But these people aren’t dumb, Jollie. They’ve had your number since the start. They always have. All of them.
She fights it, spewing further down, smothered by the waves of molten logic, starting to scream now and hoping the sounds somehow float to the surface . . .
So she can warn her men . . .
Mark . . . Andy . . . they’re going to kill us all . . .
30 minutes and COUNTING . . .
The first wave of paralysis becomes noticeable. It starts as a tingling in Mark’s lower legs. Then the tingling becomes like steel bands tightening somewhere just under the surface of his skin. And then his chest constricts. His upper arms stiffen. His eyes go sleepy and foggy. And he chokes on it for a moment.
Looks over at Andy.
Who is still smiling and staring straight ahead.
“I’d like to explain a few things to you, Mark. I’d like to say that I’m sorry and tell you it’s all for a higher purpose. But you’ve heard all that before. Truth is, I think you’ll find it all very fascinating. I think you’ll really appreciate this.”
Mark tries to move and icy daggers shoot through his chest.
Pinning him there.
Andy still stares straight ahead, not looking at him. His voice is very different now. He’s like a new person in this sudden shifting moment.
Andy . . .
25 minutes and COUNTING . . .
“You’ll be dead in about twenty minutes, Mark. Give or take a minute. But not from the poison you drank. That’ll just render your nervous system moot for a while. It works really fast and it’s very reliable. I’ve used it a few times before. It’s a little like roofies, but a lot more intense, and it acts in different areas of the brain, sending electrochemical messages to your body. Basically just shuts you down while you still have full consciousness. I wanted you to be conscious, just like I wanted Jollie to be dead. She’s been dosed too, you know. We put it in her water. Just a drop of the harder stuff.”
Mark wants to look at her but he can’t move.
She is motionless in the corner of one eye.
No . . . Jollie . . . please . . .
He tries to scream all that but his larynx constricts now.
In terrible bursts of needle-pain.
“That hurts, doesn’t it? I’ve been informed that it’s a bit like being burned alive, huh? Don’t worry—this isn’t revenge for my face. It’s just the best way to keep you down, Mark. You’re way too good to take any chances with. And I advise not moving too much in the next few minutes. The more you try, the more painful your paralysis will be. But that won’t be what kills you first.”
Mark wants to ask why again, wants to grab Andy by his throat, tell him this is not funny—tell him this has to be a joke—tell him Jollie is still alive and this just can’t be happening . . .
He tries to do it, and a billion tiny daggers hit him.
And then the daggers are joined by needles.
Which are joined by a terrible anvil that crushes his lungs.
And he realizes finally, somewhere just under the pain . . .
The face of Dictator Ken, almost laughing at him now:
They’re going to kill us all, you dumb shit.
“Yeah, I know, Mark. I can totally see it on your face. The breaking dawn that happens in the eyes of every target, right before you kill them. You know that look, right? When you slide the knife in and they stare up at you and wonder what the hell is happening? And you don’t really have an answer for them, except that this is just the way it has to be.”
The Dictator, who somehow knew they were going to do this.
And tried to stop it.
You don’t know what they’re gonna do, kid . . .
You don’t know what they’ve done . . .
“And you’re right, Mark. We both came from the same place, you and me. I was trained, just like you were. I was put in that house. That’s why I answered your ad for a roomie, all those years ago. But would you like to know something really funny? I never even knew you were like me for a long, long time. That’s how good both of us were. How well we lived our parts in the Kingdom. How perfectly our bosses manipulated us.”
The Dictator, who sat there and said it, in plain English:
They killed my wife . . .
I couldn’t let them kill everyone else . . .
It’s the end of the fucking world, you dumb punk.
“You used to sneak out and do your hits and assassinations, and I did mine, and we were just so wrapped up in ourselves that we never even noticed each other. And then Marnie Stanwell came along. And you had no choice but to save your friends from men with guns. And I was so stunned. Amazed at what you really were. So goddamn impressed with how well you had us all fooled.”
And you just sat there on your knees and watched me do it.
You let me. You watched.
Andy.
“I had to make my own call right then. Figure out what was really going on and how badly you’d screwed things up. Decided it was best to keep up my disguise, even though it was hard. That’s how the big boys eventually get control in situations like this. So long as at least one of us stays loyal to the company. That was me, Mark. Loyal soldier to the end.”
The perfect mole. More perfect even than me.
Mark tries to say that because he’s just so damn impressed, even as the rage thunders in him. But he’s paralyzed now.
“I thought everything was going to work out just fine at first, without blowing my cover. Even the dictator you first reported to had no idea who I really was. Or poor Penelope. I thought for sure she would know I was an operative when we first talked at the Denny’s. But she didn’t. I was too deep for that—or maybe she was just too drunk to notice.”
We shouldn’t have lived.
We should have died, like Dictator Ken wanted.
