risking the wrath of New Yorkers. The ticket windows were behind clear bulletproof plastic—a very definite sign of the times. It wasn’t a problem though. He made his way to the end of the row, past the last window, to an equally transparent door.
Trying to make it look like he belonged there—after all, he was hiding behind an MTA logo, not everyone would spot the difference or think he shouldn’t be there—Jake tried the doorknob. It turned easily, so he didn’t have to sweat the electronic card swipe beside the knob. Chalk one up in favor of the blackout. The generators were obviously only powering bare-bones functionality like lights and heat. Jake pushed the door open.
Nobody called out. No one challenged him.
He looked across to where five officers, all of them in riot gear, manned the little police kiosk at the front of the room. A part of him was tempted to go over there and tell them what was going on, or at least what he thought was going on, and let them lead the charge. They could handle themselves. They had the look of ex-military about them, which meant good instincts and proper training. Here were a bunch of guys much better equipped to handle this shit than Finn was, and yet he knew he was going through that door alone.
It wasn’t some kind of misplaced heroism. He might not be the city’s last chance, but he was certainly one of her best. If he told the cops what he knew, the only way it was going to play out was with them taking him in. He’d have to answer questions. They wouldn’t just turn him loose with a slap on the ass and say, Go take down some bad guys, dude. And that would mean he’d failed. He wasn’t going to let these murderers win. Not now.
He’d come this far, what were a few more steps?
He went through the glass door. There was a narrow hall that allowed access to each of the booths. There was one more door, directly across from where he stood. It was the only one that was the same solid, reassuring blue as the walls around it. The card swipe beside this door wasn’t lit and the knob turned when he tried it. So much for million-dollar security.
Jake gave it a gentle push, then walked into the back end of Amtrak’s Penn Station operation. It had the same generic feel as seemingly every office block in the world: white walls, cramped cubicles, and bland tan carpeting. Most of the lights were out, bar a single emergency strip at the far end of the room. The computer screens were all dark.
He could hear voices. Nearby. Not happy.
“I don’t get it. The algorithm’s not working.”
Jake moved toward the voices, careful not to make a noise.
“Fuck it, just give me another one.”
“It should work,” another voice replied. “Did you remember to—?”
“Of course I did! I’m not a fucking moron. Just give me another one.”
“Fine. Here. Try not to mess this one up.”
“You’re such a motherfucker.”
“Quiet, both of you!” a third voice cut across the squabble. “And hurry up, we’re on the clock!” So there were at least three of them. Jake wasn’t surprised. Two would have been better; one would have been best. With a bit of luck he’d even the odds out quickly.
Jake crept forward as his eyes adjusted to the semi-gloom. He flinched involuntarily when a swath of bright light suddenly appeared ahead, then dropped into a crouch, blinking as he tried to adjust his eyes to it. He half-shielded his face with a hand. After a few seconds he could squint and see blurs. Another few seconds and he could just about make out the light source: one of the screens was live in a cubicle the next cluster over.
It was the source of the voices.
Keeping low, Jake edged over to the cube’s far wall, then lowered himself even more, risking a glance around the partition wall. He didn’t like what he saw. There were five of them, not three. Two sat at desks, hunched over the keyboards while lines of code scrolled by on both screens. A third guy leaned on the backs of both chairs, jabbing a finger at one of the monitors. The boss. Jake wondered how they’d feel about taking his orders if they knew how the rest of the staff had been treated.
The guy jabbed a fat finger at the screen again, losing patience with his crew. Behind him, with their backs to Jake, the last two men both wore dark, well-tailored clothes. They didn’t look like they were here to get their han
ds dirty. Both, he saw, from the way their jackets rode, had holsters at the base of their spines.
One of them twisted to say something but the words didn’t carry to Jake. Something else caught his attention, a small golden glint at the man’s collar. A pin like the one he’d taken from the dead guy. Jake reevaluated his take on who was in charge here. These guys were. And they were the only ones obviously armed. It was only one body different from how he’d imagined it going down.
Time to shake things up a bit.
First, he needed to neutralize the guns.
