Lawrence picked up. “Hello? Who is this?”
Susan held up a hand to forestall the detective. “Hold that thought.” She turned her attention to Lawrence Robertson. “It’s Susan. I’m using a coworker’s Vox.”
“Susan? Are you safe?”
“For the moment. We need a secure place to hole up, though. Any chance—”
“Come here right away. It’s the safest place I know.”
“‘Here,’ meaning…”
“USR.”
Susan had expected Lawrence to suggest the U.S. Robots building, but she had also anticipated the need for him to meet them there. “You’re still there? This late?”
Lawrence hesitated, then confessed, “I have living quarters in the back. I was here practically twenty-four/seven anyway. After the SFH gunned down Calvin and Amanda, it just seemed more prudent.”
Jake made a rotary motion to indicate she should wind down the conversation as soon as possible.
“I don’t know how long this line is clear. Have to go.”
“I’ll watch for you and let you in,” Lawrence promised. “Be careful.” He disconnected before she could say good-bye.
Susan turned off Kendall’s Vox and returned it to him.
“USR building?” Jake guessed.
“USR,” Susan confirmed. “But first we have to detour to my apartment building.”
“Your apartment.” Jake took his eyes from the road long enough to give Susan an incredulous glare. “Nothing of value there, Susan. Remember? It’s confetti.”
“Not inside the apartment. The playground at the base of the building.”
Jake shook his head a bit, paused, then shook it harder. “Couldn’t I just take you to Kinshasa? Iraq? What could you possibly need that’s worth putting our lives at stake?”
Susan cleared her throat. She wanted to make sure he processed every word. “Quite possibly, the uncoupling code.”
Chapter 20
Without her Vox, Susan had no idea what time it was, but she guessed somewhere between ten and eleven p.m. Jake pulled into an open space on the street about halfway between two streetlamps, avoiding the apartment parking lot. He hesitated a few moments, head bowed, face invisible in the dark interior of the car. Whether praying, steeling himself, or silently strategizing, Susan never knew, because it did not last long. Deliberately, he pulled a smaller pistol from an ankle holster she had never previously noticed and handed it back to Kendall.
Kendall shied away, as if from a hooded cobra. “No way. Don’t give me that.”
Susan considered accepting the gun in his stead but knew it would be deadweight in her hands. She could never pull the trigger. Judging by Kendall’s previous experience, neither could he. He still suffered guilt for not shooting Sharicka when he had the chance, still blamed himself, at least partially, for Remington’s tragic death. “Take it,” she said.
Kendall looked distressed to the point of tears, but he did accept the pistol.
Jake explained, “Put the big orange dot between the two little white dots. Pull the trigger.” He added pointedly, “And don’t aim it at anything you don’t want to kill, especially me or Susan.”
Kendall closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and nodded. “If I shove this into my front pocket, I’m not going to risk shooting my junk off, am I?”
Jake peered out into the semidarkness. “As long as your junk keeps its finger off the trigger, you’re fine.”
Kendall stuffed the gun into his pocket. “So, what’s likely to happen here, Jake? Another silent sniper?”
“Let’s hope not.”
Susan did not find Jake’s response reassuring. “What’s the most likely scenario?”
Jake had obviously given the situation more thought than he let on. “Cadmium has at least three guys tied up with the sniper. Despite government backing, they do have a limited amount of manpower, and I don’t think they’ll waste it watching Susan’s apartment. They caught her there once and know they’re not likely to do so again.”
He shifted in his seat, still studying the scene out the window. “SFH lost their hired gun, quite possibly their only professional. Killers don’t come cheap, and they’re probably still reeling from the bombing fiasco last year. Of course, they are fanatics, so you never really know how desperate they might get or how fast they can bankroll. I doubt they know about the earlier kidnapping, so it’s possible they have someone waiting in Susan’s apartment to ambush her if she comes home. By now, they know the place is torn up, but they don’t necessarily know Susan knows it.”
