New York Minute

by Bob Mayer

  Kane took a slightly deeper breath. The black spots wavered.

  Quinn approached from the right and waved a four-foot long tube of wood over Kane’s face. “Quieter than your little gun, isn’t it? This simple contraption took me a week to fashion in Malaysia. Went into the jungle with one of the elders who knew the traditional ways to find the exact right piece of wood. Not any will work, naturally. No, indeed. Another secret of their tribe. Then I had to drill it by hand and, I’ll tell you mate, between you and me, that was a harsh piece of work. Could have bored it in a few minutes in a proper machine shop, but the trick is there wasn’t any shop for a couple hundred kilometers. Lots of twisting and turning that old bore rod with my hands. Took me three days. Me palms was bleeding. Then you chip away the outside of the wood to narrow it down and—oh, fuck it, mate, you don’t really give a shit about that, do you?”

  Quinn was dressed in black leather pants and a long sleeve black shirt and green sneakers. He, and his blowgun, disappeared from Kane’s limited view. Another partial breath. The black spots in his eyes were fading.

  Quinn returned, rope in his hands. He slid an end under the handcuff chain, and made sure the cuffs were ratcheted tight on the wrists. Then he gathered slack and tossed both ends over the truss.

  Quinn walked out of sight with the free ends of the rope. There was a ratcheting noise, indicating Quinn was using mechanical assistance. Kane’s wrists were jerked upward by the cuffs, the steel cutting into flesh, but he couldn’t feel it. He was elevated, an inert mass, until his hands were stretched over his head, his toes touching the floor. His head hung listlessly on his chest.

  Quinn threw another rope over the truss. Expertly tied a noose. Kane could barely feel it as Quinn slipped the rope over his head and around his neck. Quinn disappeared from view with the free end of that rope. It was pulled taut but not tight, the noose snug around his neck.

  “Comfy?” Quinn asked. “Don’t worry. I won’t forget about you.” He knelt next to Damon, checking the leg. “You’re bleeding pretty bad, mate.”

  “Help me,” Damon pled. “I’ll give you two million dollars. Get me to a hospital.”

  “You’ll live a bit longer, old fella.” Quinn pulled off Damon’s belt and cinched it tight around the old man’s thigh.

  Kane’s body began to come alive, but it was accompanied by an overwhelming itch. He blinked, a major accomplishment.

  Quinn walked into the film room.

  Kane’s breathing was normalizing.

  Quinn came out and went to Damon, once more kneeling next to the old man. “Where are your Noraid files?”

  “What the fuck?” Damon sputtered. “I know you. You work for Cappucci. I’ll give him more of the contracts. Get me to a fucking hospital. And kill that shitbird.” He indicated Kane.

  “In due time,” Quinn said. “There is a proper order to things. First. Noraid.”

  “Behind the film processor,” Damon said. “Leather-bound book. What in Bloody Jesus do you want that for?”

  Quinn disappeared.

  Kane was able to lift his head, relieving some of the pressure on his neck. His skin felt as if it were burning. A horrible itching he couldn’t scratch, almost worse than the nothingness. Almost but not quite. He looked about. Quinn’s blowgun was leaning against the wall next to the elevator. There was a large green canvas kit bag. The ropes were new and tied off securely, the up ropes angled about six feet away, the handcuff one wrapped through a winch and the other end tied off. The neck one was also tied to the pipe to which the winch was secured.

  Do something, Ranger!

  Quinn returned with a ledger.

  “What the fuck you gonna do with that?” Damon demanded.

  Quinn shrugged. “Me? Nothing. People I work for? Up to them.”

  Damon was confused. “What’s Cappucci give a shit about that?”

  Quinn laughed as he shoved the ledger in the canvas bag. “Cappucci? You’ve no clue, old fella.” He glanced over at Kane. “You don’t either, do you Captain Hero?” He nodded toward Damon as he rummaged in the bag. “He was my objective all along. Well, primary objective, let’s say. Been working months to get to him and this book and set everything up for a smooth operation and you walk in and blow it all up in a few days. Got here just in the nick of time before you completely screwed the mission.

