The Widow's Strike (29 page)

E
lina parked around
the back
of the hotel, hiding her car as deep in the lot as she could, right next to a Dumpster. She knew it would remain there until removed by the police, long after she was martyred. She locked the doors, then wondered why she’d bothered.

She dragged her little carry-on through the lobby, seeing it filled with children running back and forth, evading haggard parents begging them to sit still. The scene made her smile, reminding her of her nephews, now long since dead.

She told the receptionist her name and stated she had left her key in the room, locking herself out. Ignoring the usual stare at her hospital mask, she presented her passport before the woman asked for a room number she didn’t know. As had happened in Raleigh, North Carolina, the night before, the receptionist stated her room number to confirm, to which she simply nodded. Given the key, and now knowing the number, she went to her room.

She knew this was the last hotel. The end of the line, as it were, but she couldn’t for the life of her see why her journey finished here, in Florida. The town was a small little tourist trap, crammed on a spit of land next to the ocean. Somewhat run-down, with shady-looking surf shops and a few neighborhood bar-and-grills, it wasn’t the place she would have chosen to unleash Pandora’s box. Driving in, the only thing she had seen that might be of interest was the Kennedy Space Center, but surely that would be better attacked by a conventional bomb.
Why use a virus?

She found her room with a do-not-disturb sign hanging from the knob. Unlocking it, she pulled in her bag and saw an envelope on the bed. She dropped the luggage and stared for a moment, realizing it held her fate. A small sheaf of paper, bone-white, patiently waiting.

She opened it and found tickets for a cruise leaving the next day. Included were instructions for catching a shuttle to the port, the itinerary of the ship, the room number, the reservation number, and restrictions for what she could bring. Everything in it was innocuous, except for a sheet of paper with a date-time group for a meeting during the voyage. A specific place, with a specific agenda.

She dropped the papers on the bed.
So that’s it. I’m going to infect a ship full of people.
She thought about the children playing in the lobby and knew they were waiting on the same cruise. Knew they were going to die.

She took a shower, doing monotonous things to take her mind off of the mission and her part in it. Finishing, she lay on the bed watching the Weather Channel, still finding the children encroaching in her conscious thoughts. She left the room and went to the lobby bar.

She ordered a bottle of water, taking her mask off to prevent drawing attention to herself, and watched the lobby. A tall, obese man, wearing a sweatshirt with a Ron Jon Surf Shop logo and flip-flops that were too small for his feet, took a stool next to her, interrupting her thoughts. He didn’t seem to care and had clearly had a few drinks before sitting down.

He said, “You taking the cruise tomorrow?”

She nodded, desperately wanting to put on her mask. Afraid to speak.

He said, “They X-ray the baggage now, just so you know. They claim it’s because of terrorism, but it’s really to find people bringing on booze. They charge an arm and a leg for that shit on the boat.” He leaned in and winked at her. “But I’ve got a way around it. I put my rum in Ziploc bags. Don’t show up on X-rays.”

He gave a loud guffaw and slapped his knee, then, in a conspiratorial whisper, said, “You bringing on any booze?”

She said, “No, I don’t drink alcohol.”

His eyes scrunched up like he couldn’t assimilate the statement, a tinge of a smile on his face. “Don’t drink? What the hell are you going on a cruise for?”

Despite herself, she smiled back. The man was disarming and clearly not a threat.

She said, “Just a vacation.”

He said, “You by yourself?”

The question raised a warning. Now wary, wishing she hadn’t engaged him at all, she nodded.

He pointed to a table with three other middle-aged men, all dressed like teenagers. “I’m with them, and we’re all by ourselves too.”

He guffawed at his joke, waiting on her to join in. When she didn’t, his laughter petered out, but he remained in the game, not taking her silence as a hint. He said, “If you want to know how to get the best of this cruise, just let me know. I’m a cruising expert!”

She slid off her stool and said, “I really have to get some sleep.”

As she walked away he shouted, “I’ll see you on board!”

As the elevator doors closed she cursed herself for not shutting the man down immediately. She didn’t need some middle-aged Lothario taking an interest in her and potentially interfering with her mission. She wanted to remain invisible, not become a trophy for a pack of middle-aged adolescents to hunt.

* * *

The next morning
she boarded the shuttle, along with dozens of other families all headed to Port Canaveral. She knew she stood out, being the only single female and wearing a mask that made her look like she was contagious. Which, of course, she was.

She settled into her bus seat next to the window, immune to the stares this late in the game. A foam airplane hit her in the head and she whipped around, finding a boy of about five staring at her. She picked it up off the floor of the bus and handed it to him.

His mother said, “Billy! I’m so sorry. He doesn’t usually act this way.”

