Reckoning (17 page)

"What are you going to do?" Sarah spoke up.

Gage turned, looked at her openly. "I don't know, yet. But I won't do anything stupid. After I identify how bad the threat is, I'll probably use some kind of diversion. A fire, maybe. Something to cause enough confusion for me to get in and out unnoticed. That's all I can think of right now. I'm not going to try one of those weird, across-the-roof deals. That's usually just a good way to get killed."

"I'm going with you." Barto walked up to Gage. Determined.

Gage studied him a moment. "Alright. Be glad to have you."

"Is there anything that I can do?" Malachi asked. "I will bear any burden to assist you."

"You're doing enough," Gage said with a respectful nod. "Sarah will need you to help her figure a way out of this if we don't come back. And it's way too dangerous for everyone to go."

Malachi held the gaze a moment, unafraid. Then nodded.

“When do we leave?" Barto asked.

"In an hour," Gage answered. "As soon as I get the gear packed. We'll be in New York by midnight."

* * *

EIGHTEEN

A vampiric darkness spread webbed wings over the silent, deserted Cathedral of St. Thomas, crouching upon the gray stone gargoyles like a monstrous, brooding thing to cloak the ancient edifice with a warning atmosphere of evil, pale possession.

Gage stared at the haunting, spired towers and watched the overcast sky that moved tenebrous clouds immensely behind it all with unearthly dominion. He felt the wind that caressed the nightmarish gargoyles with night, caught the scent of a city in decay.

Cold air from the East River moved over him with the stench of dead things, and in the distance he heard the heavy traffic of Whitestone Bridge, the sounds coming toward him, into Queens. Around him, beyond the shadows, people walked silently and peacefully through the darkened night, oblivious to the deadly game playing out before them.

Gage raised his head, scanning.

Nothing moved upon the basilica, not above, not within. Even with the night visor on thermal imaging Gage read no heat at the towers, the walls, or crouched within the doorway of the thick-walled bastion. Still, he knew that the greater threat awaiting him was concealed deep inside, far from any possible detection.

Moving with a practiced, cryptic steadiness, he turned, gazing again at surrounding buildings. He detected several thermal sig-natures but had not determined which ones were a threat. He had targeted two possibilities, signatures that remained too constant, too unmoving, too steadily near the windows of their small rooms.

In the back of the building he had found two more possibilities, using the same method of study; whatever did not move was unnatural. And he knew that what seemed unnatural would probably be unnatural. He calculated that, with the combined angle of sight, the four locations held every direction of approach under observation.

Face hidden in shadow, Gage scowled, focused again on the cathedral.

No easy way to do it.

He glanced at his watch.    .

Soon.

Then, in the distance, he heard the approach of fire engines. He raised his head, listening.

Closer.

Blood fast
; the beginning.

Gage felt the adrenaline, tried to calm down. He concentrated, breathing steadily, relaxed. With a slight movement, he waved his hands at his side, drying sweat on the palms. His breath picked up its pace and he inhaled deeply, again, released.

Concentrate. Focus. Channel everything into the movement

Imperceptibly, he shifted his weight from one foot to the next, almost appearing to not move at all. It was a risk, but some forces could not be denied.

Almost time.

He waited, breath steady, pulse holding. Better than before. Not so wild. Under control.

Gage raised his line of sight to encompass both forward infrared signatures by using unfocused, peripheral vision. He watched the targeted rooms intently as the sirens screamed towards the block. No movement. Both of the thermal images were absolutely stationary.

Closer now. Sirens converged on the church.

Gage watched a moment longer.

He smiled.

The heat signatures didn't move at all. But Gage knew that any normal person would move, even just a little. Most people would be curious, or at least concerned that it might be their building on fire. But these two didn't move because they were trained not to move. Because they knew there was no fire, knew it was a diversion.

Never leave your post.

Never allow yourself to be distracted.

Always remember your primary objective.

Two in front, for sure.

Gage
decided to trust his judgment.

