by D S Kane
She limped past the two men who ignored her in the dimming light. Two hundred yards away, the traffic light at the corner turned red. She waited for a moment, consumed with terror burning her to her core. As the world grew darker, she cleared the alleyway. Cassie pretended talking to herself, holding the paper bag to cover her face, both arms high, walking stagger step, trying to appear frail. She tottered to the corner and turned onto the next block leading away from the van.
The city’s lights popped on. She ignored her panic, continued talking to herself and limping down the street, turning again and tacking slowly away from her apartment. She was truly homeless now, and in no rush. There was nowhere she needed to be.
Cassie heard voices behind her and glanced over her shoulder. They were running toward her.
She picked up speed, sprinted, and ducked into the alleyway of the next building, dashing to its opening onto the street behind.
A young woman left the nearby building’s doorway and Cassie dove through before the door closed. She ran into its elevator and waited for its door to close, slowly. Did they see her? She took the elevator to the basement and waited by the service exit. Ten, twenty minutes passed.
As she pushed the service door open, she heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Cassie bolted into the alleyway and took off toward the street. The shopping bag bobbed up and down in her hands as she sprinted as fast as she could, tacking the blocks left then right until, winded, she couldn’t run another step.
Cassie panted in fear. She approached a bus stop and, good fortune smiling on her at last, a city bus slowed to a stop.
She rode the bus heading away from downtown. As she’d learned to so long ago, she mounted a surveillance detection route, riding three buses and two Metros. If anyone had tried following her, she’d lost them. She waited in another alleyway for ten minutes and didn’t see the van or anyone walking in an obvious search mode.
Cassie completed one additional surveillance detection run without incident. They might be monitoring the airports and train stations. Buses were safer, the least likely and most difficult to manage. An hour later, she entered the Greyhound bus terminal and used her limited cash to buy a ticket to Manhattan, a huge city where she could get lost.
There, I can finish crafting a new appearance and a new identity.
Less than an hour later, she boarded the bus and began the first leg of her journey to anywhere but home. She cried, walking down the aisle of the bus, and chose a seat by the emergency exit. Just in case.
The bus continued north for over four hours. When she could no longer cry, fear faded like a headache passing its peak. It was time for a real plan, one to recover the life she’d lost. What can I do to make enough money to survive while I figure out how to keep from being hunted? What types of risk can I afford? At first nothing came to her and she foresaw her own violent death. It took several deep breaths to drive back her fear. She forced herself to think, to determine what path would yield the best possibility for survival.
But survival by itself would solve no problems.
“They” would always be there, hunting her. “They” played by different rules, slinking through the shadows, eluding capture by going where no one expected them.
That’s what she’d have to do to survive: be someone they didn’t expect. She must think like a terrorist, and use their new rules.
She whispered to herself, “Fight fire with fire.”
One thing was sure: at some point she’d need to find a real solution. The only one that came to mind was to ally with a force large enough to eliminate those hunting her. I have to kill them all.
As the bus rode north on I-95 past Philadelphia, she formulated plans for the next weeks through the next year.
Cassie’s skills would make the obvious choice now, to open her own consulting firm, offering clients the same kind of computer hacking she’d been doing for the agency.
It would be dangerous. How can I eliminate as much risk as possible? I’ll need money, lots of it. At least my consulting skills are saleable.
She made a list, tapping on the soft keyboard of her cell phone. She decided to call her business the Swiftshadow Consulting Group. But this would be its private name, a name no client would ever see. What would be visible was just the website’s numeric IP address. Groups of numbers separated by decimal points.
She remembered ways to make a website invisible to all except those with an invitation. She carried all the tools she needed on that thumb-drive. Cassie completed a draft of her plan: It was two pages long and contained nine subsections.
Swiftshadow Consulting Group
1.Tactical requirements
2.Sources of clients
3.Internet security and discoverability
4.Travel issues
5.Skills upgrades
6.Secure hiding places for files and weapons
7.Long game strategy
8.Find and eliminate the mole
9.Fallback plan in case everything fails
Cassie had no idea how to mount an offensive against Muslim extremists, so objectives 7 and 8 would require research. In any case, it was a start. She made a list of anonymous Internet host providers, mostly in countries run by governments hostile to the United States.
By the time the bus entered the West Side bus depot of the Port Authority Bus Terminal near Times Square, New York, she had complete answers for the first six points.
A
s she drew near the exit of the bus terminal, it started raining. She stood and looked outside into the gray light dawning. After thinking for several minutes, she made a plan for the next day or two. Think like a Muslim extremist. Point six of the plan suggested she stash her emergency identities and disguises in a locker at the Port Authority bus depot. Then find a surgeon to disguise herself permanently.
Cassie went to the women’s bathroom on the second floor of the terminal. It was filthy and reeked. She washed the shoe polish off her face until most of the dye disappeared, then cleaned the K-Y jelly from her hair using the soap dispenser and paper towels. Still feeling gross, she stripped and redressed in a clean business outfit from the attaché case, and placed the disguise back in the case. She rented an empty locker in the terminal, placed the case containing her disguise and the emergency stash of identities within, and locked it. As long as I live in Manhattan, this will be my stash point.
