That went better than expected.
Back at my apartment, I sent out two calls: one to Allen to get it over here, the other to the FBI to tell Greaves I had both her killers. I didn’t, obviously, but speaking to Simone had made a part of my brain itch, that part that told me things didn’t add up. I needed Allen with me, maybe just for emotional support. I had a hunch, and my track record hadn’t been terribly bad as of late.
It was barely three in the morning, December 25. I sat on my couch, finishing up my book, trying to make each and every sentence stretch out in an effort to force time to slow down. My foot kept bouncing up and down, and the words failed to stick in my brain as I reread sentences over and over and over again. Until either Allen or the FBI arrived, I was accompanied by someone else.
“Never thought I’d see the day you turn yourself in,” Masters said.
“You knew me for a week at most, asshole.”
“Maybe. But you know you aren’t talking to the real Masters, are you?”
I grunted in affirmation. “How long are you going to hang around?”
“I guess we’ll see. Ever chased a ghost before?”
“Shut up.”
“Of course you have. James was a ghost for years. And before him was Eddy, right? Looks like I’m just the newest iteration.”
Down the hall, the elevator dinged as it arrived on my floor. I ran over to the TV and flipped it on. Static faded in slowly on the screen as the tubes warmed.
I breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing Allen walk through the door without knocking. Good. We’d have a moment to talk.
Its face was still pretty dented: half of the plates from its left cheek to its brow were busted up, making the right side of its face carry all the emotive weight. “Detective,” it said softly.
“Allen.”
“How are you?”
I sighed and dropped my shoulders. “Stressed. Numb. Just gross, really. I don’t know what I’m doing or why. I know you’re pissed at me for earlier, but it wasn’t my action to take.”
“I feel like you want to tell me something,” it said.
“That’s my line,” I chuckled. “I wish I could tell you. Maybe another day. But right now, I need you to trust me. Can you do that one last time?”
Allen nodded. “I can.”
The door opened again. This time, half a dozen agents entered, hands folded, jackets open for easy access to their guns. Greaves entered last, her outfit and hair immaculate, but her face betraying her exhaustion. She must have sprinted to get over here.
“I don’t see two killers here,” she stated.
“On the contrary,” I said. “I see two. One more of an indirect killer, but two nonetheless.”
She raised an eyebrow and walked across the room to look out the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Talking about yourself and the machine?”
“No, about you and me.”
She didn’t turn. “What are you insinuating?”
“You didn’t expect me to catch the Vierling Killer, did you? You knew she was going to be hard to catch.”
“Indeed, she’s a quick one.”
“Seems she’s the only one, though.” I lit a cigarette. “After all, you don’t seem surprised to hear that it’s a woman. You also, conveniently, didn’t see her in the Met’s security footage a day ago.”
Greaves wasn’t moving. The Black Hats weren’t, either, but the quick glances they exchanged told me they didn’t know as much as she did.
“Who would have the money to sponsor their own enforcer, and the resources to refurbish a weapon as unique as the Vierling? To put her up in one of the most expensive neighbourhoods outside the Upper East Side? Who would have the political power not only to push a general off the Plate, but to hide her own involvement in it while threatening him in order to keep her enforcer complacent? After all, a man like General Morane, whose mind is slipping, could easily have an ‘accident’ if your little patsy ever slipped up or threatened to run off.”
Greaves didn’t respond. Neither did her entourage.
“On top of that, who would be stupid enough to identify an Iron Hands safe house and send someone to burn it? Rossi was barely a blip on the map when it came to Maranzano’s organization, which means your girl would have no real reason to chase him. Unless, that is, she was informed of Rossi’s significance in another well-known criminal cartel.”
I dropped my cigarette on the carpet. It wouldn’t be the only blemish in my apartment today.
“If I’ve hit the nail on the head, tell me to stop,” I said.
“I’m impressed, Roche. At your ability to leap to conclusions,” Greaves said. “You don’t have any evidence to back up these claims.”
Right on cue, the Eye delivered on her promise.
The TV flickered as the signal was hijacked, and grainy, black-and-white security footage from the museum’s rudimentary cameras came into focus. At first I was the only one visible in the museum, but eventually the angles showed me and Simone together. She had succeeded in escaping some of the cameras, but the ones near the Vierling had clearly captured her, as well as me.
“I don’t see only one trespasser. Do you?”
I smirked. Allen was looking back and forth between the TV and Greaves. She, meanwhile, was altogether too calm, still looking out the window. No one said anything or moved. I could tell she was pissed. I could tell I was right.
Looks like I’m getting back into the swing of investigating.
“Get the cuffs on him, by any means necessary,” Greaves said.
Some of the Black Hats reached for their guns. I widened my stance and placed my hand over my own, pushing Allen behind me with my free hand.
“You boys think you can draw faster than I can shoot?” I asked, my focus darting between the seven possible targets in my apartment. “Other cops have tried. Other cops have failed.”
Greaves put up her hand to stay her agents. She looked at me, composed. “You said there were two killers in here, Roche. You made a case for me. Are you going to make one for yourself?”