  “I tried to stop you, Kane. Warned you. Pushed Delgado, then sent his fools after you. Finally had to kill the idiot. Not ‘cause Cappucci ordered it, although he did, but because he was a liability. Plus, I need the daughter to be a widow before I wed her. Propriety and all that nonsense.”

  Kane swallowed, his throat muscles responding.

  Quinn produced a whip in one hand and a blowtorch in the other. He walked over to Kane holding both. He held up the whip so Kane could see. “Do you feel sort of stupid now, mate? How do you think Delgado even knew about the piers?” He put the whip next to Kane’s feet. “There’s going to be a load of pain soon. Reflect on that.”

  Kane tried to speak, but all he could manage was an inarticulate rasp.

  “Feeling better?” Quinn asked. “Don’t worry, it won’t last. Because I want you to experience every precious moment, we’ll allow a few more minutes to pass.”

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Damon yelled. He sat with his back against the brick wall, the foot on his shot leg canted unnaturally, the bones shattered. “Who do you work for?”

  Quinn went into the torture room. Came back out with the drill and an extension cord. He plugged it in, tested the drill. It whined with potential.

  “The people you buy the guns for,” Quinn said to Damon, “after you cheat them, of course, enjoy the persuasiveness of this jobber. A couple of the Brits I worked with in Oman told me what they saw in Northern Ireland.” He strolled to the old man, the extension cord trailing. “I prefer other tools, but let’s see how this works. I’m always open to new experiences. Part of the joy of living.” He placed the bit above the kneecap of the wounded leg. “This how they do it, eh?” He reached out with his free hand and ripped the dark glasses off Damon’s face. The old man’s eyes were wide with fear.

  “But, of course,” Quinn said, “you’re thinking you’ll give Cappucci all the contracts if I save you, eh?”

  Damon squirmed, trying to get away with one good leg. “Sure. Sure.”

  “But,” Quinn said, “I’d be a fool to trust you. Without your Unholy Trinity, there’s going to be lots of young eager fellows snapping at your heels. You’ve made a lot of enemies over the years. Methinks, I’ll be better off working with whomever replaces you.”

  The drill powered and Quinn pressed the bit down, boring into the kneecap.

  Damon screamed, the sound bouncing off the surrounding brick.

  Quinn maintained pressure on the drill for several seconds, rotating his hand, expanding the hole in flesh and kneecap.

  Then he jerked it out, dripping blood.

  Damon’s scream subsided to a whimper.

  Kane flexed his arms, regaining more muscle control.

  “Now, old man,” Quinn said, “if you’d appreciate release from the pain, begin reciting the names of your Noraid, IRA and gun suppliers. Who’ll be picking these weapons and money up?” He leaned forward, turning his head, making a show of putting his ear near Damon’s mouth. “Whisper sweet nothings in my ear.”

  Damon began babbling something that Kane couldn’t hear. As Damon was doing so, Quinn glanced at Kane and smiled.

  Damon stopped and Quinn stood. “I’ll be back to help you,” he promised Damon. He walked in front of Kane.

  “Moving,” Quinn said. “Good.”

  “Why?” Kane managed to get out.

  “’Why’?” Quinn acted puzzled. “Why what? Damon? A mission tasking. You? You’re a threat. Nothing personal. You’re a do-gooder, aren’t you, mate? Getting that harlot out of town. She didn’t know about this place when I asked her. She didn’t know much of anything. Should have killed her but I�
��m running a smooth operation that’s going to last years. I don’t make messes like this cock-up of yours.

  “Are you fighting the bad guys, Kane? But we’re all bad guys, aren’t we? Or are we all good guys? I can’t remember sometimes. Still, I’ve got to maintain my cover and you’ve gotten a glimpse under it. You know how the dark world works. Not acceptable.” He stared at Kane and remained silent for several seconds. Then blinked as if he’d lost his place in his own narrative.

  “Who?” Kane asked.