He thought for a moment about going back out to get the cops—a wall of body armor would be useful to hide behind. It wasn’t five-on-one, he realized, it was only two-on-one. Think of it that way and it wasn’t so bad, though there wasn’t much in the cube he could use to go up against a couple of guns.
He thought about sticking the pin on his lapel and walking up to them. He could fake it, say he’d been sent to see how things were progressing, and take them out before they realized he wasn’t one of them. As a plan, it was pretty thin, but it had its merits: there weren’t too many moving parts to fuck up. But then again, it only needed one thing to go wrong.
Twenty feet from where he hunkered down, he saw a fire extinguisher in a wall case. That could work. He ghosted over to it, lifting the heavy red canister from its brackets. Nice and solid. Capable of doing some serious damage. That gave him an alternative to the knife, something that meant he didn’t have to get right up close and personal to have an impact.
He crept back to the cube again, listening for the slightest change in sounds.
They were still fixated on the screens. All five of them with their backs to Jake. That should have made things a lot easier, but it didn’t.
It made the inevitable next step harder because he didn’t want to kill them. He wanted answers. Dead men didn’t talk. Combat wasn’t always face-to-face, but the majority of the time it was, whether it was fighting enemy soldiers on Baghdad Highway or going toe-to-toe with drunks in a bar. Those people all knew he was coming, and were engaging him with the same intent. It was about meting out punishment, disabling an enemy combatant as quickly and efficiently as possible.
This was different.
Three men here could be victims.
They didn’t have to be the same stone-cold killers the guys with the gold pins were. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t fight like a bitch if he stepped out from behind the cube and said, Hey, honey, I’m home. After all, even if they were relatively innocent victims here, they weren’t going to be happy to see him.
Jake took a series of deep breaths, bringing his body under control. He stood up straight, breaking cover. Two long strides took him to within arms’ reach of both gunmen.
The one on the left lost life’s lottery. Jake smashed the bottom edge of the fire extinguisher into the base of the man’s skull and dropped him like a stone. The dull thud of the impact was followed a heartbeat later by the slump of the body hitting the floor, and the other four turned to stare at Jake, trying to work out what the source of this new threat was, only for him to raise the extinguisher above his head and loose a primal roar as he charged the other gunman.
There was a split second in it; it all came down to the agonizing silence between one heartbeat and the next.
The gunman reached for his weapon.
Jake’s was in his hand.
That was the difference. He swung the extinguisher as hard as he could, all of his raw anger, fear, and desperation behind it, whipping the heavy metal cylinder around in a tight, level arc. The meat of it hit the gunman square in the right arm, above the elbow, as he managed to turn slightly into the blow, protecting himself. He was right-handed and the gun went spinning from his hand as the pain reflex sprung his fingers open.
Jake didn’t hesitate.
He had one chance.
He stepped in close, bringing the fire extinguisher up in a savage arc. It seemed to happen so slowly. The gunman’s head rose, meeting the extinguisher halfway; it took him square in the jaw and he went down spitting blood.
Jake followed up with a vicious kick to the head.
The guy wasn’t getting up in a hurry.
Two down. Three to go.
Three, who hopefully wouldn’t fight too hard.
Then a shot rang out, its silenced report brutal in the confines of the room.
Jake stared at the hackers in surprise.
They stared right back at him, just as confused. Then there were two, as one of them, the one standing, slumped forward, losing his grip on a chair back as a red rose blossomed in the middle of his shirt. A second gunshot brought another’s hand up to clutch stupidly at his throat as the skin started flapping while he sucked in the last air he’d ever breathe, and then he fell, blood leaking out around his fingers.
Jake spun around.
There, behind him, the first gunman, blood dripping down the side of his face, was back on his feet, gun-hand wavering as he tried to take aim. His eyes locked on Jake.
Fuck. The guy had a head made of granite.
There wasn’t time or space to swing the extinguisher again, so Jake dropped it, lunging forward to close the distance.
The gunman got off two more shots before Jake cannoned into him.
Neither hit.