“I didn’t even know what the score really was until I woke up in that mad bastard’s operating room. Darian knew everything. He’d just been promoted in the field and they needed him to bring us all in. He knew what the package really was and what we were supposed to do with it. Saw the sealed instructions in Eddie Darling’s safe. He explained it all to me. Said I was gonna have to go under the knife to sell the whole thing to Jollie. But the crazy fuck went a little too far. I knew I had to get control of the situation. It was tough, being on all those drugs . . . but I still pulled through it, man. And I killed that crazy son of a bitch.”
Andy looks around. Points at the woman in the empty row next to them, then the man in the empty row ahead of her. They both lean against the windows, their eyes closed.
Gone forever.
“See those guys? They’re dead now too. All of these people are dead. Everyone who ordered a drink off that beverage cart is in a special little coma designed just for them. We’ve had this whole thing planned for years, apparently. When you went crazy and blew the handoff, adjustments had to be made, of course. But that’s what I was for. What Darian was for. I got my final instructions the other night at that first motel we stopped in. Remember that? When you and Jollie went outside to talk? You left me alone with an open phone line for almost twenty minutes. I even called in the exact time and flight number later, once I knew the details. I did that while you and Jollie were cutting your hair this afternoon at the Hilton. They told me to make sure you drank the poison, after we were secure in these seats—with the package nice and snug in the overhead luggage rack. Wanna know what the package really is, Mark? I think you do. I think you’ll really appreciate this part.”
Andy looks up at the luggage compartment. Raises his eyebrows. Gets closer to Mark, who swims in pain now, absolutely unable to move.
Still seeing the face of Dictator Ken, who mocks him, crying because his failure is complete.
Andy almost whispers the next bit in his ear li
ke a lover.
19 minutes and COUNTING . . .
“It’s a chemical-warfare compound, Mark. Something really advanced. That’s what Darian told me. It looks like white powder, it even tastes like pure ecstasy . . . but it’s really hell on earth, Mark. Some Russian science lab developed it a few years ago and they’ve been refining the formula ever since. They stole it and smuggled it into the States through the drug cartels. I’m not exactly sure how they did it, but I figure the last stop was Mexico, and then Austin, and finally that backroom deal with Razzle Schaeffer. You were supposed to intercept it, then get on a plane with it. Because guess what? Only a very high degree of heat will activate the chemical.”
Andy gets even closer, his mouth almost touching Mark’s ear.
“An exploding airplane provides that heat. Along with the perfect amount of shock and awe. And then the explosion turns into a cloud of hemotoxic fumes that’ll cover more than a thousand miles. It’ll be the biggest, most awesome terrorist attack the world has ever seen, and the most destructive too. A change in the course of history. Millions of innocent people choking to death in their own blood, gagged out of existence. It’s really amazing in its simplicity. And its complexity too. That’s what Darian told me. And that’s what I’m telling you now. I know you appreciate it. You have to.”
And he laughs a little.
“This is the way METRO has always done it, all throughout the decades. They use guys like us, and we do our little part and all the parts come together. And we are the makers of history and never even know it. Isn’t that beautiful? Isn’t that perfect? And I wanted you to know something else. Something very important.”
Andy’s lips touch Mark’s neck, and the Boy Prince shivers.
“I love you, Mark. I know a lot of people have been throwing that word around lately. Darian and all his insane bullshit. But this . . . what I feel for you . . . is very real. That’s what I almost couldn’t betray. It was never about Jollie. I never loved her, not really. That was all an act. It was always you. That was the secret that was hardest to keep. My true desires, just under the disguise. All those women, just to make everyone think I was normal. Thank God for Viagra, I guess. But it was you, Mark. Always you.”
Please, Andy . . .
“And now I realize why I loved you all along. Because we are truly brothers in arms. That’s why this is so perfect. That’s why I wanted you to know everything before you die. You’ll be the first martyred saint in a war that begins in just about ten minutes, when this plane crashes into the Comcast Center building in Philadelphia. That’s the tallest building in the city, by the way. The fifteenth-largest in the whole country. They wanted it to happen in New York, which is where you were going originally . . . but we had to work with what Jollie and Peanut Williams gave us. Poor Jollie. Poor, sweet, angry, fat Jollie.”
He laughs again, cruelly.
“That she ever thought I wanted her is so disgusting. But we all have our illusions. Just like mine, Mark. So I’m burning all those illusions, now. I’m walking away and going into my new life. I would say I wish you could come with us, but I don’t. You’re far too dangerous now. They’d never trust you again after what you did. Not ever.”
Mark tries like hell to get up again.
Andy smiles, seeing the pain stitch his frozen face.
“Really, don’t try to move. It’ll just make it worse. This isn’t a James Bond movie. You know, where the bad guy talks his ass off and spills the beans and then the hero gets loose at the last minute and saves the day. You need to know that you’re totally fucked right now. And Jollie is dead.”
Andy . . . you mother . . . fuck . . .
“So don’t be a sore loser, Mark. It doesn’t look good on you. It never did.”
The unattractive blonde attendant comes over to their seat, holding something. Mark can’t move his head to see what it is. Mark hears silenced gunshots in the back of the cabin and a scream or two. The other attendants mopping up the stragglers—the ones who didn’t order a drink.
All of the passengers dead now. Right along with him.
