by John Ringo
Tom looked up sharply.
“Faith is fine, everyone is fine, no casualties,” Paul said soothingly. “However, the sister of the lady that objected to the shooting of her zombie husband objected to the cleanliness of the BERT trucks. To be fair, they smell a bit high, but Faith stuck a pistol in her face and offered to turn her into vaccine if she didn’t get in the truck.”
“You know, I can’t really muster any outrage for that.” Tom just rubbed his face for a moment. “How’s security?”
“We’re holding the building with a skeleton now,” Paul said. “All the buses are flushed. I figure that as soon as we drop below the current numbers of shooters we can turn off the lobby lights, seal the doors and hold from the roof.”
“Roger that,” Tom said. “Tell Kap to stream the birds as they return instead of sending them in flights. You’re on the next lift. Take Kohn with you. Split her party up, I don’t want her with an intact cadre at any refuge. You go with her to Site Blue and I’ll catch up.”
The radio sounded again.
“Smith.” A different voice, a voice familiar to Tom called his name. “You listening, Smith?”
They looked at handset for a moment and then Smith picked up.
“Tom Smith. Station calling, please identify, over.”
“You know me,” Dominguez said without preamble. “Do you have Matricardi?”
“Captain Dominguez, is that you?” Tom tried for dialogue. “What’s your status? Over.”
“Smith, I want Matricardi and all of his people. Do you have them?”
“We haven’t been able to reach you,” Tom replied, ignoring the question. “Most of the comms are down and I heard that there was a zombie outbreak at your building. Talk to me.”
“Outbreak?” Dominguez’s voice was a rasp. “You heard about that? I guess that means that you have Kohn there, too. Keep her. Or don’t. I don’t care. I didn’t hear you say that you don’t have Matricardi—so he’s there. Good. Give me that asshole, and you are out of this. I’ll even give you time to get off this island before everyone and anything on it dies.”
“Whoa, Ding, wha—”
Tom knew crazy when he heard it. He was trying to cut through the crazy but Dominguez cut him off.
“If I gotta ask you more than once when I get there, you might not get the same deal. I’ll be there in a bit. Have that murdering scum ready to give to me. That’s all the negotiation that you are going to get.”
The channel went silent.
“Ding, this is Tom. Come in.”
Tom repeated the call but the radio stayed silent. Tom stared at the radio in his hand for a moment before passing it back to Paul.
“Wellll…that was unhelpful,” Paul offered. “What now?”
“Run the airlift. Shorten the perimeter. Come up with something to satisfy Dominguez.”
“We don’t have what he wants, though.”
“That doesn’t appear to matter.”
* * *
The entire group had overheard the radio, and Joanna’s OEM staffers awaiting their flight out of Manhattan were edging closer to panic.
“Remain calm, everyone,” the OEM director said, as soothingly as she could. “The aircraft are very nearly ready for us.”
She watched as one of Smith’s attack dogs walked over, to be met by Gauge. They conferred momentarily before Kohn saw the man whose name tag read KAPLAN raise both hands palms up and shrug, before he turned without a second look and walked to the open door leading up to the heliport.
She couldn’t hear the words but she knew what “take it or leave it” looked like. Joanna motioned Schweizer over as Gauge returned.
“We are to spread out people across the next three aircraft,” Gauge stated, gesturing vaguely upward. “Kaplan says that they are refueling now, and that they can take three of our people in the first two helicopters and the last two after that.
“Which site are we going to?” asked Schweizer heatedly. “We need to stay together as much as possible.”
“I don’t know which site,” replied Gauge, ignoring her colleague and instead focusing on Kohn herself. “Do we let them split us up, ma’am?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Joanna saw two more of Smith’s key personnel enter the assembly room. The handsome dark-skinned intel officer, Rune, was delivering a locked black case to another bank employee, a woman with a haunted look.
“Ensure that our remaining pistols are quietly distributed as evenly as possible Ken,” she directed Schweizer. “At least one member of our team on each aircraft should be armed. We aren’t in a position to argue with the bankers. Yet.”
