Some Gave All (26 page)

After she hung up, she returned to Mr. Riley’s side. He rose to a sitting position, rubbing his head.

“Are they still in the house?” she murmured.

“I don’t know. I guess I fainted. They wanted Roxie’s flag. I told them I never got it.” He made two fists and pressed them against his forehead. “Then these
other
men came.”

Her detective’s mind ran possible scenarios:
The Rileys never received the flag that had draped Lafferty’s casket at her military funeral. Someone intercepted it. Sounds like two different groups came after it tonight.

She grabbed the blanket off the bed, wrapped him in it, and murmured in his ear, “Stay down.”

“There’s a flashlight in the nightstand drawer,” he whispered.

She found it but didn’t turn it on. Despite the darkness and the wailing of the snowstorm, she moved silently into the hall. She didn’t know if the power was out because of the storm or because Mr. Riley’s attackers had cut it.

Methodically she cleared the rest of the house as best she could, on high alert as she assessed her situation. All her subway transfers had been below-ground. The snow had been falling relentlessly while she’d walked to the house, and she’d destroyed the bug soon after. But given the level of technology their adversaries were capable of, Cat had to assume that they knew exactly where she was.

Farris had to have put it in the bag.
He’s involved in this. Whose side? How many sides are there?

She had to get Mr. Riley out, but first priority, of course, was his immediate safety. Mr. Riley had prudently put on his storm windows—she hoped he’d had help—and they served as barricades, but the broken front door was an invitation to danger. She ran into the kitchen on the balls of her feet with her hand over the flashlight to subdue the beam, and rummaged around for a screwdriver to work on the hinges. She then grabbed a wooden broom from his pantry and laid it between two chairs, threw her weight on it and broke it into two jagged pieces. She hurt all over.

She took both pieces and wedged them under the door to keep it in place, then attempted to fix the upper hinge. No luck. Her hands were shaking, she was too injured and the hinge was ruined. The best she could do was push furniture up against it. She went back into the kitchen and put a chair underneath the knob of the kitchen door. There was another phone attached to the kitchen wall; she grabbed it and called J.T. She quickly filled him in.

Then she said, “Has the Snow Emergency Declaration been announced?”

“No. And I haven’t heard from Vincent.”

“Okay. Mr. Riley has a car. I’m going to check it out. I’ll keep the line open but I’m setting the phone down.”

“You have a gun, right?”

“J.T., I’m a cop. I always have a gun.”

“I have such mixed feelings about hearing that. But right now… don’t you think you should just wait for help?”

“J.T.,
I’m a cop
. I
am
the help.”

“Right.”

“I’m putting the phone down. Keep the line open.” Then she pulled out her gun and waited. If someone was listening in, she didn’t want them gathering around Mr. Riley’s garage for a welcome party. Instead she went back to the bedroom to check on Mr. Riley.

He was unconscious, but he had a pulse and he was breathing. Cat sucked in her breath and gently shook his shoulders.

“Mr. Riley? This is Detective Chandler. Can you hear me?”

No response.

She made sure his air passage was clear. Then, instead of disturbing the barricaded front and back doors, she snuck back into the bathroom, put her gun away, and opened the window beside the sink. There was no storm window, so that was a blessing.

A gale of snow raged in at her, pushing her backwards. She planted her feet and forced her way through. At least her landing was soft. She couldn’t even see the garage, which meant she couldn’t see anyone coming after her. She didn’t have a built-in thermal imaging system like Vincent.

As she had anticipated, the garage window was still unsecured. She scrambled into the garage and got into the car, jammed the key in the ignition… and nothing. Not too surprising, so she methodically ran through all the protocols for starting a car in winter in New York before she sat back in the seat for just an instant and took stock.

Back in the house, she bent over Mr. Riley and passed her flashlight over his face. His skin looked gray, but his eyelids flickered, and then he opened his eyes.

“I think I’m okay now,” he said, “except that I’m very cold.”

“Did your power go out because of the storm?”

“I don’t know.” His voice shook.