  “We playing the five W’s now?” Quinn laughed, but there was no humor in it. “We both got the royal fucking over by our countries, didn’t we? Except we’re rare, useful tools. MI-6 approached me after I was cashiered. Said Her Majesty very much appreciated my actions in saving their ass in Oman and sincerely regretted that the New Zealand government separated me from the service and wouldn’t let me come home, but there was a little job they thought I might help her with. As if I didn’t know they’d ordered my government to cashier me and exile me.” Quinn shook his head. “And you waltz in and blow the whole fucking thing up in less than a week. Truly remarkable. You should get a medal. Of course, they put me in for the VC and I end up here. With you. Isn’t life intriguing?” Quinn blinked rapidly, a confused look passing over his face. “Yeah. Yeah. Quite wonderful.”

  Quinn walked to the film room. “Back in a sec, fellows.” He returned, rolling the projector cart minus the device to Kane. Then went to the winch. Kane was lifted higher by the rope through the handcuff’s chain, his feet leaving the floor. He was elevated far enough so that Quinn could push the cart underneath his feet, toes resting on it. The rope to the noose was now slack. Quinn went to where he’d tied that off on the pipe and removed the slack, securing it with a knot.

  “Better?” Quinn asked. He went to Damon. Picked up the drill. Knelt next to the whining old man. “There, there, let’s not be getting hysterical.” Quinn grabbed Damon’s shirt as the Irish fixer tried to get away.

  “Two million!” Damon said. “In the duffels over there. Just take it.”

  “I can do that,” Quinn acknowledged. “Don’t really need your permission, do I?”

  “You’re fucking with the wrong people,” Damon gasped. “The Provos will chase you to hell itself, you fucking cunt.”

  “You gave me names,” Quinn said. “They’re going to have their own problems soon. Besides they don’t know I exist.”

  “I got insurance too,” Damon sputtered. “If something happens to me. Someone knows that I’m here at this meeting.”

  “Something’s already happened to you,” Quinn pointed out. “And whoever this un-named entity who knows you’re here and meeting the fellow with the noose around his neck? They don’t know a thing about me. And, let’s be honest, you’re lying. Desperate people do that.”

  “It aint just the Provos,” Damon babbled.

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure.” Quinn placed the drill on the other kneecap.

  Kane put his energy into his arms and pulled. He was able to lift halfway up, toes leaving the cart, before the muscles couldn’t do more. He lowered himself, his legs giving some support through his toes on the cart, but most of his weight hanging by his arms. The cuffs were dug deep into the skin and he was starting to feel the pain. Blood seeped over the metal.

  The drill purred and Damon screamed.

  Kane pulled up, all the way, his cuffed wrists in front of his face along with the rope to the noose. He lowered himself.

  Quinn glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll be with you shortly. Don’t get ahead of things.” He put the drill down and picked up the blowtorch. Flicked a lighter, igniting the flame. “This is where it gets interesting, old fella,” he said to Damon.

  Kane performed another pull up, eyeing the ropes angling down. The higher he went, the closer he was to them. Angles. Flashes of engineering and drawing classes at West Point.

  Damon’s screech wasn’t human as Damon ran the blowtorch across his face, searing his eyes and burning skin to the bone.

  Kane lowered himself, the cart rolling slightly as his toes touched down.

  Damon next scream was cut off as Quinn blowtorched him from cheek to cheek, skin burning, peeling away, exposing teeth, the gums burning away, the tongue burnt to a stub.

  “Eh, mate!” Quinn stood and faced Kane, the torch hissing in his hand. “What are you trying to do?” Behind him, Damon’s face was a burned mess, a mirror of those five severed heads on the board in the 109 precinct. The old man was still breathing somehow as he slowly curled over onto his side, legs pulling up into the fetal.

  “Now’s when it gets interesting,” Quinn said. He pulled a knife and cut the rope to Kane’s hands. His weight jerked down on the rope around his neck, pulling the noose tighter. His feet kept it from cutting off his airway and Kane scrambled, grabbing the neck rope over his head, keeping the noose from tightening further.

  Quinn pulled the cuff rope free, coiling it and putting it in the canvas bag. “Don’t want to waste good rope.” He kicked the cart from beneath Kane’s feet and all his weight was through his hands on the noose rope.

  “Hang on, mate, will you now?” Quinn said to Kane with a laugh as he turned back to Damon with the blowtorch.

  The flame ran over Damon once more but there was no further noise as the old man died.

