The Edge of Armageddon (6 page)

Drake struck the concrete of 47
th
Street, running flat out with only eighteen minutes left on the clock. Immediately they were presented with a problem.

“Seventh, Eighth or Broadway?” Mai shouted.

Beau waved the GPS at her. “Marea is close to Central Park.”

“Yes, but which street leads us right past it?”

They hovered at the sidewalk whilst the seconds ticked away, knowing Marsh was readying not only the nuke, but also the teams who would take two civilian lives for every minute they were late to the next rendezvous.

“Broadway’s always busy,” Drake said. “Let’s do Eighth.”

Alicia stared at him. “How the hell would you know?”

“I’ve heard of Broadway. Never heard of Eighth.”

“Oh, fair enough. Where—”

“No! It is Broadway!” Beau abruptly cried in his almost musical accent. “Restaurant is at the top . . . almost.”

“Almost?”

“With me!”

Beau set off like a hundred meter sprinter, vaulting a parked car almost as if it wasn’t there. Drake, Alicia and Mai stayed hot on his heels, turning east towards Broadway and the intersection where Times Square shimmered and shone and flouted its flickering displays.

Again the crowds were difficult to part and again, Beau led them along the side of the road. Even here, tourists congregated, leaning back to scrutinize lofty buildings and billboards or trying to decide whether to play chicken with their lives and dash across the busy road. Touts worked the crowds, offering cheap tickets to various Broadway shows. Languages of every color filled the air, an almost overwhelming, complicated medley. The homeless weren’t many, but those who advocated for them campaigned very loudly and forcefully for donations.

Ahead, Broadway thronged with New York’s citizens and visitors, dotted by crosswalks, bordered by colorful shops and restaurants with their hanging, illuminated signs and A-board displays. Passersby were a blur as Drake and his section of the SPEAR team raced on.

Fifteen minutes.

Beau stared back at him. “Nav says it’s a twenty two minute walk, but the sidewalks are so packed everyone’s walking at the same pace.”

“Then run,” Alicia urged him. “Waggle that enormous tail of yours. Maybe it will make you go faster.”

Before Beau could say anything, Drake felt his already plummeting heart sink even further. The road ahead was entirely blocked, both ways, and mostly by yellow cabs. A fender bender had occurred and those who weren’t trying to drive around it were inching their vehicles out for a better look. The sidewalk to either side was a crush of humanity.

“Bloody hell.”

But Beau didn’t even break stride. An easy leap took him onto the trunk of the nearest cab and then he was running across its roof, jumping down to the hood and taking a running leap onto the next in line. Mai followed fast, and then Alicia, leaving Drake at the back to be shouted at and targeted by the vehicles’ owners.

Drake was forced to concentrate beyond the norm. These cars weren’t all the same, and their metals shifted, some were even rolling slowly forward. The race was hairy, but they leapt from vehicle to vehicle, using the long line to make headway. Crowds stared from either side. The good thing was they were unobstructed up here, and able to see the approaching intersection of Broadway and 54
th
, then 57
th
. As the crush of cars eased out, Beau rolled off the last car and resumed his sprint along the road itself, Mai at his side. Alicia glanced back at Drake.

“Just checking you didn’t fall through that open sunroof back there.”

“Yeah, dicey one that. I’m just thankful there were no convertibles.”

Past another crossroads and 57
th
was lined with concrete mixer trucks, delivery vans and red and white barriers. If the team had thought they’d gained ground, or that this run would be as straight forward as the last, their illusions were abruptly shattered.

Two men appeared around the side of a delivery truck, handguns pointed straight at the runners. Drake didn’t miss a beat. Constant battle, years of combat, had honed his senses to the max and kept them there—twenty four hours a day. The threatening forms registered immediately and, without hesitation, he flung himself headlong on top of them, right in front of the oncoming cement truck. One of the guns rattled away and the other became stuck under one of the men’s bodies. Drake reeled back as a punch battered the side of his skull. Behind them, he heard the screech of the cement truck’s wheels as it braked hard, the cursing of its driver . . .

Saw the enormous gray body swinging around towards him . . .

And heard Alicia’s terrified scream.

“Matt!”

Drake could only watch as the out-of-control truck veered toward him. His attackers didn’t even let up for a second, raining blows down because their own safety wasn’t a concern to them. He took a fist to the throat, the chest and the solar plexus. He watched the swinging body, and kicked out as it swung right over his head.