He reached out with both hands, one clamping down on the gunman’s upper arm, the other slamming palmfirst into his gun-hand. The sudden impact shoved the man’s hand to the side. Jake continued the motion, pushing on the gun itself now, forcing it around until the barrel pointed inward, at the gunman’s own chest. It went off, the guy’s finger clenching the trigger out of sheer surprise. There was a look, not pain, not fear, not even death, that crossed the gunman’s eyes as he realized he’d just killed himself. Satisfaction?
The gun slipped from his lifeless fingers as he fell to the floor. This time he wouldn’t be getting back up.
Jake spun around, scanning the room. The other men were all on the ground. He hadn’t seen the third guy go down. He must have taken one of those last two shots Jake thought were misses. He wasn’t going to cry over it.
They knew what they were getting into, or at least who they were getting into bed with. They should have done their due diligence. And to be brutally blunt about it, if he hadn’t gotten involved their life expectancy was only a couple of minutes more, so in short it sucked to be them, but it wasn’t his doing.
There was one guy down who hadn’t been shot, though he had taken two pretty savage blows to the head, so he wasn’t going to be in a good place even if he lived. Jake crouched beside him and checked for a pulse. Faint and thready, but faint and thready was a lot better than nonexistent. Jake pulled his sleeve down, grabbed the man’s gun, and tossed it into the nearest trash can. He’d thought about taking it for a split second.
There were two problems with guns: one, they escalated things; the less obvious problem was what happened if you got caught with it. He had no idea what kind of shit the piece had been used in, how many open cases it could link him to. So no guns. He’d done okay without one so far.
He turned his attention back to the injured man, frisking him. He removed a ceramic knife from the guy’s boot and a switchblade from his pocket. He ditched both of them before slapping the guy across the face.
“Wakey wakey, pretty boy.” Jake shook the man by the shoulder. “Come on, back to the land of the living.” He slapped the guy again.
He stirred slightly, wincing.
“That’s it. Open your eyes.”
He slapped him again, not as hard this time, and earned a groggy groan before the guy squinted, blinked, and finally did as he was told, opening his eyes.
“Welcome back.”
He gave no reaction to the sight of Jake’s face right up in his.
“You’re the last man standing,” Jake told him. “Or last man lying, I guess. So why don’t you and me have a little chat? I’ve got a few questions for you. For starter
s, and most importantly, what the actual fuck is going on?” He reached down for the guy’s throat, closing a hand around it, his fingers digging in. That was when he noticed the gold pin with its weird eye design. “Who are you guys, anyway? Freemasons? Scientologists? Some weird fucked-up cult shit like that?”
The man glared at him and muttered something, but it was under his breath.
“Try that again. Talk to me, big guy, tell me all your secrets.”
The man wriggled beneath him, like he was trying to break free, and as Jake backhanded another slap across his face, he thrust out his jaw to take it and bit down hard.
In the silence of the back room, Jake distinctly heard something go pop. Something inside his prisoner’s mouth. He realized what it meant a second too late to do anything about it, but that didn’t stop him from grabbing the guy’s chin and trying to force his jaw apart.
But the guy just lay there, a froth of foam bubbling between smiling lips and streaming from his nose, before he shuddered and his eyes rolled back into his skull. He stopped breathing altogether a few seconds later.
“Fuck! Just . . . fuck! Fuck!” Jake yelled at the dead man, slamming a clenched fist down on its chest. “I only wanted a couple of answers . . . Jesus . . . Was that really worth killing yourself over?”
The dead man had thought so.
So had the guys who’d given him that golden iris pin on his lapel and whatever other death-before-dishonor crap they’d fed him.
Cyanide capsules hidden in fake teeth? It was straight out of James Bond.
Chapter Twenty-eight
FINN PUSHED THROUGH THE PAIR OF NOT-SO-AUTOMATIC DOORS that lined the front of Port Authority. The chill of the coming winter night crept in with her.
Okay, she thought, if I wanted to cause maximum chaos, where would I start?
This was unlike her. She couldn’t quite remember why she’d volunteered to chase shadows with Jake. She wasn’t even with him. She was out here on her own and the shadows she was chasing had guns. She was trying to impress him. He was a glorified goddamn electrician, he should have been the one trying to impress her. It was all ass-backward.
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