  “Well.” Quinn turned off the torch and faced Kane. “That’s that. He went too fast. Doing all right?” he asked Kane.

  As Quinn took a step toward Kane, the lights flickered, then went out.

  Kane wasted no time, kicking out with his legs, swinging on the rope, hands keeping a steady grip despite the blood seeping from ripped skin. He swung back and then put all his body into penduluming forward once more, using the momentum. Working on the last mental image before the darkness, he lashed out with his left leg.

  The tip of his boot hooked over the upward noose rope. His foot quivered on the line. Kane hung in a precarious balance, then twisted that ankle, getting the rest of his foot over the rope, leveraging with all the strength in that leg. He swung over the upward rope. It slid up his leg, into his crotch, anchoring him with a painful halt.

  “What the bloody hell?” Quinn’s voice echoed in the absolute darkness.

  Kane cinched the rope tight between his legs, leaning his belly and chest on the upward angled rope. He opened his mouth and clamped down with his teeth on the rope. Dared to take his hands off the down rope and reached for his boot as he released with his legs, bringing that foot up. Snatched the short dagger out of his boot.

  The lighter clicked and Quinn’s face was highlighted in the tiny flickering flame ten feet away.

  Kane cut the up-angled rope next to his feet. He fell, hitting the edge of the cart, then tumbled to the floor, a solid thud, and lost his grip on the knife. The noose was still around his neck, the severed rope over the truss.

  Quinn had the lighter in one hand, the blowtorch in the other. Quinn brought one to the other, but the lighter flamed out before he could light the torch. Complete darkness once more.

  Do something, Ranger!

  Kane stood. Training kicked in and Kane grabbed the cut end of the rope dangling in front of him. His cuffed hands operated on muscle memory, loop, turn, through, tying an easy slipknot.

  The lighter ignited, illuminating Quinn’s face in a halo five feet away. The blowtorch lit with a purring hiss. Kane jumped onto the cart, gaining slack in the rope. Balanced himself on the cart.

  Quinn laughed as he came forward with the blowtorch and swept it at Kane’s closest leg. Intense pain exploded on the front of his calf but his focus was on the New Zealander. He tossed the expedient noose and it settled over Quinn’s neck.

  Kane kicked the cart out from under his own feet, pulling his legs up, grabbing hold of the rope connected to his neck as high as he could reach above his head.

  The rope went taut and Quinn was snatched off his feet, dropping the blowtorch, the slipknot tightening around his neck. Quinn
’s hands scrambled, managing to keep the knot from cutting off his airway by getting a grip similar to Kane’s.

  The rope creaked on the truss as the two men hung in the air from the same rope on opposite sides of the truss, a foot from each other. The blowtorch was sputtering on the floor, casting a cone of light, just enough so they could see the shadows of the other’s face.

  Quinn’s feet scrambled but they were ten inches off the ground. The same distance as Kane’s with his knees pulled up.

  They both had their hands on the rope, struggling to keep from losing air, passing out, then dying. Kane kept his legs tucked.

  Quinn was blinking, trying to focus, to understand this sudden change. “Stand,” he gasped as he realized Kane could put his feet on the ground and release the tension in the rope.

  Kane smiled.

  A spasm of rage passed over Quinn’s face, then it displayed nothing for a moment. Quinn returned the smile.

  Both men swayed very slightly on the rope, in perfect balance.

  Five seconds passed.

  Ten.

  The blood from Kane’s torn palms was soaking the rope, making it slippery. The pain from the burn on his calf was distant, something Charlie Beckwith would have laughed at.

  Twenty seconds.

  Thirty.

  Quinn was still smiling. Kane was breathing, deep and slow.

  A minute.

  There were sirens in the distance. Someone responding to the explosions? Kane doubted it, given the neighborhood and the muffling of the brick walls and being on the top floor. This was an abandoned building. This was New York City. There were always sirens in the distance.

  A minute and a half. The burn in Kane’s arm muscles overtook any feeling from the real burn on his calf.

  Kane stared into the lack of humanity in Quinn’s eyes. The snake. The former SAS soldier, MI-6 spy, mafia hitman, serial killer, sadist, was still smiling. But it was incrementally shifting from smile to grimace.