Vigilante (5 page)

T
he weeks passed methodically and tediously. Ready for the rush of action, Nolan instead spent his time in training, honing his reflexes, his senses, and his skills. He worked with the new equipment Arjay was producing, learning the subtle feel of each device until it was second nature. After he awoke and before he slept each night, he spent an hour on his knees, praying in his personal living space; Branford and Arjay gave him all the room he required to prepare for what was about to begin.

The billboards had become a nationwide phenomenon; they were the water-cooler topic for many an office, and theorizing on what the signs meant—and more importantly, what was going to happen in New York come July—was virtually a national pastime.

Some in the media speculated that it could be a setup for a terrorist plot, that the terrorists might be trying to use Americans’ own innate curiosity against them. But the government dismissed this, reporting that they had no intel or chatter suggesting that the terrorism threat level was any higher than normal.

By the last week of June, tens of thousands journeyed to New York City, filling hotel rooms, restaurants, cabs, and sidewalks. They came from all walks of life, all parts of the country and the world. They came to sate their curiosity and feed a growing obsession. They were compelled to witness for themselves whatever it was that the billboards promised would happen.

So when a very hot and sticky July first arrived at last, Nolan was unsurprised to see that the crowd gathered in Times Square came close to rivaling the masses that converged on the same spot every New Year’s Eve. It wasn’t quite that big yet—not shoulder-to-shoulder down there. But the crowds were growing by the minute, and not just in the Square. Thousands watched Liberty Island from the edges of the Financial District, and Jersey City across the bay. Countless others stood at the foot of the Empire State Building, and filled Rockefeller Plaza. In some places, the crowds spilled out onto the streets, resulting in shouted responses from the city’s infamous cab drivers.

Nolan saw all of this from his vantage point atop the tower standing at One Times Square, where he crouched at the edge of the roof and surveyed the sea of humanity far below. From there, Nolan could easily pick out the native New Yorkers bustling about, garbed in business black, not bothering to hide their frustration over the gawking tourists blocking their every move. Yokels who came to witness what would probably amount to nothing.

This slender tower, crammed into the narrow space between Seventh Avenue and Broadway, had, over the course of its history, been home to the
New York Times
, Douglas Leigh’s electric billboards, industrial engineering firm Allied Chemical, an art deco restaurant, and a number of retail stores. In more recent years, it had been largely vacant, serving as nothing more than a giant canvas for a dozen or so billboards and the famous giant LED screen that tourists loved. Capping the tower was the world-famous rooftop where the ball was lowered every New Year’s Eve.

It was an astonishing thing to see so many thousands of people gathered below, watching and waiting. Almost as if a parade might begin any moment, all eyes were peeled, innumerable camera lenses were pointed in all directions, and there was a loud buzz rolling like waves through the crowd. As Nolan inhaled the same air that they breathed and listened to the dull roar of their conversations, he felt the rising heat generated by so many bodies in close proximity to one another. It was intoxicating and overwhelming. He felt not unlike an ancient general watching the preparation for a battle from afar, the troops awaiting the trumpets that would signal a formal declaration of war.

If very many more were added to these numbers, Nolan decided, the city would not hold them. Some held signs and banners declaring their desire to see something happen, to witness this “better way” that Nolan’s billboards had promised. Of course there were plenty of crazies milling about as well, offering everything from “free hugs” to “free sex,” and suggesting that they could show the world “a better way” all by themselves.

His vision enhanced by one of Arjay’s toys, Nolan spotted one group of a dozen or so marching in a picket line, complete with wood-handled signs hefted over their shoulders. He couldn’t tell what they were protesting and he didn’t care; as long as people lived and breathed, they would find some inane thing to boycott. He had no problem with their desire to make a difference—even if a lot of them based that desire on misguided ideals—but historically speaking, picket lines and boycotts had no lasting influence on the shape of society. They were a poor tactic, usually assembled in a last-minute panic, that at best might achieve some modest level of change. A change that always proved to be temporary.

The NYPD was woefully unprepared for this day, having underestimated how many people would venture into the city on July first, the day that the mysterious billboards spoke of. He saw only a few black-clad officers running interference between the heat of the visitors and the native New Yorkers. With so few cops and the outdoor temperature climbing, it was only a matter of time before tensions escalated. Something would happen. Someone would start something. Rule of law would collapse. Which was exactly what Nolan was waiting for.

He kept reminding himself that this was not a performance. He was not doing this for show. He intended to do something that was needed and that was
good
—but he
did
require an audience for it to have the desired impact. So he crouched at the top of the Times Square building with all of Arjay’s fancy cutting-edge equipment and waited for the inevitable. Praying all the while that everything would work toward his plan.

“Got your head on straight?
” said Branford through Nolan’s earpiece.

Nolan knew what the general was asking. To an outsider looking in, any tactical maneuver in the field was all about physicality. Strength, speed, agility, aptitude with weaponry. But anyone who’d spent any time at all in combat knew success was primarily mental. A good soldier relied on planning, training, muscle memory, his body instinctively knowing what to do before his brain ordered it to happen. If you were distracted or overcome by unwanted emotions, you were dead.

Branford was asking if Nolan was ready. If his mind was focused and prepared to act.

“Good to go, General,” he replied.

Within the hour, a pair of rival New York gangs had amassed, one group on Broadway, the other on Seventh Avenue. Arms crossing their chests, each group stood in a defiant posture, staring one another down with palpable malice.

Each group was at least twenty strong.

Forty against one
, Nolan thought.

“
I think it’s time,
” said Branford.

T
wo factions were about to break into open war in Times Square, right in the midst of thousands of pedestrians. Nolan needed a closer look.

Weeks ago, he’d watched as Arjay demonstrated the custom-made eyewear that he’d designed for Nolan to use in the field.