The first terrorist fell backward, stumbling away, and was struck by one of the wheels, the impact breaking his back and ending his threat. The second blinked as if stunned by Drake’s effrontery, then turned his head toward the approaching body of the truck.

The wet slapping sound was enough. Drake knew he was out of it, and then saw the first terrorist’s skull chewed beneath the sliding wheels as the truck’s body slewed around above him. Frame flattened, he could only hope. Darkness blotted out everything, even sound for a split second. The underside of the truck moved over him, slowing, slowing, and then came to an abrupt stop.

Alicia’s hand reached underneath. “You okay?”

Drake rolled towards her. “Better than those guys.”

Beau was waiting, almost hopping from foot to foot as he checked his own watch. “Four minutes left!”

Aching, bruised, scraped and battered, Drake forced his body into action. Alicia stayed with him this time, as if sensing he might be a little distracted after the near miss. They weaved around the tourist gangs, finding Central Park South and the Marea among a host of other restaurants.

Mai pointed it out, the signage comparatively discreet for New York City.

Beau ran ahead. Drake and the others caught him up at the door. A waitress stared at them and their disheveled appearance, their heavy jackets, and backed away. Her eyes showed that she’d seen damage and suffering before.

“Don’t worry,” Drake said. “We’re the English.”

Mai sent a glare his way. “Japanese.”

And Beau interrupted his search for the men’s room with a raised eyebrow. “Definitely not English.”

Drake ran as gracefully as he could through the still-closed restaurant, clipping a chair and table as he went. The men’s restroom was small, consisting of only two urinals and a toilet. He checked under the bowl.

“Nothing here,” he said.

Stress crisscrossed Beauregard’s face. He tapped the buttons of his watch. “Time’s up.”

The hovering waitress jumped as the telephone rang. Drake held out a hand to her. “Take your time. Please, take your time.”

He thought she might bolt, but inner resolve sent her toward the receiver. At that moment Alicia came out of the female restroom, a fraught expression on her face. “It’s not there. We don’t have it!”

Drake flinched as if he'd been struck. He stared around. Could there be another restroom in this tiny restaurant? An employee’s stall perhaps? They would have to check again, but the waitress was already speaking on the phone. Her eyes flickered toward Drake and she told the caller to hold.

“It’s a man called Marsh. For you.”

Drake frowned. “Did he ask for me by name?”

“An Englishman, he said.” The waitress shrugged. “That’s all he said.”

Beau lingered at his side. “And since you are easily confused, my friend, that is you.”

“Cheers.”

Drake reached out for the phone, one hand rubbing the side of his face as a rush of weariness and tension washed over him. How could they fail now? They had defeated all the odds and yet Marsh might still somehow be playing them.

“Yes?”

“Marsh here. Now tell me, what did you find?”

Drake opened his mouth, then closed it quickly. What was the right answer? Maybe Marsh was expecting the word “nothing”. Maybe . . .

He paused, wavering from reply to reply.

“Tell me what you found or I will give the order to kill two New Yorkers within the next minute.”

Drake opened his mouth. Dammit! “We found—”

Then Mai came sprinting out of the women’s rest room, slipping on the wet tiles and falling onto her side. In her hand was clasped a small white envelope. Beau was next to her in a split-second, retrieving the envelope and handing it to Drake. Mai languished on the floor, panting hard.

Alicia stared open-mouthed at her. “Where did you find that, Sprite?”

“You did what they call a ‘boy look’, Taz. And that shouldn’t surprise anyone, since you’re three-quarters male anyway.”

Alicia fumed in silence.

Drake was coughing as he tore open the envelope. “We . . . found . . . a . . . a bloody USB stick, Marsh. Shit, man, what is this?”

“Well done. Well done. I’m a little disappointed but, hey, maybe next time. Now just take a good look at the USB. This is your final verification and, as before, you may want to pass it on to someone with a bigger brain than yourselves or the NYPD.”

“Is it the inside of the . . . cake?” Drake was aware of the waitress still standing nearby.

Marsh laughed loudly. “Oh good, oh very good. Let’s not let the cat out of the bag, eh? Yes, it is. Now listen, I will give you ten minutes to send the USB’s contents to your betters, and then we start again.”

