"Maybe if you weren't so picky with the paint colors and carpeting we might have-"
"Gentlemen," Marlene interrupted, "can we take this up some other time. I believe we have a son and a city to rescue."
Ten minutes later they were ready to go. The guns and other equipment had been repacked and taken to a van that was waiting outside. While the others trooped off down the stairs, Marlene said good-bye to Karp and Giancarlo, who'd emerged sleepy-eyed and in tears.
"Don't go," Giancarlo wept.
"I have to go get your brother, honey," Marlene said. "He sent you to get help; we can't let him down, can we?"
Giancarlo shook his head and crowded in against his father, who wrapped his arm around his son's shoulders. "Just promise me you'll come back," he sobbed.
Marlene looked up and into her husband's eyes. "I promise," she said. She turned to go, giving a silent hand signal to Gilgamesh, who jumped up and bounded out the door ahead of her.
"Momma!" Giancarlo yelled, but she was gone.
Fifteen minutes later, a white van pulled up in an alley across the street from the theater. Nine people and one very large dog jumped out and headed into a side door of the older apartment building that faced the theater and had been opened by a young Vietnamese man in the uniform of a New York City police officer. A few minutes later, they were all safely in a dark room looking out at their target.
"Two men out front," said a second young Vietnamese man, who was also dressed as a cop. "We don't think they are using radios to communicate with those inside because we've seen them using hand signals. There is another man just inside the doors. He apparently asks those who enter for a password, which may be problematic as it makes sense that they have some sort of video surveillance unit inside the theater to watch the front. Once someone goes in, they don't come back out, at least not this way, so this must be their access to the tunnels."
"Well done, Minh," Tran said. He turned to the others. "So it appears we will have to fight our way in, which will take our element of surprise."
"Maybe not," Jojola said. He'd been thinking about his dreams. Charlie Many Horses rarely spoke to him unless there was a good reason. "Remember what the bear said," he said aloud.
"What?" Marlene asked.
"What the bear said," Jojola repeated. "Lucy, what was that Arabic response?"
"Wa alaikum salaam?" Lucy replied.
"Yes, now give that to me again," Jojola said.
After he'd repeated it until Lucy gave him a nod, Jojola turned to the others. "Okay, here's my plan; if you have a better one, speak up."
A few minutes later, the two men outside the theater watched an old bum who stood across the street facing them. The man's long hair and beard were matted and he wore a filthy Santa Claus suit with high-top tennis shoes. He'd been standing there for an hour, just watching them; their shouts telling him to move on had done nothing. Only now did he say something, and in a voice that seemed to bounce off the nearby buildings:
"AND BEHOLD, A PALE HORSE. AND THE NAME OF HIM WHO SAT ON IT WAS DEATH, AND HADES FOLLOWED WITH HIM. AND POWER WAS GIVEN TO THEM OVER A FOURTH OF THE EARTH TO KILL WITH SWORD, WITH HUNGER, WITH DEATH, AND WITH THE BEASTS OF THE EARTH."
"Go away, crazy man," one of the guards shouted, but he was distracted when his comrade tugged on his elbow and nodded to a man who was walking toward them. Their job was to watch for sudden increases in interest from people watching the theater or police activity. They'd grown more nervous as people filtered toward Times Square, but most of the celebrators had skirted the construction zone cones and yellow tape in front of the theater by crossing to the other side of the street. The stranger ducked under the tape, nodded to them conspiratorially, and hurried up the steps and into the theater.
"Must be a brother from the Philippines," one of the men said to the other. "An ugly people, if you ask me."
"Maybe. I saw some who looked like him when I was fighting for the jihad in Chechnya," the second man replied. "But he looks like a fighter, so I'm glad to have him on our side. Can you see if he made it past Ahmad?"
"He's giving him the password now."
Inside the theater's front door, Ahmad, the same large Yemeni who'd confronted the twins, stepped in front of John Jojola. "A salaam alaikum," he said.
"Wa alaikum salaam," Jojola replied.
The big man relaxed. "Why are you so late?" he asked.
