by Adam Hamdy
Wallace hauled himself to his feet and stood still to allow his protesting body to settle. He took a hot shower and dried himself with a towel so soft and rich that he longed to lie down and lose himself within its folds. He padded out of the bathroom, his feet massaged by the thick pile carpet, and opened the closet to find a stock of simple clothes in a variety of sizes. He selected black jeans, a matching T-shirt, and heavy, military-style boots, before checking himself in the mirror. He’d lost weight and his pale skin looked like it had been stretched tight over his face, as though the strain of life was pulling it taut.
When he opened the heavy, oversized door, Wallace heard the sound of a television drifting along the dark corridor, the urgent, serious tones of a newscaster echoing off the black paneled walls as she discussed the Blake-Castillo Bill.
“With clear majorities in the House and Senate, and no sign of a presidential veto, the International Online Security Act should pass into law on Thursday. Negotiators at the UN Digital Security Summit are expected to recommend the adoption of the bill as a global standard, and preparations are already being made for implementation.”
Wallace walked toward a bright light at the end of the corridor, which also seemed to be the source of the newscaster’s voice. “The Department of Homeland Security is believed to have been tasked with coordinating the issuance of digital passports, giving each and every American a unique online identity. And the Federal Reserve has already begun beta testing its new central settlement system, with the first stage of the rollout expected within hours of the bill passing.”
The black corridor gave way to a wide, open-plan living space. Beyond a glass wall lay a terrace which overlooked the Hackensack River. The muddy water cut a lazy path across the landscape, meandering around a residential estate of red-roofed houses.
Three large couches formed a horseshoe in front of the TV, and an island kitchen stood a dozen feet away. Wallace saw Steven Byrne sitting on the couch at the center of the horseshoe. His eyes were on the TV, but Wallace suspected that the man’s mind was elsewhere. Steven’s brow was furrowed, his eyelids darkly shadowed, and his mouth curled down, the sense of sadness so profound that Wallace could feel it seeping into his own skin. His eyes drifted off the solitary figure to the cloud-filled sky beyond the window, as Steven’s melancholy brought his own loss bubbling up through his mind, and Ash’s face crystallized, her eyes so deep and beautiful, her skin so soft and warm, that he would have given every remaining instant of his life just to hold her for one more moment.
“It doesn’t get any easier.” Steven’s voice blew the memory away.
Wallace turned and saw familiar grief on the man’s face.
“They say time heals, but they’re wrong,” Steven continued, switching off the TV. “You might pretend, force yourself back into the world, but every now and again something will remind you of them, and you’re right back there, remembering what was, and getting all caught up in what might have been.”
He looked down at the floor as he sought to master his emotions.
“There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wish I could take back what I did,” Wallace said. He crossed the room and lowered himself into the soft plush leather of the couch to the right of Steven. “I think about her . . . Connie . . . and now Christine . . . Agent Ash . . .”
Steven nodded and smiled sadly. “It’s the regret, right? All the things you didn’t do, the words you didn’t say. I wonder what would have happened if I’d been a better dad. If I’d spent time with my kids, instead of chasing fortune. Erin was sick, she was so, so sad, and I never even noticed.”
“I’m . . .” Wallace tried, choking on the words. “I’m so sorry,” he managed finally. “I wish I could rewrite the past, undo what I did.”
“If it hadn’t been you, it would have been the others,” Steven replied. “I should never have let things get that bad. I should’ve been there for her.”
Silence crowded in, and Wallace sat watching his mournful host and marveled at the cruel irony of the connection he had with this man. Meeting someone who shared his heavy grief didn’t make his burden any lighter, but that was the point; he didn’t deserve relief, he needed to feel more pain, and Steven’s losses added to his load. There was sick satisfaction to be found in the heaviness. The weight was a gift. It was his due.
“I read your emails,” Steven said softly. “Your friends Bailey and Ash think you went to Afghanistan to die.”
Wallace wasn’t surprised by the revelation. He’d learned from bitter experience that nothing digital was safe. He nodded slowly. “Maybe,” was all he could say.