“No, no we don’t.” Drake waved toward Mai, who carried a small backpack in which they had stashed a tiny laptop. The Japanese woman dragged herself off the ground and came over.

“We won’t chase our tails all over this city, Marsh.”

“Umm, yes you will. Because I say so. Now, time is ticking. Let’s get that laptop booted up and enjoy what happens next, shall we? Five, four . . .”

Drake smashed a fist into a table as the line went quiet. Anger boiled his blood. “Listen, Marsh—”

The restaurant’s front window exploded as the front fender of a van smashed through into the eating area. Glass shattered and tore slices from the air. Woodwork, plastic and mortar burst into the room. The van didn’t stop, crashing down onto its tires and roaring like death’s apprentice as it tore through the small room.

Julian Marsh felt a sharp pain in his stomach as he rolled to the right. Slices of pizza fell to the floor and a bowl of salad tumbled across the sofa. Quickly he clutched his sides, quite unable to stop laughing.

The low-slung table that sat before Zoe and him juddered as a wild foot gave it an errant kick. Zoe reached out a hand to steady him, patting his shoulder rapidly as another exciting event began to unfold. So far, they had watched Drake and his team spill out of the Edison—viewing quite easily as they had a man dressed as a tourist filming the event from across the street—then seen the mad dash up Broadway—this hysterical tableau more sporadic as there were only so many traffic and security cams a local terrorist could hack into—and then viewed with bated breath the attack that had somehow evolved around the concrete mixer.

All a nice distraction. Marsh had held a burner cell in one hand and Zoe’s thigh in the other, whilst she scarfed down several slices of ham and mushroom and messed around on Facebook.

Three screens, eighteen-inch each, faced them. The pair now exhibited rapt attention as Drake and Co. stormed into the little Italian restaurant. Marsh checked the time and glanced at the colorful façade.

“Shit, this is a close one.”

“Are you excited?”

“Yeah, aren’t you?”

“It’s an okay movie.” Zoe pouted. “But I was hoping for more blood.”

“Just give it a minute, my love. It gets better.”

The pair sat and played in a rented apartment that belonged to one of the terrorist cells; the primary one, Marsh thought. There were four terrorists, one of whom had set up the cinema-like viewing area for Marsh by previous request. Whilst the Pythian couple enjoyed their viewing pleasure the men sat aside, crowded around a small TV, and monitored dozens of other channels, searching for tidbits of news or awaiting a call of some sort. Marsh didn’t know and didn’t give a hoot. He also ignored the odd looks and stolen glances, knowing full well that he was a good-looking man, with a quirky personality, and some people—even other men—liked to appreciate such individuality.

Zoe showed him a little more appreciation, slipping her hands down the front of his boxers. Damn, but her nails were sharp.

Sharp and yet somehow . . . pleasurable.

He spent a moment gazing at the suitcase nuke, a term he couldn’t quite remove from his mind even though the minimized bomb sat in a large backpack, and then shoveled a little caviar into his mouth. The spread before them was magnificent, of course, comprised of foods priceless and tawdry, but all delicious.

Was that the nuke calling his name?

Marsh saw that it was time to act and made the call, speaking to a charming waitress and then the thick-accented Englishman. The guy had one of those bizarre tones of voices—something smacking of peasantry—and Marsh made twisted faces as he tried to decipher vowel from vowel. Not an easy task, and made somewhat harder with a woman’s hands squeezing your nutcracker suite.

“Tell me what you found or I will give the order to kill two New Yorkers within the next minute.” Marsh grinned as he said it, ignoring the annoyed looks cast by his disciples across the room.

The Englishman hesitated some more. Marsh found a slice of cucumber fallen out of the salad bowl and stuck it deep into Zoe’s hair. Not that she’d ever notice. Minutes passed and Marsh conversed over the burner cell, becoming more and more excited. A cold bottle of Bollinger sat nearby and he spent half a minute pouring a large glass. Zoe snuggled up to him as she worked, and they sipped from the same glass, opposite rims of course.

“Five,” Marsh said into the phone. “Four, three . . .”

Zoe’s hands took on a particular urgency.

“Two.”

The Englishman tried to barter with him, clearly wondering what the hell was going on. Marsh imagined the vehicle he’d arranged to be plowed through the front window at a pre-determined time, aiming now, accelerating, bearing down on the unsuspecting restaurant.

“One.”

And then everything exploded.