Elina told her not to worry and waved at the boy. He smiled back, a bright gleam that punctured her will like an ice pick. She began to feel lost in the mission again, wondering how killing children would help her people. She consciously brought the men from the bar in New York to her mind. The vile things they had said. She felt the steel of the mission flowing back into her.

After going through a cattle call of departure procedures, standing in a line that snaked around the port building, she eventually reached the platform for admission.

Split off by guides who directed them to the next available customer service representative, she ended up behind the family with the child on the bus. Anxious about the boarding procedures, she watched what happened to them.

The representative asked the family a series of questions, all perfunctory, about whether they’d brought anything on that they shouldn’t have, where they were from, and other inane things. She began to relax, until the man asked, “Do any of you have a fever? Feel ill?”

The child said, “Yes. I think I’m sick.”

The mother quickly shushed him and said, “He’s just trying to get attention.”

The man said, “You can’t board if he’s sick. If he has a cold or the flu. The boat is like a petri dish. One person sick will get everyone sick.”

Elina heard the words and turned away, pulling the mask off of her face.

The father said, “Come on. He’s okay. He’s faking.”

The representative said, “I’m required to hear it from him.” He looked the boy in the eye and asked, “Do you have a fever?” The boy looked at his mother, then his father. The man winked and said, “The best answer is ‘no.’”

The boy said, “No. I’m not sick.”

The representative smiled and waved them on. Elina stepped up and began the same procedure, showing her passport, tickets, and reservation.

When the man asked if she had a fever, she honestly said, “No. I haven’t felt sick for months.”

I
woke up to
a glaring
light. A single bulb hanging on a string, like something out of a bad spy movie. I tried to move and found I was handcuffed to a short, steel-framed cot.

My eyes felt like someone had shined them with sandpaper. I squeezed them shut, then blinked a few times. I lifted my legs and found them free.
So I’ve got something to work with.

Although I had no idea how that would help. Maybe I could get the next guy who entered to position himself so I could knock him out with a kick. Of course I’d have to do it in such a manner that it caused the keys to my handcuffs to fly out, landing next to my hands.

I leaned back, remembering the real focus of the abduction: Jennifer. The thought brought a spasm of rage, and I reflexively jerked my arms up, stupidly trying to break the steel. A guttural scream escaped, and I collapsed back onto the bed, breathing heavily.

I heard a door open and craned my neck. Knuckles came into view.

“Hey. How you doing?”

I couldn’t believe the question, like I’d been in a car wreck.

“How am I doing?
How am I doing?
You fuck! I’m going to kill every single one of you son of a bitches! Let me go right now!”

He sat down on the single metal chair in the room. “Look around you. What do you see?”

I did as he asked. I saw rough brick walls and two cameras in the corners, both with open wires running down the walls and out the door. Which meant this place had been hastily established. A hide site built on existing architecture.

He said, “The cameras don’t have audio. Only video.”

“Why should I give a shit about that? Where’s Jennifer?”

He stood up. “She’s two floors up. And she’s in danger. They’re going to move her in a couple of hours. They were just waiting on your anesthesia to wear off.” He smiled. “Radcliffe was a little worried about your superhuman capabilities. He gave you twice as much juice as was required.”

I asked, “How long have I been out?”

“Over twenty-four hours. It got so bad that they were talking about moving you to a hospital. Apparently your breathing became pretty damn shallow.”

I said, “Is Jennifer okay? What did the drugs do to
her
?”

He said, “She’s fine. She woke up twelve hours ago. She’s absolutely fine.”

I sagged back onto the bed. “I’m not even going to ask why you’re doing this. Just get out of my room.”

He said, “Pike, they’re going to take her to DC. They think she’s got the virus. That she’s a threat.”

The statement caused another ripple of anger. I jerked against the bonds and screamed, “She’s not sick, you dumbass! We had the guy who’s going to kill half the fucking world, and you idiots chased us!”

His next words gave me pause.

“I know. Pike, I was wrong. The Oversight Council doesn’t know it, but Kurt’s still in charge. Well, in charge of some.”

I simply looked at him, waiting to see where this was going. He walked up to me, blocking the view of the cameras. He dropped a set of keys into my hand.

“I’m going to walk away from you and face the wall. You need to make this look real. Choke me out. Once you do so, the clock will be ticking. Jennifer’s two flights up, in a room like yours.”

“What am I facing?”

He smiled. “Nothing much. Two Taskforce teams, one of them Turbo’s. By the way, that guy really hates you.”

“Where am I?”

“Hell’s Kitchen. You never left Manhattan.”

He turned away and walked to the other side of the room, ostensibly still talking. I worked the cuffs as fast as I could, trying to shield the fact that I had a key, wanting to delay any alert. I knew that they’d figure out where the key came from later. So did Knuckles, but what mattered was now. I needed to make it look real.

I broke free and sprang out of the bed. I advanced on Knuckles—my teammate and my friend—and circled my arm around his neck gently, preparing to cinch it down.