“Slide them on, just so,” Arjay had said, placing the device on Nolan’s head.

They looked not entirely unlike sunglasses, with wraparound lenses that were impossible to see through from the outside. The black frames were a bit larger than normal sunglass frames, and came outfitted with some extra hardware. Custom-fit to the contours of Nolan’s head, they would offer a full range of vision, including peripheral. Inside, they didn’t darken the world so much as enhance it. It was like looking at a live high-definition photograph, where light colors and dark shades were both enhanced and then blended together to create a sharper contrast and a more vivid picture. He had no idea how Arjay had achieved this effect, but the clarity was at least twice that of normal human vision. He could see every crack, crevice, and pebble in his underground surroundings, and it was astonishing.

The glasses were also made to even out the luminosity of his surroundings, so that there were no dark shadows or blinding lights. Everything he looked at was seamlessly illuminated at the perfect brightness for his eyes to perceive every detail possible.

Earpieces curved down from the sides and tucked comfortably into his ears. Nolan assumed this would give him some auditory enhancements when needed, as well as keep him in touch with Branford. Then there were a few buttons on either side of the frames. On the right, two buttons allowed him to zoom in up to one hundred times magnification, and zoom back out. Arjay was explaining something about electromagnetic polarization, but Nolan wasn’t listening. He was too busy examining the footprints of a mouse in the dust on the other side of the subway platform. Buttons on the left allowed him to switch to X-ray or thermal vision, which Arjay said would effectively let him see through walls.

Atop the Times Square tower, he tapped the zoom button to move in even closer. The world came alive with vivid color before him, and the situation converged into focus.

The two gangs below were both made up of pasty white men, so Nolan guessed they had to be Russians and Irishmen—likely Russian mafia and IRA, who had been fighting over inner-city territory the last few years. They’d brought tools for the fight, armed with handguns, blades, long steel pipes, brass knuckles, and more, easily visible beneath their shirts or hanging out of the back of their pants. Their faces were stoic, but their eyes, locked on their counterparts across the way, were ablaze with hatred.

Their numbers were impressive, but Nolan didn’t feel threatened. These men had no training. They were thugs with guns and knives that didn’t fit in their hands. Little boys pretending to be men.

His worry was for the crowd. If Nolan had known this many people would turn up in New York City just to find out what the billboards meant, he never would have placed those ads. Neutralizing the gangs didn’t give him pause, but the thought of doing so in such a way that the pedestrians didn’t get caught in the crossfire did. Once he laid into these guys, weapons of all kinds would appear instantly. His only option was to strike fast and hard, take them down before they could hurt anyone.

It was so hot this day, Nolan’s one-of-a-kind graphene-infused combat fatigues felt like an oven, yet he could sense heat of a different kind pouring off of the gangs on the streets below. The crowds were backing away from both groups by several paces, giving them as much space as the increasingly tight confines would allow. But they hadn’t withdrawn entirely, watching in abject fascination, unable to tear themselves away.

It was the train wreck principle. Morbid interest and curiosity were basic human nature. Nolan wished terribly just now that they weren’t. Especially when a blood feud was sure to break out at any second, and—

Hold up.

His thoughts halted. It struck him that this situation was perfect for his needs: two rival gangs about to explode into a turf war, smack in the center of arguably the most famous street corner in the world. Between the restaurants and retail outlets lining the streets were several major news agencies. All he had to do was descend to the ground at just the right moment and save the day.

The whole world would be able to watch.

It was so perfect it could have been scripted. And Branford had casually proposed that morning that Nolan camp out at Times Square, thinking that something dangerous might inevitably occur there, what with the size of the crowds waiting for the billboards’ messages to play out.

He wouldn’t dare.

Would he?

“General,” Nolan said into his earpiece. “Please tell me—”

“Heads up,
” said Branford, cutting him off.
“They’re on the move.”

The question would have to wait.

He looked down over the side of the building and saw that twenty-five stories below, on the ground, the two gangs were crossing the streets to meet in the middle, right in front of the Times Square building, on the footsteps of the tiny New York Police Station positioned there.

“I need to hear what they’re saying,” he mumbled.

After a brief silence, Branford replied into his earpiece,
“Hold your left hand out in the direction of the gangs. Arjay says he built a sound wave amplifier into the palm of your glove. Touch the tips of your thumb and ring finger together to activate it.”

Nolan almost laughed. “Gotta be kidding. . . .” But he did as he was told. As promised, he could immediately hear what was being said on the ground below, as long as he kept his hand trained on the right spot.

The leaders of the two gangs were arguing, chests puffed out, spitting obscenities and testosterone at each other. Nolan didn’t pay much attention to the specifics of the dispute; it was something about disrespecting one another. Nolan growled. Respect. An argument, essentially, over nothing.

It felt like fingernails scraping across the chalkboard of creation. Every time he thought about it, a lead brick settled in his stomach and his head started to pulse with the earliest sign of a migraine. Something deep inside wanted to stop this kind of thing once and for all. He couldn’t lose himself right now though and warded off the sickening sensations by compartmentalizing his thoughts regarding the state of the world.

But he kept his eyes peeled. It was going to happen any second now, and when it did, he had to be ready. He felt his muscles coil. He pulled out Arjay’s prize toy—a contraption that looked like a sleek oversized pistol—and grasped it tight with his right hand. He threw his jacket’s hood up over his head.

All right, Arjay, don’t fail me now.

He heard glass shatter and looked down. Flames were rising at the base of the police station, pouring forth from two or three glass bottles that had been tossed there. He saw several guns appear and heard the screaming begin.

The gangs ran, converging on one another atop the central median in Times Square.

A blood-filled battle was seconds away from breaking out down there, and hundreds of bystanders were going to get caught in the crossfire.

Showtime.