by Bob Mayer
A refrain chanted in Kane’s mind: ‘Another minute, Ted. Just one more.’
“Stand,” Quinn harshly whispered. One of his hands slipped and he had to quickly clamber to regain his grip.
‘Another minute, Ted. Just one more.’
There was no longer a smile on Quinn’s face. Not even a grimace. Confusion was spreading. He dropped an inch of his grip. The slipknot tightened a fraction.
‘A New York minute, Ted. Just one more.’
Quinn kicked at Kane, striking a blow, but that dropped him slightly. The slipknot closed that tiny bit.
Kane’s vision was fading, black specks floating in his field of vision. His lungs burned. His arm muscles quivered.
‘Another minute, Ted. Just one more.’
Quinn’s mouth moved, he was trying to say something, but all that came out was akin to a squeal.
Quinn’s hands slipped and he scrambled to get a solid hold of the rope, but the noose sank into the skin, cutting off his airway. His eyes went wide. His feet flailed, trying to find purchase but ten inches is forever.
‘Another minute, Ted. Just one more.’
Quinn’s hands dropped away from the rope and his eyes became vacant as the snake departed.
‘We’re there, Ted.’
Kane stood.
Wednesday Night, 13 July 1977
MEATPACKING DISTRICT, MANHATTAN
Kane leaned against a light pole and numbly watched a ripple of small explosions punch out the plywood inside the windows on the top floor of the Nabisco building. Flames poured forth through the iron bars but the structure remained intact. His rucksack was on his back although he couldn’t quite remember retrieving it or what he’d stashed inside before igniting the thermal charges and escaping. The Swedish K was slung over his shoulder, recovered from the crate he’d hidden it with the ruck under and tried to get to as one of his contingencies.
For the first time since he left the building, he realized the streetlight above him was dark. Not unusual, bulbs burned out. But up and down the street every streetlight was dark. Every building was dark. He wondered if perhaps he’d died and this was part of the process?
Was hell New York City in the dark?
A group of people ran by, yelling and screaming, drinking from liquor bottles. They paused, stared up at the fire, cheered and toasted it.
Kane looked south. The twin towers were two dark fingers except for the red aircraft warning lights at the top. In the far distance, the Statue of Liberty was a black silhouette against the lights of New Jersey except for the torch, which still glowed.
This wasn’t the real hell. This was New York City.
Blackout.
What now, Ranger?
“I don’t know,” Kane mumbled. His legs gave out and he went to his knees, one arm looped around the dirty pole. Pain pulsed from the burn on his calf. Quinn’s drug was still in his system, his brain foggy.
“Dai-Yu?”
Hands were on Kane’s shoulder, a dark face looking down at him. A gold tooth. There were others with him. Two thin figures flanked the Montagnard.
“Help me,” Thao said to his comrades as he slapped a syringe of morphine into Kane’s thigh. He fixed the needle through the lapel of Kane’s shirt, bending it to remain in place, combat habit intact.
Hands lifted Kane. A man on either side held him as they followed Thao, who had his crossbow at the ready and his machete strapped to his narrow waist. Kane’s toes dragged on the street.
Kane glanced left. Wile-E. To the other side: the Kid.
They crossed 15th and went one block south to 14th then turned east toward Washington. They passed under the High Line
Ahead were the sounds of rioting, partying, looting. Sirens in all directions. A city going insane.
“Three more blocks,” Thao said as they made a right and headed south on Washington.
“I can walk,” Kane murmured, but his feet weren’t responding.
“We got you,” the Kid said.
“What the hell were you up to, Cap’n?” Wile-E asked.
Glass shattered and looters poured into a bodega to the left.
The small group reached the bend in Washington with the High Line just to the right.
“One more block,” Thao said.
A dozen dark figures loomed out of the darker shadows underneath the elevated rail line.
“He’s got a fucking crossbow!” One called, laughing,
Thao fired, the bolt hitting the man a glancing strike in the thigh, carving out a furrow of flesh.
“Fuck!” the guy cried out.
Thao reloaded.
Wile-E snatched Kane’s .45 out of the holster and fired a round into the air. He leveled the gun at the group.
“We just scare them,” Thao said to Wile-E. “No killing. I only wounded.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Wile-E said.
The group scattered, the man with the wound limping after his comrades in crime.
“Hey,” Kane weakly protested.
“Relax, Cap’n.” Wile-E slid the pistol into the holster.
The diner was ahead. Standing on the corner of Gansevoort and Washington, torches in one hand, Mac-10 submachineguns in the other, were Van Van, dressed in matching dark suits. Their large car was pulled up on the sidewalk, headlights on, cutting across the front of the diner.
Potential looters were making a wide berth around that corner.
There were candles on the tables in Vic’s. The Kid and Wile-E carried Kane inside and followed Thao’s directions to put him on the counter. A tall woman floated into his field of vision, vaguely familiar, wearing bell-bottom jeans and a t-shirt, pale skin, short red hair.