“I want to kiss you one last time. Kiss you for real, while you’re helpless and you can’t do anything about it. Like Darian kissed me. Makes me feel like this is a little bit more than poetic justice. And I’ll remember this moment forever.”
Mark doesn’t even feel it. Just sees the Boy Prince come in for his smooch. Feels the world smothering out. The smell of Andy’s bandages and burned skin overwhelming him. Pain and needles worse than ever. Paralyzed.
Andy pulls away and smiles.
“Good-bye, Mark.”
Then Andy stands up and the attendant gives him his parachute.
9 minutes and COUNTING . . .
Andy looks down at Mark as he straps it on, and the attendant checks over the buckles, making sure it’s all good. The rip cord hangs from Andy’s chest, like the brass ring on a merry-go-round. Mark can see the glint of the ring, can almost make out other shapes moving in the aisle, but he can’t tell what they are. It’s the rest of the team—the attendants, the pilots, all METRO guys, the standby unit. The ruthless rat bastards who came in and took over at the last minute. Because Andy made the call. They’ve been waiting at the airport for days now, since Mark was originally supposed to arrive there.
But we’re patient guys in METRO. And we always have a back-up plan. Always have an Andy Culpepper handy.
Andy Culpepper—December 16—who still smiles at Mark and Jollie. Mostly at Mark. So happy that his masquerade is finally over.
Booyah.
8 minutes and COUNTING . . .
The pilot enters the cabin and checks the package one last time. The carry-on in the overhead luggage rack. Unzips the bag and makes sure the contents are secure.
It’s called chloropicrin-acetylphoschinate.
Heavy shit.
The pilot zips it back and closes the compartment. Nods to the head flight attendant, who draws her pistol and moves for the emergency-escape hatch near the front of the cabin. The pilot tells them all good luck, then crosses himself and disappears back into the cockpit. The door slams and the NO SMOKING sign beeps on.
The head flight attendant aims her gun at the escape hatch. It’s locked with explosive bolts and a pilot-controlled bar. The attendant fires once at the bar and the bullet smashes through it. The shot is a cruel needle in Mark’s ear and something explodes in the hull of the ship—something like the ice-cold cough of a thunder god.
Mark feels the horrible blast of it on his face like razors and glass, but he still can’t move. He still can’t even see Jollie, just out of sight, dead and gone. The blowback almost sucks him forward, then reverses and pins him to the seat.
The attendant pitches forward in the gale-force wind as the door explodes open, and she dives through in a tumble, followed by the rest of the flight crew, one at a time. They each jump from the plane, as the shrieking air rips back into the compartment.
Mark tries to move . . . he has to move . . .
But his muscles shriek and rebel, hitting his mind with images of awful things: the flames of the explosion to come, the faces of the men and women and children in Philadelphia who will die, burning in the wreckage, and the millions more on top of that. And he sees Jollie somewhere in there, screaming too. Their life together, always doomed to burn in hell and dissolve in clouds of toxic gas.
Jollie. I have to honor you. I have to avenge you.
GET UP AND DO SOMETHING.
He tries to will his arms into motion, fire pouring into his veins.
He feels something pop deep inside him, like bones and brains—all of it exploding in a terrible wet burst—
—Dictator Ken, still way back there, still screaming at him—
—getting quieter and quieter—
Do . . . something . . .
6 minutes and COUNTING . . .
Andy watches the last member of the flight crew jump, thinking about his next life, holding himself on his feet in the roaring blowback.
Looks back once at Mark.
And sees the gun.
5 minutes and COUNTING . . .
The Vestika 9mm. The kind of pistol you walk through airport security with in your cargo pants pocket.
Now held firm in Jollie’s fist.
“I heard every word you said, you lying fuck!”
Her scream doesn’t quite reach Mark’s ears over the ripping wind. He can hardly hear anything now but the sound of his own slowing heartbeat, his own blood backing up in his lungs, flooding everything, keeping him hammered and senseless. He’s not even aware of her aiming the gun, the one he brought in his pocket, through the metal detectors. He sees the shape of it, and her hands holding it, but he doesn’t know what’s happening now. Doesn’t know at all.
He’s in the place Eddie Darling went to.
The ghosts of his life-that-might’ve-been surrounding him delicately.
The love of his life whispering sweetly that she loves him.
Yes . . . Jollie . . . we made it out, you and me . . . we can live . . .
3 minutes and COUNTING . . .
Andy just smiles at her.
You pathetic fat bitch.
His eyes move to the gun, shaking in her hand. She screams at him again that he’s a lying fuck and he can’t hear her at all, because of the ripping, sucking wind from the hatch. He stands there, almost blown off his feet, backward into the ether. He smiles at her, shaking his head, as tears stream down her face, the gun aimed right at his smile. He sees everything she ever was in this moment, and a lot more on top of that. All those awful thoughts and revelations, all blown to hell in a breeze from some terrible place you never saw before. He remembers that from his training. The loneliness, the despair. The shameful secret knowledge that you are so much better than everyone else in the world.
Metro Page 29