The Edge of Armageddon (13 page)

Kenzie wrestled her opponent this way and that, the larger man struggling to match her for dexterity and downright brawn. Dahl stood back with a faint smile on his face.

One of the SWAT guys ran up. “Does she need help?”

“Nah, she’s just fooling around. Leave her be.”

Kenzie caught the exchange from the corner of her eye and gnashed her already gritted teeth. It was plain the two were evenly matched but the Swede was testing her, gauging her commitment to the team and even herself. Was she worthy?

She wrenched at the gun and then let go as her opponent wrenched back, making him overbalance, bringing a knee up into his ribs and an elbow to his nose. Her next blow was a chop to the wrist and then a lightning fast grab. As the man struggled and groaned she bent the wrist back hard, heard the snap and saw the gun fall to the floor. Still he fought, withdrawing a knife and thrusting at her chest. Kenzie squeezed it all in, felt the blade nick the flesh over her ribs, and spun around, taking him with her. The knife pulled back for a second thrust but this time she was ready. She took hold of the extracted arm, spun under it and wrenched it around behind the man’s back. Without mercy she pushed until it also broke and left the terrorist helpless. Swiftly, she plucked two grenades from his belt and then stuffed one down the front of his trousers and into his boxer shorts.

Dahl, watching, found a scream tearing into his throat. “Noooo!”

Kenzie’s fingers came out with the firing pin.

“We don’t do that, you—”

“Now watcha gonna do,” Kenzie whispered up close, “with your arms all broken and stuff? Ain’t gonna hurt anyone now are ya, asshole?”

Dahl didn’t know whether to stick or twist, bolt, or dive headlong, grab Kenzie or leap for cover. In the end the seconds ticked by and nothing exploded except Smyth’s particularly short fuse.

“Are you kidding me?” he bellowed. “What the fu—”

“Fake,” Kenzie flicked the firing pin at Dahl’s bleeding head. “Thought those perfect eagle’s eyes would’ve spotted a dud.”

“I didn’t.” The Swede breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Shit, Kenz, you are one fucking world-class female lunatic.”

“Just give me back my katana. That always calms me down.”

“Oh, yeah. I bet,”

“And this coming from you—the Mad Swede.”

Dahl inclined his head.
Touché. But crap, I think I’ve met my match.

By now the SWAT teams and assembled agents were among them, and securing areas around Times Square. The team regrouped and took a few moments to catch their breath.

“Four cells down,” Lauren said. “Only one to go.”

“We think,” Dahl said. “Best not get ahead of ourselves. And remember this final cell is the one keeping Marsh safe and probably in control of the . . .” He didn’t say the word “nuke” out loud. Not here. This was the heart of Manhattan. Who knew what parabolic mics might be scattered around?

“Good job, guys,” he said simply. “This day of hell is almost over.”

But, in truth, it had barely begun.

Julian Marsh figured that, without a doubt, he was the happiest man alive. Directly in front of him lay a primed, trussed up nuclear weapon, close enough to touch, his to play with on a whim. To his left curled a divine, beautiful woman, also his to play with on a whim. And she to play with him of course, though a particular area was starting to get a little sore from all the attention. Maybe some of that whipped cream . . .

But continuing on his previous and most important train of thought—a passive terrorist cell sat near the window, again his to play with on a whim. And then there was the American government, chasing their tails all over the city, running scared and running blind, his to play—

“Julian?” Zoe breathed a hair’s breadth from his left ear. “Want me to head down south again?”

“Sure, but don’t inhale the bastard like you did last time. Give him a little breathing space, eh?”

“Ooh, of course.”

Marsh let her have her fun, and then thought about what would happen next. Mid-morning had already passed, and certain deadlines were approaching. The time was almost here when he would unwrap another burner cell and call Homeland with the dead-drop demands. Of course, he knew there would be no actual “dead-drop”, not with five hundred million being exchanged, but the principal was the same and could be executed similarly. Marsh gave gratitude to the gods of sin and iniquity. With those guys on your side what couldn’t be accomplished?

Like all good dreams this one would come to an end, but Marsh determined that he would enjoy it while it lasted.