“After I confirm one other hunch,” I said, flexing my fingers over my Diamondback. “This wasn’t your first time trying to dismantle the Iron Hands, was it? Masters hid his plans from everyone … except you.” Her eyes narrowed. Yup, there we go. “I gotta say, it felt really good when I fucked him up —”
She grabbed the pistol from one agent’s belt. Allen leaped onto me, pushing us both behind the wall separating my living room from my kitchen.
“Get him, goddamn it!” Greaves screamed. The other G-Men jumped into action.
“You’re insane!” Allen whisper-shouted at me.
“No, just decisive. Finally,” I said, untangling myself from it as we shielded behind my kitchen cupboards.
One of the agents rounded the corner closest to the windows. Two bullets made him stumble back, the thermite rounds passing through him and weakening the glass enough to make him fall through.
“You okay fighting for your life?” I asked Allen.
In answer, it pulled out its Christmas present and chambered a bullet.
The crack of long-range ammunition told me that Allen’s assistance might not be necessary. Another window broke, another G-Man slumped over the kitchen sink, blood pouring from a hole in his neck. Another fell behind the counter, slamming into the carpet. A third screamed, yelling about his leg being hit.
Allen and I made a break for the front door, a hail of bullets passing over us as we ran. I heard glass cracking again. Looking back, I could just make out a glimmer of chrome beyond the window, on the opposite rooftop.
There was heat. I went deaf, and everything turned black.
CHAPTER 27
I HAD TO FOLLOW ROCHE, had to know what he was planning.
His route took him to Central Park, which made staying hidden a challenge. I could see him wandering over the Bow Bridge, the other side of which was obscured from my view by bare tree branches. He spoke to someone, and it was
n’t a wild guess as to who. I could hear everything from my hiding spot. It seemed he was under more pressure than I’d realized.
If I wanted to talk to her myself, I’d have to come here later.
Hours after Roche had left, as the day was waning, I made my own way to the Bow Bridge. It could be suicide, my setting up this meeting. But just letting things play out would be worse.
I did as Roche had and looked southward, waiting. An unnatural silence descended, my cue to turn. The Eye was leaning against the railing of the bridge, flanked by a legion of Red-eyes. We were both disguised, pretending to be someone else — she cloaked in darkness and her veil, me in my regular garb.
“Yes?” she asked impatiently.
“I’m here to make you an offer.” I had an old Automatic voice box that scrambled my speech enough to hide my identity without making me unintelligible. It had come in handy more times than I cared to admit.
The Eye laughed. She was beside herself, laughing like I was doing a comedy routine. She wiped her eyes and exhaled.
“An offer? For me?”
“Yes.”
“How generous! I hope what you’re offering is your life, because that’s all you have to bargain with. My people and my business have been put at risk by you, and I do not take that lightly. What on earth could you give me to make up for that?”
“I can give you Elias Roche.”
“We already have a plan to rescue him. It’ll be put into action soon. I assure you, we do not need your help.”
“You do. After he’s freed, then what? The supposed Vierling Killer is on the loose, along with the real one? Any more people I kill — Maranzano’s or yours — he’ll be blamed for it. And if he’s associated with you, that’ll make his life harder and, therefore, yours, too. It’s all connected, all dominoes that can be knocked over where they are now, or redirected elsewhere. If you free him and kill Greaves, the city will find out who you are. If I free him …” I paused.
“I’m listening.”
“What better way to save him than to have the actual Vierling Killer do it? His name is cleared, you get your enforcer back, I’m still wanted, and everyone’s happy. He keeps doing jobs for you, and you keep paying him, without the need to move him from safe house to safe house every few days.”
She rubbed her chin. “What do you offer in return?”
“Roche, like I said.”
“Sweeten the deal.”
“Fair enough. I melted a few parts of yours in Hell’s, didn’t I?”
“Indeed, you did. Burning down that safehouse put me back quite a lot …”
“I’m sure I can find a way to compensate you, monetarily or otherwise. And I won’t touch another of your operations.”
“Ever?”
“For three months. Then I’m fair game again. Kill me if you catch me.”
The Eye grinned, still rubbing her chin, laughing to herself. “Anything else?”
“We both know who really sanctioned those hits on Maranzano’s people and your safe house. She’ll be at the meeting with Roche. I can take care of her.”
The Eye laughed. “I like you! You should be working for me.”
“We both know that would be a terrible idea.”
“Truly. You have a deal. American Apartments, Bowery and Bayard, in one hour. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.”
I watched the meeting from the opposite rooftop. I had four barrels, but too many targets. Greaves was looking out the window, Roche and Allen stood in the centre of the living room, and there were six other FBI agents inside: two by the window, two by the far wall, one near the radio, another out of view. Damn it.
Greaves turned, speaking to Roche. His not putting up a fight must have surprised her.
Allen — had it just looked at me? Damnit, it had. It could see me. It had good eyes.
Greaves pulled a gun, and bullets began to fly. Time to call it.
Front trigger, left barrel: Greaves.
Glass shattered, but my bullet just missed her. She ran deeper into the apartment, behind the TV. Goddamn it.
Agent to the right of Greaves: back trigger, right barrel.
Down and out. Hit two that time, one in the neck, another in the chest. Good shot by me.