She looked down at him “You’re a real piece of work, Kane.”
“Morticia?” Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Kid and Wile-E go out the door and join Van Van in the street, torches in hand.
“How many people are you going to hire?” she asked as she handed a black bag to Thao. “Do I get a raise? Run the shift?”
“You’ll be fine, Dai Yu,” Thao said, opening the bag and removing supplies. He handed a pair of blunted medical scissors to Morticia. “Cut away the pants around the injury. Do not pull off cloth that is burned into the skin, please.”
“I really have no desire to get into your pants, Kane,” Morticia said as she started to cut. “I do this under protest.”
Thao checked Kane’s body for other damage.
Morticia spoke as she worked. “Ryan was worried about you and—“
“’Ryan’?” Kane managed to ask.
“What happened to your throat?” Morticia was shocked as Thao shone a penlight on the bright red line of torn flesh around it. “Someone hang you?”
“Who. Is. Ryan?”
“The Kid.” Morticia tossed a piece of jungle fatigue pants to the side. “He showed up at the end of shift late this morning and said you were asking about the old Nabisco Factory and acting kind of a downer. I told him the last part was normal, but he said more down than usual.” Morticia was talking fast. “Then this Wile-E guy showed up looking for a job. He said you’d asked him about the factory too. Going to cut into my tips, by the way, so I want a raise. But we had them start redoing the booths. I’d already picked out the material with Thao. You’ll like it.”
“Right,” Kane managed.
“I bet you don’t even remember what color the booths were,” Morticia said. “But then the power goes out and I got kinda worried.” She grabbed a candle and peered at his leg. Despite her banter, her hands were shaking. “And Thao was kinda vibrating in place, which is hard to tell with him, but he was talking to me more than a sentence at a time, which isn’t usual. I figured that meant he was upset. And it wasn’t about the blackout. So when those two, what-do-you-call-‘em, Yungs? show up, Thao takes Ryan and Wile-E to find you.”
“Right,” Kane said.
“Still the great conversationalist,” Morticia noted as she pulled off the rest of the pa
nt leg.
“What’s your real name?” Kane asked, the morphine clouding his brain on top of Quinn’s drug.
Morticia smiled. “Ha! Nice try.”
“You’ll be fine, Dai Yu,” Thao repeated. “What happened?”
Kane had a moment of clarity. He sat up. His ruck was on a stool to the side. He pulled open the top. The leather ledger, the camera, and several film cases were inside. “Hide this, Thao.”
“Yes, Dai Yu.”
Kane shut the ruck. “I killed four wolves and a snake.”
Kane laid his head back on the counter. Allowed the exhaustion and morphine to descend.
Friday, 15 July 1977
THEATER DISTRICT, MANHATTAN
“Stop that,” Morticia hissed as Kane looked over his shoulder once more, checking the back of the theater. “Enjoy the movie.”
“I bet Darth Vader escapes,” Kane whispered to Morticia as the theater rumbled with the Star Wars sound track and spaceships firing at each other. Luke Skywalker made his epic run along the canyon on the surface of the Death Star.
Sitting to his left, Morticia punched him, hard, in the arm “Shut up!” she said, but it was loud enough for the Kid, on Kane’s right, a bag of popcorn in his lap, to hear. On his other side was Thao.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” the Kid said.
Darth Vader’s companion Tie fighter was hit by Hans Solo’s Millennium Falcon and bounced into Darth Vader’s advanced Tie fighter, which was sent spinning away from the Death Star.
Morticia leaned forward and across Kane. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I love the movie.” She slugged Kane’s arm. “And you do too, don’t you?”
“It’s pretty good,” Kane admitted and glanced over his shoulder.
Morticia rolled her eyes in the dark.
As the credits eventually scrolled, Kane fidgeted, anxious to be out the theater. The burn on his leg throbbed but it was the feeling of being trapped that prevailed. His hands were wrapped in bandages. When the Kid finally stood, after the screen went black, the three others joined him, the last ones to head for the doors of the theater.
“I hate it when the bad guy gets away,” the Kid said.
“Don’t worry,” Kane said. “Sometimes they don’t.”
Thao gave him a glance, but said nothing.
They came out into Midtown Manhattan, blinking in the smog filtered sunlight. The city was still in the midst of recovering from the Blackout. The NY Post’s headline the previous day had trumpeted ’24 HOURS OF TERROR’, which, for once, had not been an exaggeration. As they walked toward the entrance for the subway, stretches of sidewalk were still littered with broken glass. Looted and burned out stores were clustered on certain blocks, with no pattern to the violence.
“How is the leg, Dai Yu?” Thao asked.
“Hurts, but works,” Kane said. “Pain is weakness leaving the body.”