Including
the two he had selected inside separate buildings at the rear, that was at least four. But no team works in four. It was always six or ten.

He nodded, concentrating. He could anticipate as many as four more men inside, but probably not more than two. Whoever these guys were, he was certain that they used the smallest team
possible, for security reasons, just like everyone else. And six was the standard for every elite combat team in the world when the target was a small collection of people. Ten was the number for heavy assault on a large company.

Chaos pulled up in front of the church.

Gage waited a moment more. Inhaled once. Expelled the breath in a slow, forceful effort, mind speeding with tactics, approaches and maneuvers that blended, shifted, tumbled in varying combinations, adjusting his approach to what was happening in front of the church. It came to him, the angle, the movement to break the perimeter, simple, simple, keep it simple.

Into it now, everything considered, calculated.

He removed the night visor.

Slid into the night.

St. Thomas swarmed with yellow asbestos coats. Six primary response units had unloaded the swarming but efficiently coordinated firefighters into the street. Busily hooking up, surrounding the building, the moving figures turned helmeted heads toward every possible crevice, searching for escaping smoke.

Nothing.

No smoke. No fire.

St. Thomas's priest, a tall, imperial man, approached the elder firefighter who also approached him, walking quickly down the center aisle of the cathedral.

Obviously in command, the fireman held a large black maglight in one hand and a radio in the other. His coat was buttoned to the neck, the top flaps overlapping to prevent incendiary debris from spilling down his chest.

"Where is it, Father?" An old and experienced voice of calm concern.

"There is no fire, Captain," the priest replied, a tone of utter calm with a faint British accent. "Gentlemen, I believe that some irresponsible person has called in a—" The priest turned his head, distracted by the firemen who brushed past him, axes in hand, disappearing into the depths of the church," – false alarm. It has happened a great deal lately. I apologize to you."

"You haven't called in a fire?" The captain's face grew angry, more serious.

"No, I—" the priest began.

The captain raised a radio. "Unit 23 to Dispatch," he said and received a static reply. "Cancel any additional trucks. We've got a false—"

Frantic yelling erupted from a corridor. "We've got smoke! A lot of it!"

"Excuse me," the captain muttered, moving without hesitation toward the corridor that echoed with frantic shouts. He spoke hurriedly into the radio: "Unit 23, disregard last traffic. Have units respond."

Another utterance of frantic shouting came from corridors located on the other side of the cathedral.

"Got it! I got it in here!"

The captain turned, an expression of brutal concentration, glaring at a dozen yellow coats and helmets rushing down the second corridor. The building echoed with scattered shouts and commands. He turned towards the priest.

"Is anyone else in here, Father?"

"No," the priest replied quickly.

"Good. Now I'm going to have to ask you to leave." He didn't wait for any agreement. Turning, he shouted, "Lay me two three-inch lines back here!"

Smoke billowed out of the corridors, spiraling towards the shadowed recesses of the cathedral ceiling.

The captain turned again to shout, saw that the priest still stood in the same place, staring at him, mouth open, face troubled. The captain only focused on him a second, turned to another man.

"Escort the Father outside, Jake. Now!"

"Come on now, Father," said Jake, a 50-year-old fireman with a Wyatt Earp mustache, white hair visible beneath the yellow
helmet. "You can't stay in here. It's too dangerous."

"But—" said the priest.

"Now, don't argue with me," Jake was good at his job. Was experienced with those who could not bear to see their beloved cathedrals ravaged by flames. "There's nothing you can do," he added consolingly. "We'll take care of it."

Then the tall, dignified priest was led hurriedly down the
center aisle by a kind and compassionate hand, rushed to the door even as more firefighters, all of them wearing air packs and full face shields beneath their helmets, swept in with hoses.

Outside the church the stately priest stood calmly to the side, hands clasped in solid composure behind his back, speaking quietly and quickly.

He seemed to pray but his words were lost in the colliding shouts and instructions, completely ignored by the sturdy professionals moving so frantically around him. Then, as if prompted by an invisible listener, the priest shifted, cautiously increasing the volume of his words.