The rain had stopped and the sun was rising through silver clouds as she walked onto Ninth Avenue and crossed 42nd Street. Cassie headed north and east toward the higher-rent districts.
On Forty-Fifth Street at Sixth Avenue she stopped and thought about her next task. Change my appearance. She drew her cell phone from her pocket and scanned the yellow pages website. Cassie found a plastic surgeon on 57th Street at Second Avenue. She pulled the battery from the cell and dropped it in the trash. She’d need replacements.
She found an electronics store and purchased several burner cell phones under another name, Sylvia Chase. More difficult to trace back to her. But not impossible. She used her cell phone’s Internet function to review the plastic surgeon’s reputation. He seemed to be the best in town. She called to book an appointment, then dropped the burner in the trash.
For the three hours before her appointment, she found a bookstore on Sixth Avenue across the street from the Time-Life building and read several guides to Manhattan. At The Farm, they’d taught her to blend in, to look and act like a local. She studied others walking the nearby aisles of the store, what they wore, how they walked, what they said. Every time she heard someone speaking, Cassie subvocally mimicked their accent until she got it flat. She read all about Manhattan, seeking knowledge to help her find obscure hideouts. On maps she found several locations with multiple escape routes and no choke points.
The surgeon’s office was plush, a showcase for Doctor Henry Sheldorff’s success. Cassie suspected he’d had his own face redecorated. He looked ageless. There wasn’t a wrinkle or a crease visible on his
face.
“You’re very lucky. I had a cancellation for this afternoon. Patient developed a nose cold just before I was to head off to the NYU Medical Center. Uh, why do you want to change your face, Ms. Hardcastle?”
She littered her speech with a heavy Brooklyn accent. “Well, see, I want my nose to be perfect. Everyone just thinks I had it done. So now I actually need to get it done, but I want it to look natural, see? I want it just a bit flatter. You know what I mean? And I want you to do my lips, too. So, when can you fit me in?”
She saw him watch for her reaction.
He stared at her nose, his face muscles working, obvious doubt there. “Are you joking? Your nose is adequate, nowhere near perfect, and making it flatter would cause it to become downright ugly. What you want me to do will make you much less attractive. More’s the pity. I recommend you not have this surgery.”
Cassie worked hard to show nothing. “Look, I want this, see? If you won’t do it, I’ll find someone else. So what’s it to be?”
“It’s your money. Maybe we can agree on changes that would be better for you than the ones you want. Some simpler ones, much less expensive than trimming your nose. I could alter your cheeks and make them more prominent. Make your chin just a bit more noticeable to give you a more fitting and assertive look. My alternative would make you look prettier. That I’m willing to do. Thursday afternoon is when I do these. The specific changes require just a few silicone injections with a local anesthetic so I do them right here, in my office.”
Two days from now. She’d have to remain homeless for two more days. But after this, she could reconsider her options. Cassie sighed, disappointed Sheldorff couldn’t perform the surgery sooner.
“I’ll be here fifteen minutes before, to fill out any paperwork you need.”
“Fine. Now, let’s work up a plan for what you’ll look like so we both agree on the outcome before I get started.”
At the front desk on her way out, Cassie made a return appointment for 3 p.m. Thursday. Once outside, she found a secondhand bookstore on the upper East Side and read a well-worn book on Manhattan neighborhoods. It stated there were abandoned railway tunnels just north of the newer tracks of Grand Central Station, running over thirty blocks north in an underground web from Third Avenue through Sixth Avenue:
Sociologists argue that New York’s homeless number in the hundreds of thousands. They are ignored by almost everyone unless they’re begging or otherwise making pests of themselves. Due to budget cuts, many have been turned out of the mental hospitals once housing them, where trained staff once cared for them. The homeless live in danger, sometimes killing one another over their meager possessions. Life among them is inherently dangerous.
The book was well over a decade old. If what it said was still true, she could disappear there until she had surgery. Manhattan had vid-cams scanning the streets to detect crimes in progress, and wherever there was a camera, there was facial recognition software. She worried about being detected. If the agency knew where she was, their resident mole would try again to end her.
But, because the homeless weren’t important, these tunnels might never be scanned by law enforcement. She’d be safer there. No one would suspect she was there.
She was glad she had the agency’s basic coursework in self-defense and attack. But if I sleep there, I’ll be more exposed to dangers of attack and rape. She shivered with the memory of being helpless as Abdul threatened to kill her while he used her body to satisfy himself.
To reduce the risks of living in the tunnels, she decided to sleep only during the daytime, on park benches in community parks such as the one she found at Union Square. She bought a large hat to cover her head and hide her face. Union Square Park was large, full of trees, and serene for such a busy neighborhood. She’d seen decent restaurants and fast-food places all around the park, convenient not only for meals but also for their restrooms.