Rune looked up and met her gaze. He really did have the most beautiful eyes, Joanna reflected.
Schweizer noted her gaze and saw Rune.
“What does that asshole want?”
“Wait, ma’am, you want to hijack a helicopter?” asked Gauge wonderingly.
“Nothing that dramatic, I hope,” Kohn replied.
* * *
“Welcome back, miss,” Tom said evenly. “It isn’t quite ‘long time—no see,’ but you did leave rather unexpectedly. We could’ve used your help at the Acre. Of course, you were also dressed for the mission, then.”
The head of security and Durante stared at Oldryskya at close range. Her presence was a bit more than unexpected, especially since she appeared to have materialized on foot. Also, she was immaculately coiffed and made up, down to the high heels more suited to an evening out than picking her way among the dead infected that littered Wall Street.
As the number of personnel who remained shrank, Durante had withdrawn staff from the forward positions that had previously kept the infected at least a block from the actual building. The current security point was just outside the front doors of the bank, which explained how someone could just walk up, provided that they weren’t dragged down by the infected. Although no mobs were in view, the perimeter staff were briefed to shoot any that approached, to the tune of several per hour. The dead zombies had really started to mount up.
Risky and two Cosa Nova shooters had very carefully shown themselves and asked to see Smith or whoever was still in charge. Durante knew better than to say anything, but even an atypical Wall Street hire like him knew that her clothes were…zombie apocalypse inappropriate. She strode all the way to the front door, while the two Cosa Nova men stopped short. One turned about, facing outwards, while the other stood behind their spokewoman and continued to face the bank. The group was very obviously trying to signal that they were not a threat.
“I gotta ask ya’, Risky.” Durante added his two cents. “How did you manage to save that outfit and complete a sunkissed look in the middle of a zombie apocalypse?”
Smith delivered a withering glare, but Durante appeared unrepentant.
“Well, it isn’t natural!”
She smiled, showing one cautious dimple.
“Trade secret,” she said. “Let’s just say I’ve walked in some dark places.”
Durante grinned in appreciation.
Oldryskya glanced up at the roofline fifty stories above as a helicopter disappeared from view, settling onto the roof. Normally, the sound of the helo would be lost at street level, buried in the New York metro noise. Now, it was clearly audible.
She smoothed her hands down her dress and looked back to the reception committee, composing her face in a neutral business mask.
“Mr. Smith,” Risky said, nodding. “Mr. Matricardi sends his respects. I am still dressed for the mission, which currently is to safely approach your bank. In this dress, I’m clearly not hiding any weapons, yes?”
She had on the same tight black number from the first restaurant meeting. Tom very carefully didn’t look at the dress. Much.
“My companions are for my security,” Oldryskya continued, noting his gaze. “My boss thought that you might be less ready to shoot me if I wore this instead of one of Durante’s tactical rigs. The Elevated Acre meeting was tense and I was recalle
d to assist Mr. Matricardi. I’m sorry that there wasn’t time for more discussion.”
“And?” Tom replied.
“And Mr. Matricardi wants to come in,” she added. “He isn’t sure where you stand.”
Tom and Durante exchanged a look, before Tom spoke.
“The cops want me to deliver your boss to them, giftwrapped,” Tom said flatly. “They think that Cosa Nova killed a bunch of their children. Both of Dominguez’s kids are dead. I can’t finish my evacuation for several hours and the cops are coming here, maybe right now. So, you can see that I have a problem.”
One of the Jersey men swore softly, but didn’t turn around.
“And what do you plan to do?” Risky asked calmly. “We have a deal. Mr. Matricardi lived up to his side. We have adhered to the terms, perfectly. The police who are hunting our organization are the ones who have broken the compact.”
Tom continued to look her directly in the eyes.
“Did Matricardi have anything to do with the attack?”
“No.” Risky’s reply was vehement. “We had nothing to do with it. It was a frame, not even a good one. It convinced the Jersey cops. They came last night with the same story and wanted to kill us. We escaped but it was expensive. Afterward, we didn’t have the resources to push south or west on our own. Instead of running away, we ran here. For the evacuation.”