“Tough guy,” Morticia said. “You ever gonna tell us what happened?”
“Nope,” Kane said.
She shook her head. “You’re a piece of work, Kane.”
“Do you mean that in a good or bad way?”
“I don’t know any more,” Morticia said. “Kinda depends on which day of the week it is.”
They diverted into the street around a shop owner dumping bags of spoiled food onto the curb.
“And I’ve been thinking about it,” the Kid said, still on the movie. “The chief bad cat was the Emperor, who Vader worked for. He’s also out there with his fleet and storm troopers.”
“Ah, yes,” Thao said, “but the rebels destroyed the Death Star and won the battle.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” the Kid said.
Thao nodded. “They fought the good fight. And there are times when winning and losing isn’t as important as fighting for the right reasons.”
They reached the dark mouth descending to the subway.
Kane paused and turned to the Kid. “Don’t worry. There’ll be a sequel where Luke beats Darth Vader. And eventually the Emperor.”
“Really?” the Kid said. “You think so?”
“Absolutely,” Kane said. “Because we can’t let the bad guys win.” He looked up. “Hey, it is a sunny day, isn’t it?”
The Kid smiled. “Sure is.”
They descended into the arteries of New York City, the shadows swallowing them up.
The End
The next book in the Will Kane series is Lawyer’s, Guns and Money.
The first two chapters follow author information.
Authors Notes:
This story is framed around historical events, but the people and details have been changed, except for significant historical figures.
The West Point class of 1966 lost 30 members, the most of any West Point class, in Vietnam. Four of the eight assigned to the 173rd Airborne were KIA.
Charlie Beckwith did run the Florida phase of Ranger School among his many assignments. He eventually formed Delta Force and led the Eagle Claw mission.
The 173rd Airborne was involved in numerous engagements in Vietnam including the battles of Hill 1338 and Hill 875.
There was a Green Beret Affair in 1969 where a double agent was executed. Colonel Rheault, the commander of the Fifth Special Forces at the time, was the basis for Colonel Kurtz in Apocalypse Now.
The Battle of Mirbat on 19 July 1972 was the tipping point in the defeat of the Dhofar Rebellion in Oman and one of the greatest victories in SAS history.
Son of Sam began his reign of terror on 29 July 1976. By July 1977 he had killed five and wounded six including a grammar school classmate of mine.
The New York City Blackout on the night of 13 July 1977 started at 8:37 PM and ended the next day with full restoration at 10:39 PM.
The old Nabisco Factory complex is now known as The Chelsea Market and is one of the most expensive pieces of real estate in New York City.
The High Line is now a park and the 8th most visited tourist attraction in New York City.
Thanks to beta readers Laurie Turner and Ken Kendall.
About the Author
Thanks for the read!
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Bob is a NY Times Bestselling author, graduate of West Point and former Green Beret. He's had over 80 books published including the #1 series The Green Berets, The Cellar, Area 51, Shadow Warriors, Atlantis, and the Time Patrol. Born in the Bronx, having traveled the world (usually not tourist spots), he now lives peacefully with his wife and dogs.
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Excerpt From Lawyers, Guns and Money
Thursday Night, 4 August 1977
UPPER BAY, NEW YORK HARBOR
The Statue of Liberty’s torch, flickering in the dark and shrouded by rain,
could be an invitation or, more realistically, a warning. Since he was on a boat, William Kane, who was fond of maps, likened Lady Liberty these days to those sea serpents drawn on the blank spaces of ancient charts with the dire warning: Here there be monsters! Stay away!
Three weeks earlier, the city had been savaged by massive rioting during the nightlong Blackout on the 13th of July, an explosion on top of two decades of a slowly filling cesspool of blight and decay. There were many who felt New York would never recover and that the Blackout had been the death knell. They compared it to the fond memories of the ’66 Blackout as proof the city had gone to hell.
Kane, who was also a student of history, was rather ambivalent about the memories and the projections. New York had survived many trepidations and would plod into the future in one form or another. He used glimpses of Lady Liberty’s torch to the southwest to fix the boat’s position in the rotten weather, drawing a mental line from it to the muted glow of the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center to the northeast. He twitched the dual throttles to keep the forty-two-footer in position, the eastern point in a triangle with Liberty and Ellis Islands equidistant to the west.
“That’s the subway,” Kane nodded his head, indicating the barely visible dark mass in the harbor.
“Excuse me?” The man Kane had labeled Money, since he wasn’t big on remembering names, had been a pain ever since boarding, ordering him about as if Kane were a servant, which technically was true, given he was on the job.
Money was seated in the plush captain’s chair to Kane’s left rear. The Actress was in the chair next to him. Money was from Texas, a point he’d made within the first minute. He wore tailored jeans, a starched white shirt under an expensive sports jacket, alligator skin boots and a black Stetson crowning silver hair.