Susan also studied the street and sidewalk. The streetlights kept darkness at bay in neat circles, illuminating the parked cars in concentric patches, leaving other areas in near pitch-darkness. She had lived in Manhattan most of her life and never thought about the persistent, underlying hum that defined the city: traffic eternally rumbling past, intermittent car horns, alarms and sirens, some close and others eerily distant, the rolling roar of airplanes at all hours of the day and night. Now, her overactive mind sifted individual noises from the normal cacophony, rolling them through her thoughts, studying, considering, discarding.
Jake continued, “Our biggest threat is probably a spotter, someone whose job it is to contact the others if we’re seen in the area. He—”
“Or she,” Kendall inserted. “Or they.”
“Or she or they,” Jake repeated. “Way to be diligent, Kendall…. Won’t hesitate to take the shot given the opportunity. So we need to be cautious about everyone and everything around us.”
Flickering red, green, and yellow lights pierced the distant darkness, traffic signals pausing and changing in a flow that matched the best pattern of the vehicles. Back against a sidewalk tree, a man stood with a clarinet case at his side. What’s he doing there at this time of night? Does he really look like a musician? Might that case be hiding something lethal? Any other time, these thoughts would not have occurred to Susan. But any other time, her life did not depend on noticing subtle clues that might separate a passerby from a would-be killer. She wondered if Jake lived with this barrage of paranoia every moment of his life, and she sympathized with and appreciated him.
Jake sketched out a plan. “I’ll go with Susan. She can search the proper area while I cover her. Kendall, you can stay here and wait if you want.”
“Nothing doing.” Kendall reached for his door handle. “I’ve watched enough act-vids to know what happens to the guy left ‘safely’ behind. He’s always the one the heroes find gruesomely murdered.”
“Fine. Come, then.” Jake opened his own door, still scanning the street like he expected an army to descend upon them. “Anything remotely suspicious deserves a second look. Possibly a third or fourth.”
Susan followed the men around the car to the sidewalk, careful not to step out into the still-moving traffic. She wondered if all worrisome situations made even the most mundane things seem hazardous. She would have to grow eighty eyes to keep her attention focused on everything that suddenly looked wrong or out of place.
Susan led the way around her apartment building. A homeless man hobbled from the Dumpster, dressed in a shabby overcoat and filthy jeans, face unshaven and smeared with bits of food. A municipal truck idled nearby, belching diesel smoke that roiled around the building and streetlights, adding misty halos. Sanitation workers in dirty white coveralls wrestled to attach hooks to the Dumpster’s rings, shooing the indigent wanderer away from the building.
In the year since she had graduated medical school and returned to live with her father, Susan had never noticed when the garbage was collected. It seemed odd to see workers out so late at night; yet, she realized, she could never remember coming upon them during the day. The truck certainly appeared legitimate, and the men and women handling the Dumpster seemed to know what to do. They paid the trio headed for the playground no apparent heed.
A well-dressed woman walked toward the building, high heels clicking against the pavement. She appeared to be a resid
ent returning late from work, one of hundreds Susan would not have recognized since they did not share her floor. Now Susan could imagine her pausing to remove her shoes and pointing them at Susan, bullets whizzing from those stiletto heels. Susan knew she needed to quell her overactive imagination but found it extraordinarily difficult.
As they walked around the corner of the building, the playground appeared in front of them. The familiar bright tunnels and slides, which had always before reminded Susan of a happy childhood, suddenly resembled crouched beasts slobbering in the darkness. The ground cover of recycled tires appeared as dark, still, and uninviting as a crocodile- and viper-filled bayou.
From habit, Susan looked up, spotting the terrace of her apartment. Her father had grown fresh vegetables in colorful pots and shallow basins every summer. Despite the ambient light, Susan could not make out details. She knew their terrace now stood barren and empty, denuded of anything John Calvin–related. In daylight, she could easily pick it out from the others, many of which sported cheery wind chimes or statues, mostly the currently trendy monkeys with massive eyes and dressed in costumes that announced their owners’ occupations or interests.