“Boss! Heads up!” Durante called. Both Cosa Nova men turned to face outwards.
Three blocks away, but clearly visible from the sidewalk, a police special response Atlas truck turned onto Wall Street from Broadway, followed by another. Diesel engines growled in the opposite direction. Tom looked left and he saw a third black vehicle pull into view from the East River end of the street. He decided quickly.
“You three inside the lobby!” he said, motioning to the Cosa Nova contingent. “Gravy, alert the teams on the third floor. Stay with these people but no shooting. Pass the word and make sure that the Army guys know.”
Tom and the original bank personnel stayed put when, minutes later, the black, hulking armored truck stopped in directly in front of Tom. The other two stopped a football length away in each direction. Dominguez stepped down from the truck’s running board and walked up to where Tom and Durante waited.
“Smith,” Ding offered by way of a greeting.
“Captain,” Tom replied.
“Matricardi is here,” Ding said, scanning behind Smith. “I saw some of his people scamper inside. I want them all. Now.”
* * *
“How long to get there, Paul?” Kendra asked.
The flashing black rotors on the big helicopter spun faster as the craft prepared to depart the roof of the bank. There was room for up to six helos at a time, but half the of space was occupied by a highly illegal, unlicensed collection of fuel blivets. A second helicopter was also spooling up while a third, recently landed, was refueling.
Paul placed himself on the same aircraft with Joanna Kohn and allowed her only one personal staff member on the same flight. She’d chosen her male aid and sent the next pair over to the adjacent helo. Paul conveniently neglected to mention that the various flights were not all converging on the same destination. He’d manifested six passengers on this trip, well under the maximum possible. In addition to Kendra, he’d also brought Sergeant Randall and Christine, the female refugee from the concert. Smiling, he scanned the cabin again. Across from him in the cramped space, Kohn smiled back, mistaking his meaning.
He consulted his wristwatch to conceal his expression, but tangled his wrist in the headset cord. Even in a luxury model rotocraft like the big Airbus EC155s that they had on long-term charter, the interior noise was sufficient to require hearing protection and all the passengers wore cranials that were plugged into the ceiling panel.
There were only a few score staff remaining at bank. Those left at this point were mostly pure security and a few comms personnel. Unsurprisingly, Smith insisted on being the last out. Given the round trip flight time to the refuges, BotA could button the front doors and have the last personnel out of Manhattan by dinner or a little after.
If Dominguez didn’t interfere.
Paul’s eyes moved to Kendra. She was looking out the window, a black, locked case covering most of her lap. He’d made it clear that she had one job until they arrived at the refuge and the case, stenciled with a white number 2, was it.
“Even a big bird like this can barely reach our Pennsylvania refueling point with a light passenger load,” he replied. “That’s why we haven’t maxed out the seats. Figure three and half hours to refueling stop, and then another hour after that. Then lather, rinse and repeat for each remaining lift.”
The pilot eased the collective and they lifted upwards smoothly.
* * *
Tom looked steadily at Dominguez. The tall cop was gaunt and his face bore new, deep lines. He wore his uniform under the tactical equipment harness but apart from the sidearm, no weapons were visible.
Yet.
“Captain Dominguez, I don’t have Matricardi,” Tom said carefully. “A few of his people approached me a short time ago and they are under my protection. Further, I do not believe that Matricardi was behind the attack on your families.”
Dominguez didn’t immediately reply. He looked upwards. The patchy gray cloud cover allowed the late summer sunlight to filter through, lighting the scene without shadow. The engine noise from the helicopter was clear. He looked up, raised his right arm, then pumped it once.
In his peripheral vision, Smith saw doors open on the more distant vehicles and cops pile out. A few more trucks pulled into sight.
“Last chance,” Dominguez said. His tone was the utter neutral of madness. “Give me Matricardi and any other Cosa Nova and you can keep running your operation. You can give them to me or I’ll take them. If I have to take them, I will kill everyone in the way. No one will leave this place. Your call.”