And then she heard a noise from inside the closet.
I cleared that
, she thought. Doors that opened outward, which meant an intruder would have the advantage if she attempted to open it.

She said calmly, “Mr. Riley, do you have any pets?”

“Not anymore.”

As she moved in front of him, she set her flashlight on the floor in front of herself. It would illuminate her target and make it more difficult to see her. Then she stood in a good, wide stance and held her gun straight out. It was ready to go.

The door burst open and she pulled the trigger. A black shape flung itself at her and she raised her knee and shot again, aware that Mr. Riley lay directly behind her.

“
Move!
” she bellowed at him.

When she fell, she smacked against his shoulder but that was all. As the weight of the attacker toppled onto her, she rolled sideways, hitting him—it was a man—as hard as she could on his temples with her gun. She kept hitting him and then she shot him again. Suddenly the flashlight was on him—Mr. Riley was holding it. She patted the perp down for weapons and found nothing but a .45 on the floor, already sopping wet with blood. She’d shot him in the chest and he was bleeding profusely.

His eyes were lifeless and she tore off the balaclava. The dark brown face was mottled from the pummeling she’d given it, but it was not one she recognized.

There was a noise on the roof. Both of them started. Then to her amazement, Mr. Riley put the flashlight on his bed, leaned over, and picked up the bloody .45. He had to use both hands to lift it but he had hold of it.

“Are there any other exits?” she asked him as she arranged the blanket over his shoulders.

“It’s an old house,” he said, as if that were an answer. She took it as a “no” and realized that the only exit that made sense for them was the kitchen door. It would be too difficult to get him out the bathroom window and she had barricaded the front door.

“Let’s go.” She kept the flashlight aimed toward the floor, counting on the ambient light to keep him closely behind her. She couldn’t afford to check on him; this was the best way to save his life.

There was loud pounding on the roof. She kept her cool and tried to count footfalls. Maybe one target, maybe two.

They got to the kitchen door. The phone handset was still lying on the counter. She picked it up and said, “J.T. One dead. Holing up here until help arrives.”

“
One…
right. Got it,” he said tersely.

Then Cat replaced the handset on the counter, put her finger to her lips, and saw that Mr. Riley had lost his blanket. No time to do a thing about that now; she pulled the chair away from the doorknob. When she opened the door, she caught it so that it wouldn’t slam against the house. The wind was still blowing, but not as hard.

They got outside and the first thing she processed was that it was no longer snowing, but visibility was bad. She moved right, her intention to skirt around the front of the house. It was dark and frigid and she had no idea if the old man was behind her. She got to the path with the barren bushes and he bumped into her. Good.

She grabbed his hand—it was as spindly as a branch—and half-led, half-dragged him along the path. The tree with its swing was ahead but she wasn’t sure where. She needed both hands free to feel her way, and if he was going to keep hold of his slippery, heavy .45, Mr. Riley did too. A tiny part of her brain nagged that he might trip and accidentally shoot her with it, but again, all that mattered was the next step forward into the snow. And the next and then next.

She had no idea if the people on her roof were still up there, or if they had figured out she and Mr. Riley were attempting an escape. If the man she had killed was important to them, or just a foot soldier. No time for that now. Thinking would just get in her way. She had to strategize.

Her knees knocked into the swing. She knew where she was now. Mindful of the .45, she grabbed Mr. Riley’s shoulder and pulled him around the tree. The .45 slipped from his hands and thudded half an inch from her toes. She held onto him and felt him swaying.

“I’m okay,” he whispered.

She squatted down and retrieved the gun. They staggered toward the street. She was pretty sure she’d reached it when her feet didn’t sink down as far. She turned left and quickened their pace. If the subway was still operating, the station’s bright lights would give them away. But if it wasn’t still running, they would be sitting ducks.

Blue-white underground illumination gave her some hope. Steamy heat gave her more. She flashed her badge at the station agent, who helped her guide the sick, shivering man through the turnstile. He was having trouble moving. As best she could, as quickly as she could, Cat helped him descend the stairs.

One man stood on the platform, gazing at them with interest. Catherine kept her arm holding the .45 down at her side.

