“Can we use it?” Cafferty asked.
“The battery’s at two percent. Maybe for a single transmission.”
“To who?”
“To whoever he sent this image.”
“Who’s on the other end of the communicator?” Cafferty asked Fields.
“Go to hell.”
“You idiot—this message could save everyone,” North said. “Who’s on the other end?”
Fields paled as the realization dawned on him. “My—my assistant. She’s outside the Jersey City station.”
“I should strangle you for sending that picture,” Cafferty growled. “All hell will be breaking loose in the city, thanks to you.”
“Screw your self-righteous indignation. All hell’s already broken loose here, thanks to you.”
Two thunderous booms from the direction of the command center stopped Cafferty from doing what he had daydreamed about in several press conferences.
“We’re not finished yet—” Fields shouted.
He never got to finish that sentence. A serrated jet-black tail punctured the roof. It thrust diagonally down with blinding speed and punched through Fields’ left shoulder, and its glistening end stabbed out of the right side of his shirt.
Screams filled the car.
The tail whipped back through the reporter’s body, lashed the ceiling—creating a crimson dent—and slithered out of the train.
Everyone ducked, watching the ceiling expectantly.
Everyone except Fields.
His shoulders wavered, his eyes glazed, and his arms hung loosely by his sides. A patch of blood rapidly expanded on the side of his chest, and drops pattered the floor around his suede boots. The man looked about to speak, but Cafferty, figuring the yelling had drawn the creature’s attack, placed his trembling hand over Fields’ mouth, whispering urgently into the man’s ear while his other hand tried to put pressure on the wound.
The car fell silent while blood seeped between Cafferty’s fingers.
Fields let out a short, bubbling breath, his eyes rolled upward, and he collapsed with a twist on top of Lucien Flament. The French journalist eased his lifeless body to the floor, checked his wrist for a pulse, and shook his head. “Il est mort.”
“We need to get this message out,” North whispered to Cafferty. “Rescue teams need to know what we’re facing.”
North keyed in the message and went to thumb send.
The communicator’s screen died.
“For God’s sake!” North said.
Another shuddering boom came from the direction of the command center.
Lucien Flament shuffled over to Cafferty. “May I offer you a piece of advice?”
Cafferty stared at the French reporter, still numb after witnessing the ease of Fields’ death and unable to process anything beyond their immediate survival.
“We should think about this logically,” Flament said. “Why they didn’t attack the Pavilion sooner or enter the train, for example.”
“You’ve seen the state of the front car. Getting in isn’t a problem.”
“But they didn’t come in. What’s changed?”
Cafferty glanced down at the hissing tank. “A drop in methane?”
“You took the words out of my mouth, Mr. Mayor. Perhaps they can’t survive in our natural environment.”
“I buy that,” North said. “Which is why they attacked the train right next to the breach and appeared here when the fans died and gas spread into the Pavilion. If they’ve been sealed in caverns for God knows how many years breathing methane, it makes sense.”
“That implies a rather high level of sophistication,” Cafferty mused, “to know the gas would spread.”
“I’d say they’re extremely sophisticated,” Lucien said.
“Who exactly are you, Mr. Flament?” Cafferty asked. “You don’t strike me as a pen pusher.”
“I don’t really care how I ‘strike’ you, Mr. Mayor. But you’re right—I wasn’t always a reporter. I served in the Thirteenth Parachute Dragoon Regiment for ten years before pursuing a career in journalism. Le stylo est plus puissant que l’épée, Cafferty. ‘The pen is mightier than the sword.’”
“Not today it isn’t.”
Flament shrugged. “It is when there aren’t any swords lying around.”
North snorted.
Cafferty ignored that, failing to find anything remotely amusing in their current plight. “So you were talking about their intelligence?”
“Yes. It’s clear the creatures have some form of cognitive function well beyond a normal animal. They probed our car, perhaps testing our strength. Maybe they’ll turn their focus on us after they’ve finished with the blast door.”