“Ding, you know me well enough to understand that I’m not going to turn anyone over to you to be executed,” Smith said, almost as neutral in tone. “Let’s all get off the island and settl—”
“No.” Dominguez smiled like a death’s head as he cut off further discussion with a wave. “I was rather expecting that. Businessman reflexes. You think that everything can be talked out. You’ve two minutes to reconsider. If I see you send them out front, I’ll do the rest.”
He turned and walked back to the idling armored vehicle, reaching for his own radio as he did so.
* * *
Oldryskya watched the exchange through the glass front of the building, which filtered the light into a urine yellow color. Behind her the two Cosa Nova guards were unsuccessfully fumbling with their radio. She turned her head towards Durante, who stood with his feet apart and arms crossed.
“Do you think Mr. Smith is going to take the deal with Dominguez?”
“No,” the taller man said, rubbing a hand through his brush cut. “That would be the smart move, no offense. But Tom made a deal, and he is pure hell on deal breakers. This is gonna turn into a fight. We’re short on shooters and light on heavy weapons, so I figure we button up, retreat up and defend down. They’re gonna have a hell of a time fighting their way up fifty floors as we chopper out. Meanwhile, the zombies come in behind them.”
Durante smiled suddenly.
“Tell you this much, I wouldn’t want to switch places with them.”
“Can we hold them long enough for the helicopters to get here?” asked the gangster, radio clutched in one hand.
“Yes,” Durante said, unslinging his rifle. The former special operator was clearly back in his element. “We’re lucky we don’t have to break out. That would be a stone bitch. We just have to see what the cops choose to do.”
They all watched Smith stride back in the front door.
Smith stopped, looked at the group and sighed.
“What we have here, mates, is a failure to communicate,” he said, his native accent thickening.
&
nbsp; “Time to do the dance,” Durante said, his face breaking into a broad grin.
Then he flicked off his safety. Wasn’t going to need it any time soon.
* * *
The presence of the cops around the bank had changed the departure profile of the airlift. Each helicopter spiraled straight upwards, gaining altitude sufficient to make ground fire a lesser risk.
Kendra watched the city recede as their helo leveled off and turned west. The bank rooftop was clearly visible. Around her, the various passengers were clearly occupied with their own thoughts, most clutching a small bag, all that they had been allowed to retain.
She spoke on the shared intercom.
“I thought it would be faster than this.”
“Even with fewer passengers, we are really heavily laden with fuel, so it takes longer to climb out,” Paul replied, not looking up from his tablet. “This isn’t the movies where everything happens at once.”
With a final tap, he looked back for the final time.
“Oh, shit.”
That got everyone’s attention, despite his flat tone.
A white contrail was arrowing up from the ground level of downtown and in a moment it reached the next Bank of the Americas helicopter, just as it climbed away from the roof. From this distance, it wasn’t obvious if the missile actually contacted the bird, or just exploded in close proximity.
Not that it mattered.
After the craft reappeared from the initial gray puff of the explosion, it began to spin, slowly at first but accelerating as it descended.
In their helicopter the pilot blanched and pulled up on his collective, burying his turbine RPM needles in the red as he clawed upwards, trading speed for altitude.
“Those things have a slant range over three miles and we are way too close!”
Hands clutched arm rests. Behind them the stricken helicopter impacted on the landing area it had just departed.
A small explosion bloomed orange. Less than a second later, a much larger explosion obscured the entire roof.
* * *
Tom had relocated the security checkpoint to the third floor, the highest level of the mezzanine that ringed the lobby from the inside. The decorative planters that served as a railing were made of Italian marble. Between the stone and the soil, they were adequate to stop small arms fire, should it become necessary. If Dominguez really tried to fight his way inside, his assault teams would first have to clear the lobby while taking direct fire from hardened fighting positions. The butcher’s bill would be high, and the cops would have to pay in blood for every floor they wanted to ascend.