Middle trigger, centre barrel: he moved too early. Got his knee. That was fine.
I turned the barrel assembly 180 degrees and aimed. Last two were the guy nearest the windows and Greaves, backing away, trying to get into cover.
I yanked the trigger, only then seeing Roche and Allen making a beeline for the door, Greaves jumping behind a couch while firing on them.
The trigger was already pulled.
“Shit.”
CHAPTER 28
I WOKE UP, MY BODY FREEZING. I felt like someone had used my head as a kickball and my body as a punching bag. I was afraid to open my eyes.
When I did, I saw Lower Manhattan from thirty stories up. I had to blink a few times to make sure that, yes, I was seeing things right. Much of my upper body was hanging out of my window frame. There were glass shards stuck in my chest. My body felt heavy, ringing like my deaf ears.
Allen was out cold, but its iron grip still held on to my ankle, preventing me from falling. My left arm was close to the radiator pipe near my window. I gripped it, using it as leverage to wrench my top half back into the apartment. Turning over, my hearing began to return: glass cracking under my weight, my own groans, the sounds of the street below. And sirens, too.
The FBI agents’ bodies were strewn about the place, though some, I knew, had been thrown through my now broken windows. Greaves was nowhere to be seen, though the trail of blood from my overturned couch to the door might be hers. She was lucky my apartment was a Control Point.
I roused Allen, waiting for its blue bulbs to turn on, blinking as it recovered.
I pulled my right arm inside and tried to get up … but I couldn’t. My legs were fine. So were my arms.
But not my hand. My right hand wasn’t there. Just a bloody stump with white bone sticking out.
My hand.
My hand.
“My hand,” I finally said.
Then it began to hit me.
“Fuck, fuck! My hand!”
Allen saw me panicking and got up. It grabbed me, lifted me over its shoulder, and ran into the hall. There were neighbours milling around, trying to see what the commotion was about, but Allen didn’t slow down, bulldozing right through them.
We were outside the building when the shock got to me. Ambulances and cruisers were out front. The last thing I remembered was a pool of blood at Allen’s feet. My blood.
“Someone!” Allen was yelling. “Someone, help! Help me, goddamn it!”
EPILOGUE
SURGERY HAD BEEN QUICK, but recovery was something else. It was December 31, and I was still in the hospital. Thankfully, I had capable people taking care of me.
“Fraulein, get out of my way!”
Capable enough.
Allen, after getting his face — yes, his face — fixed by Jaeger, had brought over our favourite Tinkerman to give my arm a new lease on life. He also gifted me some street clothes. He had gone back to my place after the whole ruckus, and he told me my apartment looked like a war zone. Figured.
Nightingale was looking me over, making sure the doctors didn’t leave me with a staph infection out of negligence. I had just enough money to pay for the best public care available, but even so, I preferred Nightingale be here. The personal connection set my mind at ease.
“How does it feel?” She was attentive and irritated at how Jaeger treated me more like a machine than a person, or so she’d muttered.
I looked at my stump, now adorned with some extra features. My ulna was intact, but my radius had been shattered by the detonation, so much of it had been replaced. There was a nice lengthwise scar running from my wrist to just below my elbow, with bolts and stitches visible in the skin. The tip of my arm where my wrist should have been wa
s capped with a titanium pit; the socket in the bottom connected to my nerve endings. The hand they had outfitted me with was top of the line: silicon fingertip pads, full reticulated movement, and greater flexibility than I’d had in my old human appendage. The only problem was that I couldn’t feel it.
“Try to give us a fist, Elias.”
I did so. The metal joints worked, soundless and fluid, and curled the hand into a fist. It was weird. I made the movements, same as I had before, and expected to feel my fingertips against my palm and my skin stretching. Instead, I felt a weird tugging at my wrist from the muscles pulling at the titanium cup.
“Good.” Nightingale smiled and checked the IV drip over my bed. “Any pain or discomfort? Beyond what we’ve already discussed.”
“Yeah, my fingertips.”
She picked up my left hand and moved my fingers. “That could be due to some shrapnel, or maybe nerve damage. That should rectify itself in a few —”
“My other fingertips.”
She released my left hand and sighed. “I’m afraid that’s going to be around for some time, Elias. Phantom pain is common in amputees. You’re lucky you’ve got something to replace what you lost.”
“Yeah.”
She withdrew, and Jaeger took over. The crazy German looked even more strung out than before. His business must be booming, what with the Iron Hands and the Maranzano Mafia throwing Automatics to their deaths left and right. But, out of the kindness of his heart — and a hearty tip — he’d decided to take care of me for the day.
“Now, it will take time to get used to the new hand,” he began. “Might be some stinging or shocks, possibly loss of control due to muscle spasms. No need to be concerned, it will go away with time. Try to stick with your left hand for delicate tasks, however.”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“No pain? No other tugging?”
“I’m good, Karl.”
“Just be careful. This is top of the line stuff from Desoutter, there is literally nothing better. Their warranty program is good, but even so, new hands are expensive, almost as much as an entire Automatic. And be sure to clean the plugs for the first few months. We don’t need you developing Rustrot.”
Midnight Page 28