“Why do you think that?” North asked.
“Because they haven’t torn the roof off yet. I suspect the oxygen tanks are helping us in more ways than we think.”
“You’re a useful guy to have around, Mr. Flament,” Cafferty said.
“I told you I could be of help. You had cops drag me away, if I recall.”
“I made a mistake.”
“A few, apparently. But if you can admit them, then there may be some hope for us. Call me Lucien.”
“Okay, Lucien. As long as we’re clear: the only thing I care about is getting these people out safely.”
“That’s good, because my only interest is in staying alive.”
This time it was Cafferty who snorted, shaking his head. But since those two goals weren’t mutually exclusive, he would take any help he could get, and right now that meant they had to grasp the small advantage Flament’s reasoning had uncovered. Cafferty started wondering how he could use oxygen beyond lowering the methane levels in the car, forcing the creatures back until help arrived.
“What are you thinking?” North asked.
“Can you mount a welding torch on to an oxygen tank?”
North hunched over and inspected the valve. “Yeah, no problem.”
“Good. Set up four of them as fast as you can. If any of those things tries to get in here, we’ll suffocate the bastards.”
Chapter Seventeen
Agent Samuels moved up the emergency passage’s steady incline to the DSRV docking station, followed by President Reynolds and Diego Munoz. Unfastened wires and exposed pipe hung from the ceiling. Boxes of light fittings and other cosmetic fixtures lined the wall. Munoz wasn’t concerned—this was how it had looked this morning. To the public eye, before the attack, everything looked shipshape in the Pavilion. Behind the scenes, though, the construction teams had been scrambling to meet the deadline. This tunnel was a low priority, publicly at least, and the crews had been led out before the guests arrived.
“How much farther?” Reynolds asked.
“Not long. The passage extends half a mile from the Pavilion. We’re rising above the bedrock and silt.”
A crash echoed in the distance.
Munoz picked up his pace and sucked in deep breaths. He had walked this route close to a hundred times, and each previous trip was never as tiring as today. It led to the ominous conclusion that methane had bled into the passage. He was by no means in the greatest shape, but he shouldn’t be winded from just this slight incline.
But that wasn’t what had him truly frightened. The footage of the creature remained strong in his mind. Its rapid and slick movements. Charging forward on its muscly legs. The precision leap. If Officer Donaldson had come across one of those things inside the breach, the chances were high he was most certainly dead.
“Diego,” Reynolds said, “tell me about your gang.”
“Those days are long gone, Mr. President. I was young and stupid.”
“And I’m old and stupid,” he said, and for the first time since all this happened, Munoz saw a bit of the charm that had won Reynolds the presidency in the first place. “I’m genuinely curious. You should be proud of transforming yourself.”
“Maybe, but I’m not proud of being an impressionable idiot. I’ve worked for the
MTA for the best part of a decade. That’s my real story, like the other guys in my team. I was a prick, realized it before it was too late, and did what I needed to improve my life.”
“Well, you succeeded.”
A thin smile spread across Munoz’s face.
The docking station’s polished steel door came into view two hundred yards ahead. A green light flashed on the entry pad. Munoz glanced up and thanked God. Sending the president on his way meant he could quickly head back before the blast door caved.
“Mr. President,” Munoz said, “may I ask you a question?”
“All right.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but your reaction to the video of the creature suggested you at least had an inkling about its existence.”
“Is that a question or a statement?”
“Both, I suppose.”
The president stared at Munoz without answering. Another crash echoed through the tunnel. “We’d better get moving. After you.”
Munoz headed up the final stretch of the passage, dissatisfied with the president’s nonanswer, and he reached the docking station just as Samuels punched in the access code. Bolts thudded out of their locking position and the door groaned open.