Still discreet, his voice drifted into the bustle of the street
, "... Samuel will remain hidden within the church. All others abandon listening posts. Initiate target acquisition by assigned zones. I repeat, abandon listening posts and deploy to surrounding streets. Initiate target acquisition by assigned zones. Maintain frequency silence unless target is sighted. Converge on designated street with sighting ..."

* * *

An ax shattered a locked door deep inside a corridor in the rear of the building, strangely separated from the cathedral itself and the center focus of other firefighters who swarmed up and down the smoke-filled hallways, searching for the heart of the blaze.

The fireman entered the room, approached a wooden shelf on the far side, near the open window. He raised the ax to strike the shelf when he turned suddenly, saw someone pass the doorway, moving quickly.

Immediately the fireman moved away from the shelf, kicked over a wastebasket, pulled open a closet door, shouting something indiscernible into the hall.

A man stepped into the doorway, a man of medium height, one hand held beneath his coat. For a tense moment the man glared at the fireman, peering through the facemask.

"Hey, buddy!" said the fireman. "You can't be in here! You're going to have to move outside!" The firefighter took a step closer to the man.

An angry movement and the man directed a highly compact assault pistol at the fireman.

"This was so predictable, Gage," the man said in a British accent, and laughed. "Standard civilian interference. We knew you'd try it. We planned for it. I just waited to see where the fire broke out and retreated to the other side of the church, watching to see who would break away from the rest of the pack. When you came in here, I knew. Just like I knew there wasn't any fire. Only smoke. What? Markers? The color's right for it."

The man lifted a compact radio to his face. The firefighter tensed, tightened the grip on the ax. Reacting reflexively but calmly, the man adjusted the pistol, aiming center mass, and
finished speaking into the radio.

He gestured at the ax. "Drop it, Gage. I'm no fool. It's not a gun. But I know what someone can do with it."

Staring at the gun, the firefighter held the ax a moment more. Then the man raised the assault pistol, arm straight, sight-picture alignment on the firefighter's chest.

"No more warnings, Gage," the man said placidly.

Frantic scurrying outside the corridor. Yellow helmets appeared behind the man.

Gage dropped the ax, hands moving low.

"Hey!" a firefighter shouted.

The man holding the assault pistol half-turned as they
approached, pulling identification from his pocket.

Gage quick-stepped to the side, hand coming up from where it had dropped the ax, passing his waist and unbuttoned asbestos coat, pulling the Hi-Power.

Instantly the man whirled, firing one-handed. Murderous thudding of the assault weapon shredded the closet, the stream of rounds following Gage to the side, a half-step behind. Then the unsilenced Hi-Power roared, hitting sternum-high on the man, knocking him off balance.

Shouting maniacally, the firefighters behind the man leaped to the sides, bellowing.

But as they moved and the man recovered from the shock of the impact, Gage gripped the Hi-Power with a modified Weaver Stance. Instantly he fired ten more times. Ten deafening recoils bringing him off-target ten times in a blinding white strobe-fire, Gage aligning again each split-second and firing, shells flying past him in the roar of blue smoke and the man falling back in the static white-black bursts of light and then it was over; a man down, shells clattering on the floor with the overpowering, choking thickness of lung-burning powder clouding the smoky air.

Tactical reload.

A clip was dropped. Another slammed in. Gage released the slide, locking the hammer back with the safety for a quick, single-action first shot. Then he was at the bookcase, using his elbow to shatter a shelf that he could have removed silently if he had taken an extra second. But it didn't matter now.

Screams and angry shouts echoed down the hall.

He reached behind the shelf, pulled out a cellophane-wrapped letter from the wall.

Shouts retreated into the cathedral.

... Nobody is going to come down the hall ... That was too much gunfire ... Cops will be outside ... Don't allow them to isolate you ... Shock everybody into an instinctive reaction so they won't have any time to think... Then move with them... Get outside!