by Drew Murray
Finally, he acknowledges me, turning around. The visor is deeply tinted, hiding his face. For a moment, I see my own reflection running at him before he breaks into a sprint for the south escalators.
Now we’re getting somewhere. With uniformed officers blocking the entrances and FBI agents tearing around inside, he’s not going anywhere. Deeper into the building means he’s fresh out of tricks.
“Oh, come on,” shouts Bradley. “I’m locked out. I’ve got nothing! Will, he cut me off.”
Okay, he’s not out of tricks.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
As I power my way up the escalator, two things are on my mind. First, I can’t lose sight of Dragoniis. Without Bradley watching on the CCTV, I’ll never find him again if I lose visual contact. Second, I need to hit the Stairmaster more often.
By the time I reach the top of the long climb, my knees are a raging hornets’ nest and I’m breathing hard and fast. But I never lose Dragoniis, even as he flies with alarming speed down the mezzanine.
On this side of the building, the sprawling second level is filled with a network of wire frames and curtains arranged in a complex system of temporary hallways.
This is Photo Ops where fans spend up to two hundred dollars each for a picture with their favorite celebrity. At the center of the maze, makeshift photo studios allow each fan their precious few seconds with the star.
It’s a great place to lose someone, and it’s right where Dragoniis is heading.
Pouring on the speed, I keep my eyes locked on the red and white costume. Once in the maze, I’ll have to slow down and make decisions about which way he went. All he has to do is run. It’s a losing proposition for me.
So, I change the rules.
Reaching the entrance, I ram through the curtains like a bull, following Dragoniis in a straight line instead of trying to follow the defined hallways. Right away, walls start falling over and people in the rabbit warren start screaming. He turns left; I smash through behind him. He turns right; a loud rip announces I’m still right there.
I’m not as fast as I’d like, but it’s enough.
A scream from directly ahead tells me I’m still on target. Slamming through a final panel of curtain wall, I find myself in a photo area. A handsome young guy with dark, floppy hair and a white, skintight t-shirt poses for the camera. A fit, forty-year-old woman hangs on to him with both arms, her smile of delight giving way to shock at the unexpected intruders.
Dragoniis dashes into the open space, earning a second high-pitched shriek from the guy in the t-shirt. Caught off-guard by the noise, he stumbles left, slowing him down long enough to give me the opportunity I need. One last adrenaline-fueled push and I’m within arm’s reach.
Dragoniis dodges my lunge at the last second, but I manage to get a handful of sword hilt. With the lithe acrobatics of a frightened cat, he twists, trying in vain to throw me off. Pulling him closer with the sword handle, my free hand grabs the edge of his helmet. Sliding easily off of his head, it reveals long, dark, flowing hair underneath. When he turns to face me, the wind is sucked out of my lungs. Satisfaction greets my wide-eyed surprise. The speed. The flexibility. Even the fit of the leather. All of it failed to land, now leaving me frozen as I process.
Dragoniis is a young Chinese woman, no more than thirty years old.
Before I can recover from the shock, she swings out with her arm, breaking my grip. Leaping up onto the table that holds people’s purses and bags while they do their photo, she flashes me a smile and runs to the other end, jumping into another hallway.
There’s something glowing in the empty helmet in my hand. Looking inside, I see a transparent LCD screen integrated into the visor. She must have been looking at this hacking the building while in front of Farber’s Cadillac. When he saw her typing on “just a keyboard” it was connected to a computer integrated into her suit. Right now, the screen is showing a video feed from the Convention Center’s surveillance. But now she doesn’t have it. The field is evening out.
Dropping the helmet, I leap up onto the table after her.
“Will, I’m in the security office,” says Nassar. “I’ve got eyes on the cameras.”
“Fantastic, I’m right behind Dragoniis.”
“I see you, but, where is he?”
“Not he. She. The woman in front of me. Look for the swords!”
Dragoniis is only a few feet ahead of me when we emerge from the maze of curtains.