“I’ve got my exit planned. I just wanted to do one good thing before I went. One thing to make up for all I’ve done wrong. Something good I could point to, something for Erin, for Max. To make sure this never happens to another family . . .” Steven’s voice cracked and he fell silent for a few moments, then began to speak once more.
“I knew Smokie was bad news, but I was so desperate, I looked away from his flaws, hoping things would work out, even though deep down I knew I was being used. I could see it in his eyes. All he wanted was my money and the power it gave him. He told me whatever I needed to hear, just so he could get his hands on it.”
“Can’t we grab him, force him to tell us where she is, what he has planned?” Wallace asked.
Steven shook his head. “You’ve met him. He’s a psychopath in the truest sense of the word. He cares about no one and nothing. Men like him don’t break. He’d die to prove a point.”
“Why didn’t you walk away?” Wallace asked. “When you found out he wasn’t being straight.”
Steven sighed. “Because I believe in what we’re doing. If I can just stop him, and whatever he has planned, the Blake-Castillo initiative will make the world a better place. Would you have said the things you did if people had known who you were?”
Wallace flushed with shame at the thought of the words that had helped drive Erin Byrne to suicide. He shook his head.
“I should have lobbied, pushed for change, but I know that for every dollar you spend, someone else is spending two trying to keep things the way they are,” Steven said. “Smokie convinced me this was the only way to be sure. But I never signed up for murder.” He hesitated. “You ever get the feeling that you can’t stop making bad decisions? Like something inside you is broken?”
“All the time.” Wallace tipped his head in agreement. “I can’t remember when I didn’t feel like something was wrong with me.”
“Afghanistan?” Steven suggested. “I read the Masterton Inquiry report that looked into the shooting incident. You were set up to fail, but you still took on the fight.”
“I had to. I saw those kids . . . someone needed to be held responsible.”
“Captain Nash?” Steven said, surprising Wallace with his detailed knowledge.
“He should never have been commanding the assault platoon. It was hubris.”
“He knew it,” Steven remarked. “At least that would be my guess.”
“There was an FBI agent Ash put me in touch with,” Wallace observed. “Maybe we could get him to help with the search?”
“And how do you know he’s on the level?” Steven challenged. “Even if he is, what do you think would happen when Smokie got wind of a Bureau operation? His guys shot up a street in broad daylight, killed a couple of US Marshals. You think your G-Man would be safe? If you want Agent Ash back, our best chance is to find her ourselves.”
“Don’t you have anyone close to him? Someone who might know where she is?”
“Ethan’s as good as I’ve got. Smokie’s smart. He uses the same methods as a terror group. No one sees the full picture but him. I’m guessing he wouldn’t have given Ash to any of the ex-military recruits or his Ranger buddies. Some of them might have had a problem kidnapping an FBI agent. He’s been picking up activists from colleges, the Occupy Movement, Anonymous, for low-level grunt work, but something like this would be too hea
vy for them. My guess is he’s put his gangbangers on it.”
Wallace thought about his time in Rikers, and the vicious men who’d tried to help Smokie kill him, and immediately regretted it as he pictured them hurting Ash.
“The guy Ethan shot, the one with no teeth,” he began.
“Jackson Rowe,” Steven interjected. “He was one of Smokie’s most trusted street bosses.”
“I went to see my old cellmate. He told me Smokie and his crew hang out at a club in Harlem; the Bunker. I checked it out, saw Jackson going inside. You ever heard of it?”
Steven shook his head. “Like I said, Smokie keeps everything separate. I’ve tried surveillance, but his countermeasures are state of the art.”
He produced his cell phone and dialed. “Ty? Yeah. John has a lead. Get the car ready. And get hold of Pope. We may need him.” He hung up and got to his feet. “We’re going to go check this place out. You make yourself at—”
“I’m coming,” Wallace interrupted. “She’s my friend. I’m not leaving her to someone else.”
Steven nodded. “Fine. We go in five.”