A woman pushed two young children on the swings, suspicious only for the lateness of the hour. Susan could not remember the playground being occupied after dark, but it was not something to which she had ever paid much attention, either. She supposed a woman who worked late shifts might take whatever time she could to spend with her youngsters, especially ones not yet in school.
High in humidity, the night was damp but without rain. The diesel smoke curled around the building and floated over the playground, wrapping the evening in a light fog that gave it the feel of a horror-movie graveyard. Susan had no difficulty locating the bench, almost directly beneath their terrace and at the edge of the playground, one of several sturdy one-piece concrete constructs meshed with the pavement.
Jake kept his voice low. “Susan, you focus on what you need to find. Kendall and I will cover you. Always remember: a moving target is a difficult target, especially at night.” He glanced around. “If it goes sideways, immediately run here.” He gestured toward the municipal vehicle.
Kendall growled almost subvocally, “I’m shooting the first person who yells, ‘Separate! He can’t hit all of us.’”
Ignoring him, Susan focused directly on the bench and fast-walked to it while still trying to appear subtle. Whether or not they employed spotters, neither the SFH nor Cadmium would know the reason Susan had returned. The more suspicious her actions, the quicker they might figure out the purpose of them.
The mother looked up as they approached and moved a bit closer to her children. The homeless man meandered down the same sidewalk, toward them. Susan could hear the grind of gears and the clank of the sanitary workers moving the giant Dumpster. She saw no signs of the businesswoman or the clarinet player. Focus, she reminded herself. I’ve got two good men to handle the paranoia. Two good, armed men. Casually, she examined the bench, finding nothing unusual about the smooth upper surface. Trying to appear offhand, she sat on it near one end and ran her hands over the decorative concrete side supports.
A sudden gunshot shattered Susan’s hearing. Her heart seemed to leap out of her chest. The mother screamed, grabbing for her children. The homeless man collapsed to the pavement. Startled to her feet, Susan swiveled to stare at the two men guarding her. Jake was springing between Susan and the fallen man, drawing his pistol as he moved. It was Kendall who had fired, his weapon clutched tightly in both shaking hands.
“Freeze,” Jake said. Then, “What’d you see?”
“His shoes,” Kendall replied. “Clean, new. Two-hundred-dollar Bosco Hardys. Where would a derelict get those?”
“Donation center?” Susan suggested, horror blossoming in the pit of her stomach.
“Swiped ’em,” Jake added, his weapon still raised and pointed directly at the grounded man. He started to approach slowly, careful not to cross between the frightened, trigger-happy civilian and his hapless quarry.
“Handout?” Susan could not help saying as the discomfort in her belly grew to frank nausea.
“Oh, my God.” Kendall’s arms dropped to his sides. “OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!” He ran toward the homeless man, clearly intending to render medical aid. “What have I done?”
The injured man moaned and rolled toward them. Kendall had nearly reached his side when a second shot rang out, this one so loud it seemed to come from everywhere at once, deafening. Susan bit off an involuntary scream.
Kendall skidded to a stop.
A third boom followed, muffled by the aftereffects of the previous two, then ringing silence. The bogus derelict went still, and a weathered handgun with an overlong barrel clattered from his hand to the pavement. “Good instincts, Kendall,” Jake said.
Susan could hear relief in his voice. She doubted he could ever have satisfactorily explained his gun being used to kill an innocent man.
Kendall stood frozen, his lips moving, silently repeating, “Oh, my God.”
A green dot appeared on Kendall’s torso. The diesel smoke revealed the whole laser line, running from him to the upper recesses of the building.
“Move!” Susan screamed. “Kendall!”
It was a directionless command, but the urgency made it through. Jake flung himself on Kendall, rolling them both toward the bench. Susan heard the ping of something striking concrete.
“Get under!” Jake dove across the bench to the far side and peered over the back.