To our right is a U-shaped table for photo pickup, covered with glossy printouts and a disorganized crowd browsing through them, looking for their own smiling faces. To our left are the long lines of waiting fans, stretching beyond the velvet ropes, blocking the way out. Dragoniis jumps up on the table, and this time I’m right behind her.
“That’s it,” I call out. “It’s over, Dragoniis. Let’s just do this peacefully.”
But she has other ideas. Wheeling to face me, she draws two full-length foam Samurai swords over her head.
“Seriously?” I ask, holding my hands out in front of me.
A flick of the handles drops the foam tubes away to reveal ultra-thin blades made of what looks like carbon ceramic material. I don’t know what it is, exactly, but it’s black and looks damn sharp.
“Seriously,” she says with a light accent.
“Whoa, hold on, you don’t want to do that,” I say. Shrugging off my blazer, one hand reaches for the Glock at my back, the other held out in front of me, palm first. “FBI. I’m armed. I don’t want to shoot you.”
“I know who you are, Agent Will Parker.”
“Special Agent, actually.”
“Special or not, you’ll bleed all the same,” she says, swinging the sword in a casual loop in front of her. The speed of her swing is frightening.
“Okay, yeah, close enough, you’re right,” I say, wiggling my hand back and forth.
Those blades look mean. Lightweight, like a surgical scalpel, I get the impression they’d sever your leg so fast they wouldn’t even get bloody.
“You’re not going to shoot me,” she says. “With this many people to get caught in the cross fire? With your proficiency ratings? Bad idea, Special Agent Parker.”
My proficiency ratings? It would appear she’s been more places than even Decker knows about, like the FBI personnel system. What else does she know about me? She’s right though. My proficiency rating sucks, so there’s no way I can pull the trigger here.
“I can’t let you leave with that,” I say, pointing to the carbon fiber case clipped to her waist.
“You can, and you will,” she says, backing away. “What other choice do you have?”
“I’ve already killed one innocent person for it,” I say, drawing my Glock to my side. “Do you really think I’ll stop now?”
Doubt ripples across her face like a cloud. She doesn’t know about Kate Mason, but it’s enough to make her hesitate.
“Nassar?” I ask into the radio.
“Decker’s on his way, but it’s going to take a minute.”
“I don’t have that.”
No backup. I can’t shoot. And since I don’t want my limbs anywhere near those blades, all the punching and kicking I trained for won’t help me.
To beat her, I need to be just as adaptable. Looking around the room for anything that could help me, I spot a line of fans who must be here for an actor from a fantasy series because they’ve brought props: replica swords. Made from real metal, this is the only place at the Con they are allowed. It’s a crazy long shot. But it’s all I’ve got.
My eye settles on a guy wearing a bulky, black, faux-fur pelt over his shoulders. A giant scabbard hangs on his waist, a sword hilt ending in a wolf’s head pommel sticking out of it.
“Hey, John Snow, I’ll give you a thousand dollars cash for that sword right now,” I shout.
“What thousand dollars?” the guy asks. Fair question.
Leaving my Glock at my side, with my other hand I fish out my wallet and chuck it a
t him.
“Fuck yeah, man,” he says, pulling out the stack of bills. “Here you go!”
With a grin, he tosses over the scabbard. Snatching it out of the air, I draw the blade in a smooth, fluid motion. The LED lights overhead reflecting in the solid, highly polished metal. I holster my Glock, swinging the sword in front of me.
“Are you kidding?” says Dragoniis with a mischievous smile. Were she not threatening me with lethal Samurai swords, she’d be devastatingly beautiful. Launching forward in a spinning whirlwind, she comes at me with eight linear feet of what I’m willing to bet is razor sharp blade.
In Okinawa, I trained in sword fighting with the finest steel Japan could offer, honed to an edge sharp enough to slice through bundled bamboo in a single swing. What I have now is five feet of junk Chinese steel about as sharp as the side of a fork. Shuffling back, my feet find the edge of the table. Nowhere else to go. Wobbling for a second, I hold the replica sword in front of me defensively.