They walked into the pristine cylindrical white room. At the far end, a circular hatch with a dark central window led to the air lock, and humming computers sat beneath a long desk. Flat-screen monitors lined the walls, reporting all docking station systems in working order and the methane level at 4 percent. Samuels inputted the code on the internal entry pad and the door closed and locked.
Munoz lifted a headset from the desk, placed it on, and activated the sub’s communications link. “Rescue One, are you there, over?”
The overhead speaker crackled.
“Rescue One here,” a man said in a gruff New York accent. “How you doing, Diego?”
“I’m fine, Steve.”
“Is the president safe?”
“He’s here with a Secret Service agent. You’re on loudspeaker.”
“Mr. President, this is Captain Steve Hillard. We’re gonna getcha out of there real soon. The DSRV will dock in five minutes. Once you’re on board, we’ll ascend straight to the surface. You’re in safe hands, sir.”
Reynolds put on the other headset. “Captain Hillard, thanks for the update. Are rescue teams heading for the Pavilion?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ll find out and get back to you.”
“Tell them they need to act ASAP. The Pavilion’s under attack.”
“I’ll get on it right away, sir.”
“Hey, Steve,” Munoz said. “Let’s make this one clean.”
“Roger that. Out.”
The speaker crackled off.
Samuels frowned. “‘Clean’?”
“We’ve only done this in simulation. The live tests were slated to begin next week. I can assure you Captain Hillard is excellent—”
“Is anything finished around here?”
“Other than a few peripherals, we’re all good.”
“Really?” Samuels nudged a ventilation grate with his shoe. “Where’s this from? I don’t remember seeing it during my sweeps.”
Munoz peered at the top left corner of the ceiling. A warm breeze blew through a dark square shaft and warmed his face. He tensed and stumbled back. The ventilation system connected to every part of the new subway extension, meaning a creature could reach here by breaking through a grate in the tunnels.
Samuels, seeing Diego’s reaction, drew a sleek black pistol from inside his jacket, dropped to one knee, and aimed at the shaft. The weapon hummed as if it were warming up. The pistol had a transparent handle that glowed pink around Samuels’ fingers and a smooth black body with no visible markings. It appeared a million miles away from the cheap junk guns Munoz and his gang had sought out to protect their turf—hell, from the gun in his hand now.
“What in God’s name is that, Agent Samuels?” Reynolds asked, clearly as bewildered as Munoz was.
“It’s newly issued,” Samuels said, maintaining his focus on the ceiling. “I’m protecting the only entry point, sir. Munoz, start your docking procedure.”
Reynolds eyed the Secret Service member suspiciously, but he returned to the desk and replaced the headset.
Munoz tucked his gun away and perched in front of the computer, ran a successful structural integrity check. Once he was satisfied everything was in order, he activated the pressurization process.
On the other side of the hatch, vacuums opened and sucked out any water. Air blasted through nozzles, and light powered on, brightening the chamber.
A tone pinged, confirming a successful operation.
“We’re ready to open our side,” Munoz said. “Once the sub gets here, it’ll open the outer hatch.”
“Once you open it, we’re good, right? No more further steps?” Samuels asked.
“Uh-huh.”
Munoz moved over to the wall-mounted electronic keypad next to the hatch. He pressed 2-1-0-8-9—each digit letting out an electronic beep—and he raised his finger to input the final number.
Something made him pause, though. Something in the agent’s tone when he asked if that was all that was needed. Looking in the reflection on the hatch’s window, Munoz saw Samuels reach his left hand inside his jacket, draw his conventional pistol, and silently point it at the back of the president’s head.
Munoz froze for half a second . . .
Without giving it another thought, he dropped to a crouch, whipped out his gun, aimed at Samuels, and pulled the trigger.
The blast reverberated inside the docking station.
Samuels sank to one knee, clutching his thigh and wincing, but he still swung both guns toward the air lock.
Munoz shouted to the president, “Get down!”