After examining the park, she wandered four blocks down lower Fifth Avenue, and entered the lobby of The New School, where she ate in the cafeteria. It was refreshing to sit among students. She eavesdropped on their conversations. The nostalgia, remembering her college days at Stanford, left her feeling younger and energized.
Wearing her wide-brimmed hat, she returned to the park at Union Square. This city was so large, it was almost frightening. She shivered in the waning afternoon sun. Sitting on a bench, she watched people walking in and out of the park, wondering if any were from the Islamic extremist group that had tried to kill her. But by the time the sun set, she had relaxed and napped for over an hour. Cassie remembered reading the books on Manhattan restaurants, wondering now where a tourist might go for dinner. Her appetite was off, so she decided to find something cheap and full of calories. Her stomach grumbled. She hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours, and then it had been an energy bar.
She returned to the bus terminal and retrieved her homeless outfit, then walked to a Burger King she’d passed on 34th Street. Cassie scarfed down a Whopper and used their rest room to re-dress in her homeless outfit. The underground tunnels were a mile walk from her location. Night enveloped her, walking along Madison Avenue. As rush hour ended, a chill set in.
Inside Grand Central Station, she took the stairs down to one of the Hudson and Harlem Line commuter train platforms and then jumped off at its northern end onto the train tracks. She took a deep breath before moving into the dark, but almost tripped on a railroad tie. The darkness was her first obstacle. She waited behind a dirty support girder until her eyes adjusted.
The flashlight she’d purchased lit her way as she walked the tracks for twenty minutes. Lights peeked from one of the unused tunnels heading west. She walked toward them. The flashlight unveiled a stream of homeless who led subterranean existences, some in settings they’d made quite elaborate. Many were armed with knives, a few even carried guns. She felt alert, fully adrenalized and wary but not fearful of those wandering around her.
Dressed in her homeless disguise, she didn’t feel at all out of place. She was just as homeless as any of them.
Her nose wrinkled from the offensive odors of urine and decomposing garbage. The smell of unwashed bodies brought a wave of nausea welling inside her. She gazed into a dark, narrow passageway and let the stale air enter her lungs. It was worse than she’d expected.
Still not as bad as the dangers of the monitoring cameras on the streets, until she’d had a chance to alter her face.
Cassie shook herself and pushed forward, sticking on the tacky concrete. She stepped deeper into this wild and unknown place.
Chapter Six
June 14, 7:21 p.m.
Train tunnels, Upper East Side, Manhattan
At the first tunnel intersection she found three alternative paths. Straight ahead it was dark, and the flicker of the light from deeper corners farther away frightened her. To her right, the dripping of sewer pipes and the odor of sewage was overwhelming. She turned left, deeper into the maze. Here, she could smell fear. Something had recently happened, something terrible. She could feel the presence of someone, possibly the victim, or maybe the person who’d done the deed. She sniffed. Whoever it was must be close.
A huge, dirty man with wild hair, possibly about thirty years of age, approached her. He wore a stained red and black plaid flannel shirt. “New here?” he asked.
She examined him and sniffed the air. She gagged. “Leave me alone.”
“Come on, I just want some companionship. How much will it cost?”
"Fuck you," Cassie replied.
"If you like. Want it bad, little girl, do you?"
Cassie took two steps back, away from the threat. She remembered being raped in Riyadh and her eyes closed to slits as she waited, shifting balance. When he closed the distance, she hit him with her palm, pushing it hard into his face. She heard the crunch of her hand breaking his nose. Blood gushed from his face.
He stepped back away from her, shocked, wiping the blood with his palm. “Bitch! You bitch! I
’ll kill you.” He took another look at her but seemed to realize he’d be better off not trying again. He turned and disappeared into the dark, leaving her alone.
She watched him go, feeling a thrill run through her. I will prevail. Cassie shook herself, wondering what she had already become.
She wandered into a busy corridor and sat resting on a carton. Time seemed to stretch on. Restless and nervous, she rose again and paced left at the next intersection.
There, sitting on a heap of garbage, was a young girl, probably just into her teens. The crying girl’s clothes were ripped to rags, leaving nothing to the imagination. Cassie stared for a few seconds. “What happened to you?”
The girl looked up, her face screwed into an agonized frown. She sniffled. “My mom died two days ago. My brother Joshua and I were thrown out of our apartment in Brooklyn. We had no place to go. We met an old homeless man, searching for food in the garbage in the alley behind our building. He told us about the tunnels. Said this place was safer than the shelters. It took a day to walk here. We hadn’t eaten since Mom died. I thought we’d be okay here.”
Cassie offered her an energy bar. The girl ripped it open and swallowed it whole.
She stared at Cassie for almost a minute. “But just a little while ago, a big man came by. He tried ripping my clothes off. Josh tried to stop him. He snapped my brother’s neck. Josh didn’t have anything in his pockets when he died. We have no money. The man tore off my dress. He raped me.” Tears poured from her. “Now I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to do. First my mom and then my bro.”
