by Scott Gamboe
The hallway he followed descended further into the bowels of the Memorial. Signs indicated he was close to the loading area for the elevators servicing the top of the Arch. Although he had not visited the Arch in years, he clearly remembered the oddly disorienting sensation of riding the tram to the top. The peculiarly sloping shaft took the cars on a curving route. The elevators were all disabled for the evening, so Karim could not have taken any of them. Still, he was nowhere in sight.
The décor in the hallway outside the loading area had changed since his last trip. Murals depicting Saint Louis life in the past few centuries decorated the walls, with paintings of steamboats, pioneers, railways, and even Mark Twain.
Two silhouetted figures appeared in the dimly lit room. He leveled his pistol at them before he realized they were only cutouts, part of the display for the entertainment of the tourists who were waiting to visit the top of the Arch. He peeked over a low concrete wall. The stairwell below him was clear. From the next level below, he heard the sound of breaking glass. He rushed down the stairs just as the door swung shut. A sign on the door indicated the area was restricted to employees.
Jim had a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach when he realized the implied meaning of Karim's route. He likely knew he was trapped and was planning to detonate one of the nukes he carried. If he set it off so far below ground, it would not cause as much damage as an aerial burst. Karim would scale the interior stairwell to the top of the Arch and set off a bomb, killing untold numbers of people.
Jim swept through the elevator room. He approached the door with the shattered window. It was unlocked. He rushed through and swung his pistol about wildly as he checked the area. Much to his relief, the walls of the stairwell subdued the din of the alarm system. He moved to the steps with his pistol pointed up the darkened stairwell. Karim was out of his field of view, but the staccato pinging of his shoes on the metal stairs was plainly audible. Jim kicked off his own shoes. He vaulted onto the stairs and dashed up, silent as smoke.
Immediately, the familiar feeling of panic set in. It felt as if someone had struck him in the stomach. The air was musty and stale, and the walls of the narrow shaft seemed to close in all about him. He was sweating heavily, more from his fear of suffocating than from his exertions. He clenched his jaw against what he was feeling and pressed on.
He paced himself, sacrificing speed for the element of surprise and a small reserve of energy. The patter of footsteps above became more irregular, a sign that Karim was tiring. The structure about them began to angle to one side, gradually at first and then more sharply. They were near the top.
Unfortunately, the higher he climbed, the narrower the shaft became. His hands were trembling, and he gasped for air as he continued his ascent. The switchback pattern of the flights of stairs was interrupted more frequently by tightly winding spiral staircases. Eventually, the sound of footsteps halted completely. Jim slowed to a walk. Either Karim had heard him, or he had gone as high as he wanted. Jim hoped it was the latter.
His hopes were dashed when several shots ripped through the elevator shaft and whizzed past his head. Like someone had thrown a switch, his survival instincts overwhelmed his unreasoning fears, and he took action. He fired blindly in the direction of the muzzle flash, once, twice, then two more. With his last shot, a gun clattered away from the platform above and plunged into the darkness, resounding with a metallic clank when it rebounded from the walls. Jim crept up the next flight of stairs, weapon still held ready.
A shadow detached itself from the railing above. It swung down and collided with Jim. He crashed into the wall with a sharp grunt. His pistol tumbled free and clattered dangerously close to the edge of the platform. His assailant whirled about to reach for the dropped weapon. Jim's hands closed about his waist like an iron vice and held him back. The two struggled against each other's strength, neither able to gain ground. Jim feared his stamina might fade first, so he changed tactics.
With a sudden push, he thrust Karim out against the railing, leaving him precariously close to the pistol. Before the surprised terrorist could reach for the weapon, Jim's foot lashed out. His pistol went the way of Karim's handgun. Both regained their footing and circled each other warily. By the subdued glow of the emergency lighting, Jim saw the dark flow of blood that trickled down Karim's right side. One of Jim's shots had gotten lucky.