Susan scrambled underneath, Kendall jostling to join her. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
Susan frantically searched for something attached to the bench, not directly part of it: a scrap of paper, an envelope, a flash card. Her father would have had to hide it well enough to keep someone from inadvertently finding or dislodging it. She hoped they would not have to chisel through concrete or activate some secret compartment found only by meticulously percussing the hard surface for echoes. Dad wasn’t expecting it to stay here long, and he had to suspect I’d be under duress.
A bullet ricocheted off the back of the bench, breaking off a chunk and sending chips flying in a wild spray.
“Bum was the spotter,” Jake explained, keeping his head low. He did not attempt to return fire. “Sniper was probably waiting in Susan’s apartment. His ‘eyes’ are down now, and he’s desperate to get us while he still knows where we are.”
“He’s desperate?” Kendall’s voice was a squeak. “Any chance you can get him?”
Another hunk of bench thudded to the ground.
“If I had a better angle, maybe. Shooting straight up’s a waste of time and ammo.”
Susan continued searching, nudging Kendall out of her way.
Kendall shifted position. “Ow! Damn it!”
Jake’s tone expressed appropriate concern. “You hit?”
“No!” Kendall positively spit. “I banged my friggin’ head.” His hand went naturally to the site of the injury. “Damn it. And now I’ve got gum in my hair.”
Susan loosed a nervous chuckle. “Wouldn’t want to be found dead with gum in your hair.” Instinctively, her gaze went to where Kendall clutched his scalp. There was a sticky substance adhering to his hair, but it did not exactly resemble gum. Neutral gray, it matched the bench, rather than one of the brilliant, unrealistic colors she expected from modern chewing gum. As Kendall moved, something small and embedded in the mass flashed silver.
“Kendall, hold still.” Susan lunged for him, grasping the object and ripping it free, along with a handful of his orange hair. It was a port key, the type once used to connect a Vox to a computer or another Vox.
“Ow!” Kendall yelled again.
“I got it!” Susan hollered, shoving the port key into her pocket. Only then she realized that the bench had withered in size; rubble and glittering grit were strewn across the sidewalk. “Holy crap!”
“Go! Go! Go!” Jake yelled, grabbing Susan’s arm, yanking he
r from under what remained of the bench and shoving her toward the municipal truck.
Susan ran. She could hear the crack of gunfire as Jake laid down cover, heard Kendall’s pounding footsteps at her back, then beside her. For an instant, she thought he would charge ahead, but he remained at her side, physically shielding her with his body, driving her to quicken her frantic pace.
Shoved beyond her own top speed, Susan found her balance tenuous. She barely managed to reach the truck before her upper body got too far ahead of her legs. She crashed to the ground, skidding across the pavement, feeling skin abrading from her nose and both arms. The municipal truck was still there, idling, but the workers had disappeared inside it. She could hear a voice inside the cab frantically calling for assistance.
Alternately apologizing and swearing equally profusely, Kendall assisted Susan. Jake appeared out of nowhere, banging on the cab of the truck. “Police!” He jammed his badge against the window. “Open up!”
To Susan’s surprise, the door slid open tentatively. Jake reached out to the worker in the driver’s seat. “Give me your Vox.”
The man held out his arm. Without bothering to unstrap it, Jake tapped a complicated sequence of buttons. “Shots fired, Nine and C! Shots fired, Nine and C!”
An immediate response came over the Vox. Susan heard the repetitive beeping of an alert tone, then a voice: “In the confines of the Nine, a signal ten-thirteen Avenue C and East Nine Street. Units to respond?”
Jake had seemed so calm to Susan during the shooting. Now he was practically shouting and speaking twice as fast as usual. “Shots fired from the tenth floor, Avenue C side. Central, he’s got a rifle! K.”
The other voice came through loud and clear, “Units responding, shooter is on the tenth floor, Avenue C side. Use caution responding.”
A deeper voice, apparently conferenced in, said, “Get ESU and Aviation up, Central. K.”
Apparently, that communication was not for Jake, because he remained momentarily quiet, his face flushed, chest heaving.
The first voice answered, “Already ordered, Sarge.”
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