69
The sound of the phone woke Ethan, pulling him out of a nightmare that had him trapped in the Cromwell Center, surrounded by the poor, troubled inmates. He opened his eyes to find himself topless, lying in a small treatment room built in the basement of a brownstone Harlem block. It belonged to Caleb Perry, a quiet, gentle man, who’d served as their unit medic. Smokie had financed his community clinic, which offered free medical care to local people, on the condition that the Foundation could use it for off-the-books treatment.
“Pope,” Ethan said, answering his phone.
“It’s me.”
Ethan stiffened, recognizing Tyrese’s sonorous voice.
“Go,” Ethan replied.
“Meet us outside the diner in an hour,” Tyrese said.
“Got it.”
Ethan hung up. The diner was code for the New York Historical Society, one of a number of pre-arranged meeting points they had across Manhattan. And an hour meant half that. Caleb’s clinic was located on 180th, so he’d have to move fast.
“You’re awake,” Caleb observed, ducking as he entered the room.
Ethan had almost forgotten how tall the guy was.
“I brought you some clothes,” Caleb added, depositing a gray T-shirt and blue sweater at the end of the bed. “I guess your buddy’s trying to find the dude who shot you,” he noted.
The words struck Ethan like a slap. He surmised Caleb was talking about Downlo, who’d driven him to the clinic and must have been waiting outside. “Why?”
“He’s out there looking at photos of you and some other guy on a street somewhere,” Caleb revealed. “Looks like security footage,” he continued, checking the dressing on Ethan’s shoulder.
They knew the hotel. They knew the time. They had everything they needed to pull footage from any nearby cameras. That’s why Smokie had held Downlo back. He’d told him to check out Ethan’s story. They’d see him fleeing with Wallace, helping the man he’d been sent to kill, and they’d know he was a traitor.
“You’re all good,” Caleb remarked. “Try not to get yourself in any more trouble.”
Ethan flashed a feeble smile, but his body was suddenly awash with nervous energy. He looked at the high windows, which opened on to a well that ran alongside the sidewalk, but was disappointed to see thick iron bars made them impassable.
Downlo entered the treatment room and leaned against the wall near the door, eyeing Ethan with a dangerous half-smile on his lips.
“You guys OK showing yourselves out? I got a bunch of patients I need to see. Back end of flu season,” Caleb observed, stepping toward the door.
Ethan considered stalling him, maybe even revealing the threat he now faced, but, even though they’d served together, Caleb was Smokie’s, and he’d be gambling everything on the man’s loyalty. If Caleb sided with Downlo, Ethan would face two enemies instead of one.
“Thanks, man,” he said to Caleb, his eyes fixed on Downlo.
With Caleb gone, Ethan suddenly became conscious of how vulnerable he was, his bare chest exposed to the world, his left arm weak, his shoulder torn by a bullet. Downlo was silent, but the room was full of the sounds of the city, the steady drone of passing vehicles, someone shouting in the street, feet pounding by the windows. Somewhere in the clinic a baby wailed, and a woman tried to soothe it.
“Yo,” Downlo said finally. “Get dressed. We gotta take a ride.”
Ethan nodded slowly, acutely aware that Downlo had his hands in the pockets of his hooded top, his fingers probably wrapped around a gun.
Ethan swung into a seated position and reached for the T-shirt and sweater, grateful for whatever painkillers were in the syringe Caleb had stung him with. He felt horrible anticipation as he pulled on the T-shirt. The air in the room seemed charged with electricity, but if he felt it too, Downlo showed nothing. When Ethan’s head emerged from beneath the thin cotton, the tough Puerto Rican’s expression hadn’t changed.
“Where are we going?” Ethan tried to keep his voice light as he hopped off the bed.
“Smokie wants us to check somethin’ out,” Downlo replied. He’d doubtless been instructed to take Ethan somewhere he could be interrogated, and there was no question that they’d be able to break and then kill him.
“OK,” Ethan said, shuffling slowly toward the door, his heart pounding like a jackhammer.