And it was to that side that Jim launched his attack. Karim's right arm, almost useless, was unable to hold him back. Jim tackled him to the hard metal floor. He struck his foe in the head. The anger at all he had been through in the past few weeks erupted to the surface in a frenzied torrent of rage and uncontrolled violence. Blood splattered from Karim's ruined nose. His jaw hung unhinged. Mercilessly, Jim continued to batter him with everything he had.
Karim's left hand dipped beneath his shirt and produced a small knife. He plunged the blade into Jim's side. A fiery sensation ripped through his gut. As Jim rolled away, he caught site of the two briefcases, one of them open, on the landing above them. Its LED screen flashed an urgent message in unreadable characters. Karim had tried to detonate the nuke.
Jim clambered to his feet. The rush of adrenaline-fueled energy was behind him. Karim was not much better. Blood flowed profusely from his shoulder and the number of wounds Jim's fists had inflicted. Karim still held the knife in his left hand. He presented it in an en garde position. He stepped lightly closer.
Jim held his hands in front of him, his palms turned to his own face to protect the vulnerable tendons in the underside of his forearms. Karim held the knife low. He waved it back and forth as he closed the distance. The two combatants' mingled blood made for treacherous footing on the dusty metal platform.
Karim thrust the knife twice in rapid succession. Jim dodged the first, then swept Karim's outstretched hand aside. The blade ripped open another wound on Jim's right side, but he fastened his fingers around Karim's wrist. He drove an elbow into Karim's face. He spun about as the knife fell harmlessly away. With his left hand locked in place, he drove his right sharply against the exposed elbow. The crack of bone resounded in the narrow confines of the elevator shaft. Karim's weakened right arm swept back to strike a glancing blow against Jim's temple. The two staggered apart. Karim dropped to one knee while Jim leaned against the railing.
The knife lay tantalizingly close. Jim took two gulping breaths, then dove for the blade. Karim slid in at the same time. They crashed into each other with stunning force. Karim struck a blow to the deep knife wound on Jim's right side. An agonizing wave of pain rushed through Jim's body once more as Karim secured the blade. Jim fell to his left with a gasp. He barely managed to raise his hands in time as Karim's hand descended with the knife.
From far below, he heard the door to the elevator shaft bang open, followed the tramp of booted feet. He hoped it was the SWAT officers of the Saint Louis Police Department. Karim looked away to the briefcases a scant ten steps away. His lip curled as he growled his anger. He pressed the knife ominously closer to Jim's chest.
Somehow, Jim found a reserve of strength from deep within. He drove his fingers into the throat of the struggling form above him. Karim grunted. The pressure on the knife eased momentarily. That was all the room Jim needed. He rolled to one side and tossed Karim to the bloody platform. Jim staggered to his feet.
Karim lunged for him once more, but this time Jim was ready. He caught both of Karim's hands in his own. Rolling backward, he planted his feet squarely in the center of Karim's chest. He thrust upward with every ounce of his remaining strength. The bloody, battered terrorist heaved up and over the railing, hands thrashing in a futile effort to arrest his trajectory. With a despairing wail, he disappeared into the darkness. His scream faded until it was suddenly cut off.
Jim lay on his back and gasped for air. His head spun in nauseating circles. The new arrivals continued their ascent, but Jim found he did not have the strength to call out to them. The last thing he remembered was the sight of a rifle muzzl
e drawing even with his platform.
EPILOGUE
Officer Jim Hunter stood in the hallway outside his lieutenant's office. The confrontation at the top of the Arch was two weeks behind him, but he had not healed enough to return to full duty. He thought briefly about the events that led him to where he stood.
The Saint Louis SWAT team had entered the Arch, acting on Ryan's phone call. They found Ryan and Krista on the main floor. Ryan was incoherent, but Krista showed Ryan's NSA credentials. She briefed the officers on the situation and told them which way Jim and Karim had run. They found Jim unconscious near the top of the Arch, along with the two briefcase nukes. Their bomb squad responded, and they were able to disarm both devices. The open briefcase had only been a few commands away from detonation.