Patting Zoe on the head and then standing up, he untied one of his shoe laces and walked over to the window. With two minds often came two different viewpoints, but both of Marsh’s personalities were au fait with this scenario. How could either of them lose? He’d pilfered one of Zoe’s condoms and now tried to pull it over one hand. In the end he gave in and made do with two fingers. Hell, it still satisfied his inner quirkiness.

As he wondered what to do with the spare shoelace, the cell leader rose and stared over at him, giving Marsh a blank smile. This was Gator, or as Marsh privately referred to him—the Gatorous One—and, though quiet and clearly slow, he did have a look of danger about him. Marsh guessed he was probably one of the vest-wearing types. A pawn. As expendable as a long piss. Marsh guffawed aloud, breaking eye contact with the Gatorous One at just the right moment.

Zoe followed in his footsteps, taking a look out the window.

“Nothing to see,” Marsh said. “Lest you enjoy scrutinizing humanity’s lice.”

“Oh, at times they can be amusing.”

Marsh looked around for his hat, the one he liked to wear canted at an angle. Of course, it had disappeared, maybe even before he reached New York. The last week had become a complete blur to him. Gator walked over and asked politely if there was anything he required.

“At the moment, no. But I will be calling them soon with details for the money transfer.”

“You will?”

“Yes. Didn’t I provide you people with an itinerary?” The question was rhetorical.

“Oh, that piece of crap. I have been using it as a fly swatter.”

Marsh might be eccentric, crazy and driven by blood-lust, but a shallower part of him was also clever, calculating and entirely switched on. This was how he survived so well, how he made it through the Mexican tunnels. In a moment he realized he’d gauged Gator and the situation all wrong. He wasn’t in charge here—they were.

And it was a moment too late.

Marsh struck out at Gator, knowing exactly where he’d left a gun, a knife and an unused Taser. Expecting success he was surprised when Gator blocked the blows and returned one of his own. Marsh took it well, ignoring the pain, and tried again. He was aware of Zoe gawping at his side and wondered why the idle bitch didn’t jump in to help.

Gator again turned his punch with ease. Marsh then heard a noise at his back—the sound of the apartment door being opened. He jumped away, surprised when Gator let him, and turned.

A gasp of shock escaped his throat.

Eight men entered the apartment, all dressed in black, all carrying bags, and looking mean as foxes in a chicken run. Marsh stared and then turned to Gator, his eyes even now not quite believing what they were seeing.

“What is going on?”

“What? Did you think we would all sit nicely whilst the rich men in their tailored suits funded their wars? Well, I have news for you, big man. We do not wait for you anymore. We fund our own.”

Marsh was staggered by a double blow to the face. Falling backwards, he caught hold of Zoe, expecting her to hold him up, and when she didn’t they both fell to the floor. The shock of it all sent his system into overdrive, sweat glands and nerve endings in full flow and an annoying tic starting up at the corner of one eye. Took him right back to the bad old days, when he was a boy and nobody cared about him.

Gator stalked about the apartment, organizing the now twelve-strong cell. Zoe had made herself as small as possible, practically a part of the furniture as guns were revealed and other weapons of war—grenades, more than one RPG, the ever-dependable Kalashnikov, tear gas, stun-bombs and a plethora of hand-driven, steel-shod missiles. This was somewhat unnerving.

Marsh cleared his throat, still clinging to that last shred of dignity and egotism that ensured him that he, in this room, was the Satanic goat with the biggest horns.

“Look,” he said. “Get your filthy hands off my nuke. Do you even know what this is, boy? Gator. Gator! We have a deadline to keep.”

The leader of the fifth cell finally threw a laptop aside and strode over to Marsh. Now with backup and with the gloves well and truly off, Gator was a different man. “You think I, owe something to youuuu?” The last word was a squeal. “My hands are cleeeean! My boots are cleeeean! But they will soooon be covered in gore and ash!”

Marsh blinked quickly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“There will be no payout. No moneeee! I work for the great, the revered one and only, Ramses, and they call meeee the Bombmaker. But today I will be the initiator. I will give it life!”