“No trains have come in the last fifteen minutes,” he said. He was bundled up against the cold and wore a hunter’s cap with earflaps. “But it’s warmer down here than it is up there.”

“That’s for sure,” she replied. She covertly slid the .45 into her coat pocket, took the coat, and laid it over Mr. Riley’s shoulders. She chafed his hands, alert for hostile movements on the part of their platform mate. “It’s a bad storm.”

“Hey, is your dad okay?” he said.

Before Cat could reply, shadows of figures blossomed on the tile wall. Too many people were clattering into the station. Cat guided Mr. Riley to a pillar. He was so bedraggled that he obediently staggered over and leaned against it, nearly collapsing. The memory of intense, debilitating fear seized her and she shook it off, hard. That was not happening, not now.

“Oh, my God!” the man in the hat yelled.

The shadows became armed soldiers in ski masks. One group raced in, followed by another. Two factions. Submachine guns were raised; pistols aimed.

Cat shouted to the man, “Get down
now
, sir! Get down, get down!
Fall down!
”

The adversaries opened fire on each other, and someone was aiming at
her
. She returned fire at the first target she made. She might have clipped his shoulder; she didn’t know, so she kept firing at him; and more figures swarmed, guns exploding like cannons as sound and cartridges ricocheted wildly. Then fear did spark up her spine, but it was that special kind of fear that cops felt:
Protect the civilians, assess the odds, the odds are terrible, improve them.

Improve them by taking out more bad guys or evacuating the civilians or acquiring more weapons. She could only shoot one gun at a time and the other one was with Mr. Riley. One cop, thirty soldiers…

She’d been shot before, and she’d lived.

Her mind filled with an image of Vincent. She forced it away and concentrated on surviving. Bullets zinged around her, pitting the tile, the metal, the concrete. They sent showers of sparks up from the third rail.

One of the assailants crumpled. But only one. An incoming bullet struck Cat’s gun and tore it out of her grasp, nearly breaking her fingers. She pushed herself backward toward the pillar, to find Mr. Riley lying on the ground.

No no no no no

She stuck her hand in her coat pocket and was just about to withdraw the .45 when the pillar exploded. She covered Mr. Riley with her body.

Footfalls and gunfire and a fusillade of bullets; if she stayed like this she’d take a dozen bullets to the brain. If she didn’t, Mr. Riley might. She extended her gun and squeezed off rounds.

And then through the chaos she heard the most wonderful sound in the world: Vincent’s bestial roar. It echoed through the tunnel; then he was rocketing into the station from below the platform, rushing up behind her like an avenging angel. She only heard him; she dared not raise her head. She heard more bullets and shouts and shrieking. The echo of falling bodies. She smelled blood.

“Catherine.”

He was around her, holding her, easing her up off Mr. Riley. She immediately got to her feet to check on Hunter’s Cap; he had passed out but appeared otherwise unhurt.

As she lifted her head to look back at Vincent and Mr. Riley, movement among the bodies caught her eye. She raised her gun, and found herself locking gazes with a man with a bloody face.

“Don’t shoot,” he said. “Please.”

She kept him firmly in her sights. “Take out your weapons and hold them over your head.” She didn’t want him to throw them to someone who was playing possum—pretending to be dead. He did as she asked.

“Now walk very slowly toward me. Why were you after us?”

His steps took him past fallen comrades but he didn’t look down at them. He knew that one false move would lead to his own death.

“Orders,” he replied stiffly.

“More,” Cat warned him, raising her gun an inch to make her point.

“The flag at the Riley house. There was something in the case. We were told to get it by any means necessary. My superior sent a squad, figured it would be easy, but there was already a group from…” He trailed off.

“From?” she urged.

“Thornton. Freedom Foundation.”

“And you are?”

He lifted his chin. “I’ve been ordered to die rather than reveal that information.”

“I have no problem with that,” Vincent said.

The man paled. “Delgado Industries.”

So two groups want the antidote in addition to the FBI. And us.

“What did the flag case contain?” she asked.

“I don’t know, ma’am. I’m just a merc.”