The authorities had rushed Jim to the hospital. Once he had been treated for his wounds, the police officers promptly placed under arrest. After Ryan regained consciousness and substantiated the wild alibi Jim had provided, all charges against him were dismissed. He spent several days in the hospital before he returned to the Bloomington area. With his apartment destroyed, he had no place to stay. Krista offered the hospitality of her home in Utica.
But his time of reckoning was at hand. While criminal charges had been dismissed, it was hard to say what the police department would do. The fact that Jim had been involved with so many questionable figures, including members of organized crime, corrupt cops, and international terrorists, would surely be viewed as detrimental to the department's image. He fully expected to be told he needed to resign. He would fight that to the end. He spent four years in college studying to be a cop, not to mention another two years working security jobs. Police work was his life. He would not give it up so easily.
The door opened, and Lieutenant Ben Johnson waved him into the office. Jim gingerly eased himself into a padded chair. The pair of knife wounds had still not properly healed. Johnson flipped through several pages of notes.
"How are you doing, Jim?"
"Everything is healing." He touched his fingertips to his side and winced. "Slowly."
"How about the headaches?"
"Haven't had one in a week. I've seen the department counselor about it every day since I got back to Bloomington." He managed a rueful smile. "I should have done that weeks ago."
"Glad to hear it." Ben flipped through a thick manila folder on his desk. "Based on my recommendation, the department has decided to keep you on. I was also successful in having you retained in the detective bureau. The Chief feels you were an innocent victim here. You're a smart cop, although I don't understand how you could have been Matt James's roommate for so long and not have the slightest idea that he was working for the mob.
"But I guess that's all behind us now. Once you're released by the doctor, you'll return to duty here in the Bureau, with one condition."
Ben rested his head on one hand. "You had help from known organized crime figures during this escapade. Granted, to the best of our knowledge, you broke no laws, and you did not help them to break any. But you must dissolve all connections with the Marcel Crime Family."
Jim's blinked. "What are you talking about, Lieutenant? I haven't spoken with any of them since this thing ended."
Johnson sat down once more and held up a sheet of paper. "I see you have been living with one Krista Marcel for the past week. I believe that qualifies as associating with organized crime, wouldn't you say?"
"Are you nuts? Krista has never been a member of the mob!"
Johnson shrugged. "Nevertheless, she is the daughter of one of Chicago's most notorious criminals. It would be against the Code of Conduct for you to associate with her."
Jim's eyes dropped to his shoes. He slowly stood and placed his hands in his pockets. His downcast gaze rose to meet the lieutenant. "Okay, sir, if that's the way it has to be. But you should know one thing before I go."
"What's that?"
Jim's hand slipped free. He tossed his badge onto Johnson's desk. "You've got an opening in the Detective Bureau." He opened the door and paused to look back once more. "You'll have my resignation on your desk in the morning."
#
The sun was high overhead, autumn's approach not yet able to chase away the summer heat. Jim and Krista stood, hand-in-hand, admiring the sign on the wall outside the new office. He ran his fingers lightly over the raised letters and smiled at the radiant woman beside him.
"Do you think it'll work?" she asked.
"Are you kidding me? I still have close friends on the department. They'll provide me with all the inside information I need about anyone. We have Ryan with the NSA." He grinned once more. "Not to mention a friend or two in Chicago's underworld."
Krista laughed. The warm breeze gently lifted her hair as she pulled Jim close. "Hunter and Marcel, Private Investigators. I like the sound of it."
Jim unlocked the door. He stepped aside and held it open. "After you, partner."
###
About the author:
Scott Gamboe was born and raised in Peoria, Illinois. He has been a police officer since 1998, where he currently serves as a crime scene investigator. He spent four years in the Army, where he was a paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne Division, participating in the 1989 invasion of Panama, and Operation Desert Shield / Desert Storm the following year. He currently resides in Edwards, Illinois with his wife, Jill, and their daughter, Erica.
Discover other titles by Scott Gamboe at www.scottgamboe.net:
The Killing Frost
The Piaras Legacy
New Dawn Rising