Marsh waited for the inevitable squeal at the end but this time it didn’t come. Gator had clearly allowed a splurge of power to turn his head, and Marsh still didn’t understand why these people were handling his bomb. “Guys, that is my nuke. I bought it and brought it to you. We’re awaiting a nice payday. Now, be good boys and put the nuclear bomb down onto the table.”

It was only when Gator punched him until the blood flowed that Marsh began to truly understand that something had gone terribly wrong here. It occurred to him that all his past deeds had led him to this point in his life, every right and wrong, every good or bad word and comment. The sum of every experience put him right in this room at this time.

“What are you going to do with that bomb?” Terror lowered and thickened his voice as if it were being forced like cheese through a grater.

“We are going to detonate your nuke as soon as we receive word from the great Ramses.”

Marsh sucked in air without breathing. “But that will kill millions.”

“And so our war will have begun.”

“This was about money,” Marsh said. “Payback. A little fun. Making the United Donkeys of America chase their tail. This was about funding, not mass murder.”

“Youuuu . . . have . . . killlled!” Gator’s fanatical rant ramped up a notch.

“Well, yeah, but not many.”

Gator kicked him until he curled into a motionless ball; ribs, lungs, spine and shins aching. “We only await word from Ramses. Now, someone, pass me a phone.”

Inside Grand Central the last pieces of Marsh’s puzzle began to line up. Drake hadn’t realized before, but this was all part of someone’s master plan, someone they thought they’d already neutralized. An enemy they hadn’t counted on was time—and the way it was fast passing nullified their thinking.

With the station declared safe and inhabited mostly by cops, Drake and his crew had chance to scrutinize the fourth demand they’d finally found duct-taped to the underside of the café’s table. A series of numbers written in large type, it was impossible to figure out what they might be unless you managed to squint at the heading, which was typically written in the smallest font available.

Nuclear weapon activation codes.

Drake squinted in disbelief, again thrown off balance, and then blinked at Alicia. “Really? Why would he send us these?”

“Gamesmanship would be my guess. He’s enjoying this, Drake. On the other hand they could be fake.”

“Or acceleration codes,” Mai added.

“Or even,” Beau clouded the issue some more, “codes that might be used to start up a different kind of hidden weapon.”

Drake stared at the Frenchman for a moment, wondering where he’d developed such twisted thoughts, before calling Moore. “We have the new demand,” he said. “Except that instead, it appears to be a set of deactivation codes for the nuke.”

“Why?” Moore rattled. “What? That doesn’t make any sense. Is that what he told you?”

Drake realized how ridiculous it all sounded. “Sending now.” Let the suits sort it all out.

“Good. We’ll get them properly checked out.”

After Drake pocketed the cell, Alicia dusted herself off and took a long look around. “We got lucky here,” she said. “No casualties. And no follow up from Marsh, despite our lateness. So you think this was the last demand?”

“Not sure how it can be,” Mai said. “He told us that he wants money but hasn’t yet supplied a when and where.”

“So at least one more,” Drake said. “Maybe two. We should check weapons and load up again. Somehow, with all these mini-bombs going off around the city I think we’re far from finishing this yet.”

He wondered as to the purpose of the small bombs. Not to kill and not to maim. Yes, they instilled terror into society’s very soul, but in light of the nuke, Julian Marsh and the cells they were taking down he couldn’t help but think there might be a different agenda afoot. The sideshow bombs were distracting, aggravating. It was the few men on motorcycles hurling homemade firework bombs along Wall Street that were causing the most problems.

Alicia spied a kiosk tucked away in a far corner. “Sugar fix,” she said. “Anyone for a chocolate bar?”

“Get me two Snickers,” Drake sighed. “Since sixty-five grams was only for the nineties.”

Alicia shook her head. “You and your bloody chocolate bars.”

“What next?” Beau came over, the Frenchman easing the aches out of his body with a few stretches.

“Moore needs to step up his game,” Drake said. “Get proactive. I for one am not dancing to Marsh’s tune all day.”

“He’s stretched,” Mai reminded him. “Most of his agents and the cops are securing the streets.”