She strikes, slashing with the speed of a cobra. I parry. Her sword hits mine with a hideous shriek, but the replica holds. The advanced carbon whatever-it-is of her blade is too light. Hooray for heavy, junk Chinese steel!
With both hands, I push my sword sideways against hers, using my greater weight to push her back. She staggers a few steps, disengages, and springs forward with another attack.
Up and down the table we go. The lines of fans ooh and ahh as we move back and forth, forgetting their places in line and wandering toward us, thinking it’s a performance.
With no real ability to attack using the clumsy, dull sword, I focus on blocking hers, one after another, pushing her back whenever I can. Sweat, dripping down my face, soaks my shirt. Dragoniis’ hair sticks to her forehead in a matted mess, her cheeks flushed red with the exertion.
“Enough,” she finally screams, swinging both blades over her head.
This time, when I lift the replica sword to block, the steel breaks cleanly, the cruel black blades carrying through to slice my left shoulder. Fiery heat burns down my arm followed by wetness. Someone screams as my blood sprays.
Falling to the table, I drop what’s left of the replica sword with a clatter. Dragoniis stands over me, pointing a carbon sword at my throat.
“Thanks for the Unicorn,” she says with a smile. “I promise I’ll put it to good use.”
A commotion breaks out at the entrance, a dozen voices raised in frustration at once as someone plows through them. Storm Decker has arrived in full fury, badge out, gun drawn, and looking hungry for a fight.
“FBI! Get out of my goddamn way! Move it,” he shouts, his deep voice resonating like a shock wave.
“How are Decker’s proficiency ratings?” I ask Dragoniis. “Pretty hot shit, I bet.”
With a grimace, she leaps off the table, disappearing back into the rabbit warren of curtains. Scrambling up to follow her, I slip, crashing off the table onto my shoulder, firing off a lightning bolt of pain to the center of my brain.
“Will, you’re hurt,” says Decker.
“Thanks for the bulletin,” I say, pulling myself up with a grunt. “How bad?”
His combat-experienced eye glances at it. “A bleeder. She got you good. You’ll need to be sewn up. Hold still a second.”
Tearing a strip off the bottom of my t-shirt, he ties it expertly around my shoulder in a tight, makeshift bandage. The whole process takes ten or fifteen seconds, tops. Decker’s a real-life Rambo, but I’m not complaining as I climb to my feet.
“Best I can do without QuikClot. Let’s go,” he says, running after where Dragoniis disappeared.
“Nassar, where the hell is she?” I ask over the radio, following suit.
“In a stairwell, going down.”
“Take the escalator, get ahead of her,” I tell Decker. “I’ll take the stairs.”
“You sure you’re up for that?” he asks, looking at my shoulder.
“I’m fine. No more sword fighting.”
While he takes off for the nearest escalator, I cut through the curtains to the stairwell.
“Don’t stop at the main floor, Will,” says Nassar. “She kept going down.”
“Where the hell is she going?”
“Looks like the loading dock.”
“Is there a motorcycle down there?”
Heart pounding, shoulder throbbing, and soaked in sweat, I fling open the door to the stairwell. Footsteps echo somewhere below me. I’m still in this. I can get the Unicorn back. One flight, two, three fly by. Making a turn onto the fourth and final flight, Nassar’s excited voice returns to my ear.
“Yes! Found it. Red sport bike. Behind a white cube truck.”
“Get on to the police frequency. Get them to block the top of the ramp. We can’t let her out of here!”
“We don’t have that frequency, Will. These are tactical only.”
You’re kidding me. Who bought these things?
“I can get to the uniforms,” says Griffon. “I’m on the main floor.”
“What about the Russian?” says Nassar.
“Cuffed to the stairwell. He’ll be fine for a minute.”
Blasting out of the stairwell into the hot loading dock, I stop on a small concrete landing, blinking in the dim orange-tinted light of a sodium arc lamp. Something flies at my head. Diving to the side, I’m careful not to hit my shoulder. Timber smashes on the doorway, showering me with splinters of wood.