He jerked out, whirled, and popped me in the mouth with a palm strike, shouting, “You call that realistic? Jesus. This needs to look
good
!”

Shocked, I raised my hands into a fighting stance and said, “What the hell are you doing? Turn around, damn it! Let me choke you out!”

He shook his head in exasperation, then swung a ridiculous cross, leaving himself open.

That’ll look good on tape.

I blocked it, redirecting his energy against him by rotating him around. He, of course, let it happen. I slipped inside his reach and closed on his neck, wrapping my arm around and cinching his carotid arteries closed. He passed out and I lowered him to the floor.

I went to the door and listened for a second, now regretting that I hadn’t asked Knuckles any questions about a floor plan.

I heard nothing and entered the hallway, which ended up being a balcony four floors above the ground, the railing running left and right down the corridor. I was in an abandoned pseudo apartment complex/firehouse that looked just like the headquarters from the
Ghostbusters
movies. I ran to the end of the hall, figuring that’s where the stairs would be and hearing people shouting on the ground floor below.

I found a stairwell and took them two at a time, skipping the floor between and praying that Knuckles hadn’t given me bad information. I cracked the door and saw a hallway without a balcony. A straight shot with nothing in the way. No guards, no security.

I sprinted out and went to the first door, jerking it open. Inside were the seven police officers who were involved in our arrest, sitting around a table and looking bored. Until I opened the door.

I slammed it closed and kept moving before they could recognize me.
Wow. They’ve got them in quarantine because of Jennifer. Wonder what they did with the horses.

The hall ended at a T intersection, running both left and right. Outside of the police, I’d found nothing but empty rooms and broom closets, feeling the time slipping away. Knuckles had given me an edge, and I was wasting it searching.

I heard voices to the left and pressed against the wall, listening.

“I don’t know, man. Word on the street is she broke your arm.”

“She didn’t break my fucking arm! She tricked me during assessment. She should’ve never been there. Which is why she’s here now.”

Radcliffe.

I poked my head around the corner and saw Radcliffe in front of a door, looming over another guy who had his hands up, smiling.

“Whoa, man, back off. It’s a joke.”

Radcliffe said, “I don’t find it funny. I’m sick of hearing about it. I’ll tell you this right now: She ends up not being sick, and I’m going to teach her a lesson she’ll never forget. Along with that asshole Pike.”

Well, no time like the present.

I thought about stepping out and saying something appropriately badass like “You want a piece of me?” or “Bring it on!” but knew I was facing two highly trained fighters. I settled on a sprint.

Radcliffe heard the footsteps while I was still fifteen yards out. Looking over the shoulder of the other man, I saw his eyes widen. The second guy was between me and Radcliffe, his back facing me. I decided to take him first.

He began to turn just as I reached him. I hopped lightly and hammered my fist into his right kidney, with all of my weight behind it, hard enough to make him piss blood for a month. He shrieked as I wrapped my left hand in his hair and slammed his head into the wall. The scream was abruptly cut off, and he slid to the ground.

Radcliffe assaulted simultaneously, clocking me on the temple hard enough to make me see stars. I covered up my head and attempted to break contact, stepping back to get space between us and give me a chance to regain the initiative. He wrapped his arms around my body and rotated backward, lifting me off of my feet and driving me headfirst into the floor.

I took the brunt of the fall on my left shoulder, sparing my skull the full impact, but it was enough to stun me. I was losing control of the fight. Handing all momentum to Radcliffe, something that would guarantee I would fail. Giving him
any
edge was suicide.

The force of the fall broke his hold, and I rotated away, kicking back and connecting with something. He leapt at me, intent on keeping the initiative, landing on my back and slamming me into the door he had been standing in front of. He wrapped his arm around my neck, and I knew I was in trouble. I speared his ribs with two elbow strikes, getting some breathing room, but not much.

He cinched the hold, but not before I swam a hand under his arm, slowing the process of losing the blood-flow to my brain. I speared him again, but with little effect. He bucked forward, pounding my head into the door. I blindly reached up and unlatched it. He bucked again, using my skull as a battering ram, and it flung open. He squeezed harder, and I thought my eyes were going to pop out of my head. His hold wasn’t perfect, and he was cutting off my windpipe. I saw my salvation thirty feet into the room.

I grunted, “Jennifer . . .”

For a split second, she looked shocked. I saw her eyes narrow, and she sprang off the bed. Then my vision tunneled.

But not for long.

Radcliffe saw Jennifer barreling down on him and now had a choice: Lock me down and remain defenseless against Jennifer, or release me to take her out. If he was smart, he’d have put me out of the fight first, knowing he could take whatever she could dish out for a few seconds.

He must have remembered what Jennifer had done to his arm. Or he wasn’t smart.

He let me go.