“I know,” Drake breathed. “I bloody well know.”

He also knew that there could be no better support for Moore than Hayden and Kinimaka, both with lines to the President, both having experienced most of what the world could throw their way. In this moment of relative calm he took stock, thought about their problem, and then found himself worrying about the other crew—Dahl’s team.

The mad Swedish bastard’s probably been kicking back with a bar of Marabou, watching Alexander Skarsgård’s most naked moments.

Drake nodded his thanks to Alicia as she returned and handed him two pieces of chocolate. For a moment the team just stood there, reflecting, numbed. Trying not to think about what might happen next. Behind them the café stood like a derelict old enterprise, its windows cracked and tables turned over, its doors split and hanging from their hinges. Even now, teams were carefully combing the place for more devices.

Drake turned to Beau. “You met Marsh, didn’t you? Do you believe he’ll follow this thing through?”

The Frenchman made an elaborate gesture. “Um, who knows? Marsh is odd, appearing stable one moment and then insane the next. Perhaps it was all an act. Webb didn’t trust him, but that is no real surprise. I feel that if Webb still had an interest in the Pythian cause then Marsh would not be allowed to even pretend to do this thing.”

“It’s not Marsh we have to worry about,” Mai broke in excitedly. “It’s . . .”

And suddenly it all made sense.

Drake caught on at the same time, realizing the name of the person she’d been about to say. His eyes locked on to hers like heat-seeking missiles but for a moment they could say nothing.

Thinking it through. Evaluating. To the terrible end.

“Fuck,” Drake said. “We’ve been played from the very beginning.”

Alicia watched them. “Normally I’d say ‘get a room’, but . . .”

“He could never have gained entry to this country,” Mai groaned. “Not without us.”

“And now,” Drake said. “He’s right where he wants to be.”

And then the phone rang.

*

Drake almost dropped his chocolate in shock, so absorbed was he by the alternate line of thinking. When he looked at the screen and saw an unknown number a pyrotechnic blast of conflicting thoughts ricocheted around his head.

What to say?

This had to be Marsh calling on a new burner cell. Should he resist the urge to explain to him that he was being played, a mere dupe in the grand scheme? They wanted the cells and the nuke to remain neutral as long as possible. Give everyone at least another hour, a chance to track it all down. Now though . . . now the game had changed.

What to do?

“Marsh?” he answered on the fourth ring.

A stranger’s voice addressed him. “Noooo! This is Gatorrrr!”

Drake removed the phone from his ear, the squeal, the timbre rising at the end of each word, insulting his ear drums.

“Who is this? Where’s Marsh?”

“I said—Gatorrrr! The fooool is crawling now. Where he should beeee. But I have one more demand for youuuu. One more, and then the bomb will either explode or it won’t. It’s up to youuuu!”

“Fuck me.” Drake was having trouble focusing down on the words due to the random screeching. “You need to calm down a bit, pal.”

“Run, rabbit, run, run, run. Go find the police precinct on 3
rd
and 51
st
and see what pieces of meat we have left for youuuu. You will understand the final demand when you get there.”

Drake frowned, searching his memory. Something very familiar about that address . . .

But the voice again shattered his train of thought. “Now runnnn! Runnnn! Rabbit run and don’t look back! It willll detonate in one minute or one hourrrr! And then our war will beginnn!”

“Marsh wanted a ransom only. The money is yours for the bomb.”

“We do not neeeed your moneyyyy! You think there are not organizations—even your own organizations—who help us? You think there are no rich men who help us? You think there are no cabals out there secretly funding our cause? Ha ha, ha ha ha!”

Drake wanted to reach down the received and wring the madman’s neck, but since he couldn’t accomplish that—yet—he did the next best thing.

Killed the call.

And finally his brain processed every bit of information. The others already knew. Their faces were white with fear, their bodies wound tight with tension.

“It’s our precinct isn’t it?” Drake said. “Where Hayden, Kinimaka and Moore are right now.”

“And Ramses,” Mai said.

If the bomb had exploded at that very moment, the team could not have run any faster.