When I come up, Dragoniis throws another piece of wooden pallet at me. Blocking with my good shoulder to deflect the pieces gives her enough time to leap off the landing. Drawing my Glock, I squeeze off two rounds after her as she runs away, deeper into the orange gloom. White puffs of dust from the concrete floor are a testament to what a lousy shot I am.
Dragging myself to my feet, I stagger down the stairs to find rows of trucks parked across the dock.
“Which one?” I ask Nassar.
There’s only static in response. This far down there’s just too much concrete between my little radio and a repeater.
A white cube truck, she said.
I spot one in the row, the opposite direction from where my shots chased Dragoniis off. She’ll have to come back. Staggering around the front of the cube truck, I find the red bike that almost ran me over parked behind it, ready to go.
In this condition, I’ll never survive another face-to-face battle with Dragoniis, so I get down on the ground, rolling underneath the truck to wait.
After what feels like a century or two, light steps approach from behind. Tentative at first, then quicker. From my hiding place, I swivel my head to see a pair of white leather boots. They stop in the middle of the dock, turning one way, then the other. A quiet moment stretches out. Holding my breath, the silence is broken only by the background whoosh of industrial air handlers. Eventually she runs for it, hopping on the bike and flicking the ignition.
With a grimace, I roll out from under the truck behind her. The engine coming to life masks the sound of me leaping to my feet. With a touch as light as I can muster, I reach for the case, sliding it off her belt while she revs the engine, shaking the entire bike underneath her.
Dragoniis twists the throttle hard, spinning the rear tire with an ear-splitting screech. Flinching, I cover my eyes and face from debris kicked up by her tire as she rockets toward the exit.
Taking only a second to catch my breath, I chase after her with the Unicorn in one hand and Glock in the other. Did I mention I’m fast? Well, not anymore. Snatching the Unicorn was the last of what I had in the tank. My throat is on fire. I gasp for breath, but I keep going. Each step up the spiral ramp is more difficult than the last.
Coming around a bend, I find a crowd of cosplaying kids, likely down here looking for a way to sneak into the Con. They’re still coming back together after parting for Dragoniis. Maybe I’m closer than I thought. With whatever energy I can muster, I slip through the gap in teens.
Catching one last glimpse of her taillight as it turns onto the
final ramp to the road above, I know it’s no use. I’ll never catch her. She’s as good as gone. The world swims around me, dim at the edges.
From beyond the top of the ramp, a siren wails, followed by the crunch of plastic, tinkling of breaking glass, and tortured grinding of metal. Legs screaming, shoulder throbbing, and throat burning, I dash the remaining distance to the top of the ramp.
Dragoniis’ bike lies on its side, the sleek red fairing now cracked and torn. Dragoniis is on the pavement next to it, rolling over onto all fours in front of the dark-colored sedan that just rammed into her.
“Don’t fucking move!” Dana bellows, coming around the driver’s door. She’s still in black tactical gear, Smith and Wesson trained on Dragoniis.
The Chinese hacker glares at Dana and me, before collapsing back down on her stomach.
“Agent Parker,” says Dana, as I sag to the ground. “You look like hell.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
A black Escalade careens around the corner, roaring to a stop next to where I’ve collapsed on all fours to catch my breath. Though her gun never leaves Dragoniis, Dana looks with concern at the massive SUV until the door opens and Ace climbs out. With a gesture from the CEO, the burly security detail comes out next, to surround me protectively.
“Will, are you okay?” Ace pushes past the men, holding out a hand to help me to my feet. “You’re bleeding.”
Through their legs, I see Dana putting cuffs on a prone Dragoniis.
“Yeah, I’ll be all right for now. Decker tied it up.”
Decker. He’ll be here any minute.
Blood has seeped through the bandage and trickled down to where I clutch the carbon fiber case holding the Fukushima Unicorn. Looking up at Ace, I manage a smile.
My usually stoic friend’s face is creased with concern. The red bag, still slung over his shoulder, hangs heavy, the bottom bulging with the remainder of the million dollars. Strange to think he’s carrying around that kind of cash, but surrounded by his security detail, there probably isn’t anywhere safer for it.