Reynolds was already moving, though, and Munoz saw him dive to the ground. At the same time, Munoz fired again, hitting the big agent in the left shoulder. Samuels toppled back, his shoulders slamming onto the ground, and one of his guns skidded under the desk. Reynolds leaped on top of the agent, and they fought for Samuels’ remaining weapon.
A shot split the air.
Sparks fizzed from the air lock’s electronic keypad, inches from Munoz’s head.
Reynolds ripped the gun free from Agent Samuels and threw it clear, and it clattered across the floor. Even without guns—and even shot twice—Samuels wasn’t out of the fight and connected with a bone-crunching right hook to the president’s jaw, sending him crashing into the desk. He started to scramble toward the gun under the desk.
“Move another inch and I’ll blow your brains out,” Munoz said as he quickly closed in and fixed Samuels’ face in his sights. “It seems I’m not the only one with an interesting background.”
“You haven’t got the balls,” Samuels said defiantly.
“I’ve got two, which is the same amount of times I’ve shot you, asshole.”
Reynolds reached under the desk and retrieved the gun, his face twisted into a grimace. “You fucking traitor. How much is Van Ness paying you?”
Van Ness? Who the hell is he talking about?
Samuels laughed, clutching his bleeding shoulder. “Mr. President, one way or another, you’re not leaving this subway tunnel alive.”
Reynolds spat blood at him. “Fuck you.”
“I think I’m missing something here,” Munoz said, stunned at what had just unfolded. “Who the hell is Van Ness?”
Chapter Eighteen
Sarah Bowcut knelt next to Dumont’s unconscious body and shone her flashlight through the cavern. Pain throbbed in her right shoulder and hip, but the injuries were the least of her worries.
The brutality of the previous attacks had stiffened her resolve to hit the enemy hard, but their speed and power sent a chill down her spine. Nothing was that fast. And yet her dead team members were proof of just how wrong she was. That scared the crap out of her, because how the hell do you fight something that Bradshaw had acc
urately described as a ghost.
By not giving up, Sarah.
With that thought, she gripped a knife in her right hand, ready to slash or stab anyone who showed their face.
Whoever killed Christiansen and Dalton had no time to follow them into the breach, meaning they were caught in the explosion that ripped through the tunnel. It gave the murders a minuscule silver lining, but that was about as good as it got. All the other evidence told her they were dealing with something well beyond her experience.
Hell—beyond anyone’s experience.
She looked around, trying to get a better sense of her surroundings. This place was obviously the entry point for the attackers into the subway system, and the other end of the cavern had to lead to the outside world. Anything else didn’t stack up. Thousands of pick marks scarred the walls, bolstering her theory of a large-scale operation involving a wide array of skills, though by who or what, she had no idea. How it went undetected . . . she had no clue.
Dumont moaned and his head rolled to the side. “Water,” he whispered.
Bowcut grabbed the bottle from her pouch, lifted Dumont’s gas mask, and trickled liquid into his mouth.
He coughed. “The others?”
“Both dead.”
Dumont winced and reached for the wooden shard protruding from his thigh. “Where are we?”
“Dalton discharged his weapon, igniting the methane. The tunnel transformed into a fireball. You were hit by shrapnel from the first blast. I dragged you into the hole. But don’t worry, the ground broke our fall.”
He smiled, still grimacing in pain. “Thanks for saving my life.”
“Don’t mention it. We’re lucky the gas didn’t ignite down here.”
“Any idea why?”
“I’m guessing it hit a pocket of low methane density and burned itself out. But I could also be talking out of my ass. The main thing is we’re alive.”
Dumont said nothing, echoing her own thoughts for her glass-half-full statement. He activated his weapon-mounted light.
The beam sliced through the dark, dusty air toward the breach. The rope Officer Bradshaw and his colleague had previously secured still dangled into the cavern, though it hardly inspired confidence. Bowcut suspected the fireball had scorched the rope to a crisp where it knotted around the track, and a gentle tug would bring it down.
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