"I'm supposed to report on the crowds," Jojola said, nodding in the general direction of Times Square.
"Well, you better hurry; they're almost finished with our little surprise for the infidels."
Jojola hurried in, glancing at his watch. He had three minutes to find the surveillance equipment. He saw a door marked Employees Only and, on a hunch, opened it and went up the stairs. Sitting at a monitor in what would otherwise have been the theater's technical booth were two sleepy Middle Eastern men.
"A salaam alaikum," he said.
"Wa alaikum salaam," they replied. "What are you doing here? You should be in the tunnel. There're only three hours left."
"Charlie Many Horses sent me with a message," Jojola said.
"Charlie who? What message?"
"Charlie said to say, 'Fuck you, you scumbag,'" Jojola snarled, drawing his knife from its sheath and lashing out with a foot that caught one of the men in the throat, propelling him into a wall.
The second man reacted by reaching for the radio headset he'd removed after Jojola got past Ahmad. But Jojola pinned his hand to the table with the knife. The man's scream was cut short by the bullet Jojola put in his temple with the small.380 handgun with silencer he'd secreted in a boot.
Jojola turned to the other man, who sat with his back against the wall, trying to breathe through a crushed larynx. "Happy New Year," Jojola said, pumping two rounds into his skull. He then whipped out the radio headset from his pants pocket, flipped the switch, and said, "Let's go."
Outside, a woman accompanied by a large dog came jogging down the sidewalk toward the two men out front. "Go around," they shouted and waved.
"I don't want my dog to get hit by a car," Marlene shouted back, ignoring the fact that there were no cars on the street.
The two men looked at each other and shrugged, stepping back to allow the dog and woman to pass. "Nice doggy," one said just as the woman made a movement with her hands. The next thing the man knew, the nice doggy had him by the throat. But there was hardly time for him to be frightened as with a shake of his head, the dog tore his throat out.
The second man backed away in horror but there was little to do but scream once before the dog was on him. Gilgamesh's powerful jaws smashed through the arm the man had thrown up to protect himself, then bore in at the man's neck. With a crunch, the man's neck snapped.
Marlene looked up the steps just as a large black man emerged from the doors drawing a gun. "Help me," she cried. "My dog's gone crazy."
"Stand back," the man yelled, waving her out of his line of fire at the ferocious beast that was killing his comrades. Then a surprised look came over the man's face and his gun clattered to the ground; he groped once at the hunting knife that protruded from his back and then collapsed.
Jojola appeared and wrenched his knife from the dying man and dragged the body inside. At the same moment, the white van pulled up in front of the theater and the rest of the team jumped out and hurried up the stairs, carrying several suitcases, except for the two Vietnamese "police officers" who quickly hauled the bodies of the two guards into the van.
"Nice doggy," one of them said to Gilgamesh, who wagged his tail as blood dripped from his jowls. There was a sharp whistle and the dog turned and ran up the stairs, following his mistress and the others into the theater.
The two faux police officers set up traffic cones around the front of the theater and van, which they then festooned with crime scene tape.
The two officers then sprinted into the building.
The group made their way into the basement, Tran's sappers
easily taking out two guards at the entrance to a hole that had been dug in the foundation and led into an older sewer line. Electric lights had been strung along the main route, past side tunnels and holes in the walls where the brickwork had collapsed. Jojola noted tracks from many men as well as motorized vehicles. "Carrying something heavy," he said, "probably how they brought the barrels into the tunnel."
The electric lights ran out at a particular large hole in the sewer line but the tracks led through it into a large, dark cavern. The team put on their night-vision goggles and proceeded through with Tran's men, Jojola, and Gilgamesh on point.
The team had stopped to discuss their next move when Gilgamesh began growling at the dark space in front of them, and then at places on each side. Where there had been no one, suddenly the goggles' infrared sensors began picking up figures moving in the shadows.
"We're surrounded," Marlene said. The team formed a circle, guns bristling and pointed at the people moving in the dark.
"There must be a hundred of them," Ned whispered. "Do we shoot?"
"No," Lucy said. "I think we've found who we're looking for…or he found us."