Downlo stepped back. To the untrained eye it would have looked like he was being polite, but Ethan knew he was simply maintaining his firing line.
“I almost forgot the sweater,” Ethan exclaimed, quickly backing up to grab it from the bed. “It’s cold out there.”
The maneuver brought him within striking distance of Downlo, who didn’t adjust his position. Ethan moved quickly, leaping across the linoleum floor, dodging the suppressed shots that came bursting through Downlo’s pocket. His shoulder was torn, but his legs were fine, and the powerful muscles drove him forward, propelling him into Downlo. The impact sent the angry Puerto Rican crashing against the wall. Having both hands in his pockets might have helped him look nonchalant, but it was a bad tactical decision, and Downlo was still trying to free his hands, when Ethan punched him in the face. The first blow dazed, but the second knocked Downlo out cold, and he collapsed.
Ethan reached into Downlo’s smoking pocket and pulled out a lightweight Glock 43, complete with silencer. In the other pocket Ethan found the keys to Downlo’s customized Ford Mustang. He pulled on the sweater, slipped the Glock into his waistband, and then lifted Downlo on to the bed, before leaving the room. Heart racing, breathing hard, he hurried along a short corridor and stepped into the packed clinic waiting room. The receptionist was busy booking people in, and didn’t even glance at him as he picked his way through the crowd and made his way to the door. Moments later, Ethan was bounding up the steps, the cool April air soothing his burning lungs as he put danger behind him.
The bustling city rolled by, but Wallace barely noticed the traffic-filled streets or crowded sidewalks. His mind was directed toward shaping the future, willing the universe to present him with certain facts: that Ash was alive and unharmed and that they’d find her at the Bunker. What he was doing went beyond prayer, it was sheer bloody-mindedness, but deep down he suspected he was like an ant trying to topple a skyscraper. The towering building would stand or fall irrespective of the ant’s efforts, just as the universe would be unmoved by his desires, no matter how fervently they were expressed.
The GMC Sierra was a large double-cabbed pick-up, but Tyrese navigated Manhattan’s streets with ease. Steven sat next to the taciturn driver. Equally laconic, he spent the journey checking equipment in a black flight case that sat at his feet. When they turned on to 76th Street, Wallace saw Ethan pacing nervously outside what looked like a gothic church. Tyrese slowed to a halt, and Ethan jumped into the rear cab, sliding on to the seat next to Wallace. Tyrese accelerated
as Ethan slammed the door shut, and within moments they were headed north on Columbus Avenue.
“Downlo made me.” Ethan was shaken and disappointed. “He had footage of me and Wallace. I had to put him down.”
“Permanently?” Steven asked.
“No. It was a public place. Caleb’s clinic.”
Steven pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “OK. You did what you had to.”
“I’m sorry, Steve,” Ethan said. “I heard Smokie telling Downlo to stay on Archangel. That mean anything to you?”
Steven shook his head. “Tyrese, you want to look into it?” he asked his old friend.
Tyrese nodded. “I’ll get on it once we’re done.”
Steven turned to Ethan. “John saw Toothless going into a club in Harlem. A place called the Bunker. Smokie ever mention it?”
Ethan shook his head.
“Good,” Steven observed. “Then it’s almost certainly a gang hangout. We’re going to check it. We might be able to pick up one of his lieutenants and extract Agent Ash’s location.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Tyrese turned on to 202nd Street and parked opposite the Bunker. The club didn’t look menacing in daylight. The battleship-gray paint had peeled away in places, revealing powdery, crumbling concrete. This was a cheap, functional building that was already past its prime.
Steven reached into the footwell and produced what looked like a stubby green and black telescope from the flight case. He held it to his face and flipped a switch that activated a power source which made the device hum.
“Let’s see who’s here. I’ve got eyes on three,” he noted. “And . . .” He hesitated, his surprise palpable. “I think it’s Agent Ash.”
Steven handed Wallace the device and pointed to the northwest corner of the building. “This is a thermal imaging camera used for earthquake rescue. You can see into the building. Check out the basement on the left.”