The figures closed in around them and now the team could pick out individual faces-strange, emaciated, hollow-eyed faces, many disfigured or covered by sores-and made more ghastly by the green imaging of the goggles. They wore an assortment of clothing that appeared to have been scavenged from Dumpsters as well as more primitive robes and sack cloths. They carried weapons although these, too, were makeshift-a few guns, spears, knives, and even clubs.
Two of them, both wearing hooded robes that covered their faces, stepped forward. "So we meet one last time at the end of all things," the taller of the two said and threw back his hood.
"David," Lucy cried.
"Hello, Lucy." He smiled but only briefly before his face grew grave again. "You shouldn't have come, unless it is your wish to die here with us."
"We might die, but first we have to stop these evil people from setting off that bomb," Lucy replied.
"I'm afraid I can't let you do that," Grale said. "I…we've decided that this is the will of God. Jesus's kingdom on Earth cannot be established until the last battle and this will be the beginning of it."
"How can you say that when it means tens of thousands of people will die?" Lucy asked. "Innocent people, David. What happened to the good man who used to work in the Catholic soup kitchens and championed the poor?"
"Every man has to follow the path God has set for him," Grale replied. "I am just an instrument of the Lord. I have hunted the demons in the depths below the Sodom of our times, but they are gathering in ever greater numbers. This explosion will also destroy them. I know it may be hard to understand, dear Lucy, but what is it if thousands die but the world and mankind are saved?"
"You're crazy, David," Marlene said. "Who are you to say what God intends?"
"I know what I know, Marlene," Grale said. "We will not try to stop these men."
"Then step aside and let us pass," Marlene replied. "If we succeed then that, too, would be God's will."
Grale shook his head. "I will not allow it. This is the moment the Bible speaks of."
"Then you and your people will die. My son is in there, and I'm going to go get him."
"Did you ever wonder why you named your child Isaac? The child born to be sacrificed to God," Grale shouted. He raised his knife like Abraham at the altar and his eyes flashed insanely. "Leave now, while there is time to enjoy your family and lives before the end of days. But this is my kingdom and it is my will that shall be done."
The small band raised their guns and prepared to be charged by Grale and his people. But Lucy walked up to Grale and slapped him so hard the sound echoed in the cavern and dropped him to a knee in front of her.
"That's my baby brother in there, David," she screamed into his shocked face. "If you don't help, I'll hate you forever." She slapped him again, which knocked him to his hands and knees and set the Mole People to muttering and looking at each other and their downed leader for some sign of what to do.
At first there was no response. Grale's head remained down. Then his thin shoulders started to shake and a strange sound came from him. It took Lucy and the others a minute to realize that it was the sound of laughter.
Grale looked up and rose to his knees with tears streaming down his face. He was laughing so hard that he grabbed his old wound in pain. But the mad light was gone from his eyes. "Oh, God, Lucy," he said. "I tell you we're standing on the edge of the abyss, the end of the world, and you tell me you're going to hate me forever? The irony is just too delicious." He looked around at the Mole People nearest to him, who fidgeted, unsure of whether they were supposed to join in the laughter or kill the up-worlders. "Well, I certainly can't have that weighing over me for all of eternity. Now can I?"
The Mole People decided it was their cue to cheer. "No!"
Grale stood up and turned to Tran and Jojola. "Okay, before Lucy hits me again and removes the teeth I have left, what's the plan?"
A block away and ten minutes later, Al-Sistani stood as near to the bomb as he dared-not wanting to risk radiation poisoning. From above he could hear the thudding of rock bands and the faint cheers of the people gathering on Times Square. He looked at the boy, whom he'd had tied to one of the barrels, and then took a photograph on his digital camera. An award-winner for Al Jazeera, he thought happily. I'm sure his parents will appreciate knowing where their son spent his final moments.
"How are you doing, boy?" he said. "Feel honored that you will be the first to die?"
"Shove it, asshole," Zak replied. "I know why you're doing this."
"Oh?" Al-Sistani smiled. "Tell me."
"Because you're so ugly, the girls you dated wore their veils across their eyes so they wouldn't have to look at your face."
Enraged, Al-Sistani walked over to the boy and picked him up by his hair. The kid hadn't shut up since they'd caught him. At first he'd wondered if the boy had been able to alert the authorities. But after they found the tall, young basketball player-the friend of the recruit, Rashad, lurking in the theater-he realized that the boy had simply followed his friend. Now it didn't matter; the bomb was nearly ready. At eleven thirty he would give a signal to the martyr, who was working on the fuse beneath the scaffolding. The man would then wait for a half hour to allow Al-Sistani's escape, and while every television station in the world was broadcasting the New Year's Eve festivities in New York, the city would die.
"What's the matter, Pizza Face, the truth hurts?" the boy said and kicked him in the shins.
Al-Sistani pulled his gun and was going to shoot the boy.
"Leave him alone!" The challenge came from the basketball player, Khalif, who lay on the ground, tied up next to one of the rows of barrels.
Al-Sistani whirled and walked over to Khalif, whom he kicked in the stomach. "Maybe I should shoot you instead?"
"Allah curse you, you son of a pimp!"
While somewhat tame by American standards, the traditional curse was one of the worst in the Arabic language, akin to saying, "Fuck you." Al-Sistani pointed his gun at Khalif's head and was about to pull the trigger when there was a burst of gunfire immediately behind him. He turned and saw Rashad pointing an assault rifle at the ceiling.
"Khalif, dammit, what the fuck you doing here, dawg?" Rashad said.
"Looking for you, brother."
"Shouldn't have done that…we're about set to blow up the New York Stock Exchange and this whole place is going to come down."
"Is that what you think? Is that what this motherfucker told you? Don't you hear that cheering up above, brother? That's Times Square. They're planning on killing all those people up there."
Rashad, whose hands shook as he pointed the weapon at Al-Sistani, asked, "Is that true? Is that what this is all about? What was all that crap about destroying the economy but not killing people?"
Al-Sistani shrugged. "This will destroy the economy…and kill infidels
. But you have proved yourself not worthy of joining our glorious cause." In the blink of an eye, he raised his gun and fired. A small hole appeared in the forehead of Rashad and then a trickle of blood as the young man collapsed to the ground.
"Rashad!" Khalif cried out. "Oh God, you fucking murderer…"
Al-Sistani silenced the young man with a kick to the head. He considered killing him and the boy. Not yet, he thought, they may yet be valuable as hostages. He listened again for the celebrations above and smiled. Firecrackers, he thought. The fools will soon have a much larger explosion to add to their celebration. Then a frown crossed his face. The sounds he thought were firecrackers came from the far end of the tunnel.
Just then one of his men ran up. "We're being attacked," the man yelled.
"Police?" Al-Sistani shouted back, ready to give the order to light the fuse as soon as he had time to get away and then flee.
"No," the man said and laughed. "Not unless the New York police are using old weapons and spears. We think it is that rabble we have seen in the tunnels. The rajim."
"Quit saying that," Al-Sistani said angrily. "They are not rajim, or jinn…they are filthy infidels-murderers and thieves-who live in this cesspit because even other infidels will not tolerate them. Kill them and be done with it, or are you incompetent?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but they do seem to have a few trained men among them," the man reported. "But we still outnumber them and have better weapons. We will deal with them shortly."
Al-Sistani thought about it for a moment. Neither federal agents nor the police were likely to enlist the scum who lived in the sewers and attacked with spears. He looked back at the man working on the fuse. "How much time before you are ready?" he yelled.
"Fifteen minutes," the man shouted back.
Al-Sistani decided to go see what was occurring himself. But first he cut Zak loose from the barrel and dragged him up by his arm.
"Let go of me, you dirtbag," Zak said.
Al-Sistani struck him in the face with the back of his hand. He expected the boy to cry and was surprised when he spit out blood and looked at him coolly. "You'll pay for that." He yanked the boy and began to march with his two bodyguards toward the tunnel entrance. The man who had reported on the battle with the rajim fell in with him.
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