Codename: Chandler: Fix (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by F. Paul Wilson

  As if on cue, there was the click of a round being chambered, then a gunshot shattered the front of a display case next to Jack. He ducked and whirled. The skinny guy he'd come with had somehow escaped the zip tie and retrieved the Walther I'd taken from him. He was shooting at Jack.

  Jack ducked as he fired again. "What the--?"

  The sound echoed like thunder. My Beretta had a suppressor. Not so the Walther. He might have gotten away with one shot. Two would have security running this way.

  I was getting the picture. The skinny guy was the customer. He must have sold Jack on a fake blackmail story to hire him as backup.

  Jack didn't know about the toxin. He wasn't a terrorist.

  Just as that joyful thought crystallized in my head, the thin man started running for the big mounted horse in the center of the room, firing in my direction. More glass shattered all around me as his shots went wide. I squatted, making myself a smaller target. I could tell by the way he held the Walther that he didn't know what he was doing, but even a monkey with a gun can get lucky.

  I noticed Jack running in a crouch toward the corner where I'd tossed his arsenal. My own Beretta lay a dozen feet away but it might as well have been a mile. I was surrounded by countless shards of broken glass. I had nowhere to run without shredding my feet;

  If only I'd kept my boots.

  Rasmus

  Rasmus still had the zip tie around his wrist. He hadn't been able to budge it so he'd yanked on the mannequin's hand and it moved. He'd yanked again, harder, and the fake appendage pulled free of the arm.

  He'd been shocked to hear the woman say she had to find the toxin. It didn't make sense. But then, the seller had been male. Put everything together and it became all too obvious she wasn't the seller. No time to waste trying to figure out just who she was. Obviously someone who had her own uses for ZLK.

  Damn her. She'd ruined everything. A perfect plan: Make the exchange, shoot Jack and the seller, make off with the necklace and ZLK, leaving the Walther behind in Jack's hand.

  But where would the seller have hidden the canister? He'd insisted on meeting in this particular room, so he must have hidden it here. The woman obviously thought so, although she didn't seem to know its precise hiding spot. The only place big enough was inside the horse.

  Rasmus kept firing the Walther, alternating between the scampering Jack and the crouching woman. The sound was deafening. He'd had no idea a pistol could be this loud. Nice if he could hit someone, but if nothing else he was holding them off as he reached under the horse and up into the belly. Something there. He gripped and pulled. A black carry-on dropped free.

  No time to check inside. This had to be the ZLK. He pulled the envelope with the necklace out of the saddle bag and slipped it into a pocket in the front of the carry-on.

  How long since his first shot? Fifteen seconds? Twenty? No way they hadn't been heard.

  Time to run.

  Jack

  "Your associate is an asshole," Chandler said, squatting with her hands over her head.

  "I'm beginning to agree," Jack said, homing in on his Glock and Semmerling. "But we wouldn't be in this position if you hadn't taken my guns."

  "You stabbed me with a shuriken and made me drop mine."

  "Quid pro quo, Clarice."

  "Is that another dumb movie quote?"

  "It isn't dumb. It's Silence of the Lambs. It won Best Picture."

  "You know this guy is here to buy the toxin, right? He duped you."

  "I'm getting that impression." Jack had wondered why Rasmus had brought along a gun. Likely to shoot him after the deal was over.

  "Hey! Rasmus! You think you can hide from me? You've graduated to numero uno on my Shit List."

  "Idiot!" Rasmus yelled. He sounded half-hysterical. "I won't have to hide!"

  What did that mean?

  Chandler said, "He's going to use the toxin, Jack. He can wipe out several city blocks with it. You included."

  As Jack reached his weapons, he gave himself a well-deserved mental kick for getting involved at all. And for letting this clown dupe him. He never trusted his customers completely. The very fact they came to him rather than the system meant they had something to hide. But a WMD? That hadn't been on the map.

  And then Rasmus was running for the door.

  Jack stood, raised the Glock, and pulled the trigger. Nothing. Then he remembered: Chandler had ejected the round in the chamber. By the time he'd reinserted the magazine and racked a round, Rasmus was gone.

  He shoved the Semmerling and its mag into a pocket and started after him.

  "Hey!" Chandler shouted. "A little help here?"

  He looked and saw how she was surrounded by shattered glass. He didn't want to leave her here for the cops, but he couldn't let this asshole get away. He continued after Rasmus.

  "Jack!" Chandler yelled again. "I know how to neutralize the toxin! Do you?"

  He skid to a stop in the glass, made a quick decision, then bee-lined to Chandler and scooped her up in his arms. She draped her elbow over the back of his neck.

  "My hero," she deadpanned.

  "It doesn't mean we're going steady or anything."

  "Move your ass. He's getting away."

  Someone -- or perhaps several someones -- started banging on the locked door.

  Jack carried her to the other entryway, the one Rasmus had taken. Along the way she twisted her body into an impossible contortion and scooped her Beretta from the floor as they passed it. They entered a brightly lit indoor courtyard peopled with statuary and, of course, people. He set her down on bare tile.

  "Where'd he go?" she said.

  Jack thought about that a sec. Rasmus couldn't go out the front -- not with a wheely bag. The guards would be all over them.

  "We came in through the basement," he told her. "That's the way he'll go out."

  "Lead on."

  As he started to pull her in the direction of the service elevator he and Rasmus had used on the way in, he saw a smear of red on the floor.

  "You're bleeding."

  She looked down. "Just a scratch."

  "A scratch that'll leave a nice trail." He held out his arms. "Alley oop."

  She put a hand on his shoulder and, with catlike grace, hopped into his arms. Jack took off at a run.

  "What's the idea of coming here without shoes?"

  "Long story."

  They earned a few curious and alarmed stares as they raced past startled museum goers. The weirdest was this group of kids who started cheering when they saw Chandler.

  "What the hell?"

  "PS Seventeen -- my fans."

  "Oh, miss?" said a woman's voice. "Miss!"

  Jack saw a middle age woman with Teacher written all over her, waving something at them.

  "Wait!" Chandler said. "That's my bag."

  Jack veered toward the woman. He recognized the Coach clutch in her hand.

  "Really?" he said to Chandler. "Now?"

  "It's my favorite. Okay, I have some important stuff in there -- stuff I hope I never need but I'll want it close by if I do."

  "Well, there's a cryptic remark."

  "Set me down."

  As Jack eased Chandler to the floor, she hobbled over to the teacher and grabbed her purse. "Thanks, Miss Nikola."

  "You're very welcome. We saw you drop it. My whole class was very impressed by--"

  "What size shoe do you wear?"

  Before Miss Nikola could answer, Chandler had the woman on her back and was tugging the Velcro-laced sky blue gym shoes off her feet. She then wriggled her own feet into them and was back at Jack's side, all in less than ten seconds.

  "Nice lady saves your purse, and you rob her?"

  "Just her sneakers."

  "Kicknapping."

  Even that didn't get a smile.

  "If that nut job you were with spills that toxin -- accidentally or on purpose -- losing her sneakers won't matter. Nothing will matter."

  Jack spotted the service elevator an
d tugged Chandler toward it. Half a dozen feet to its right sat a door. He tried it and found a stairway. He led the way down to the area of basement he'd entered earlier with Rasmus.

  "Now to find our way out."

  Rasmus

  Made it!

  Rasmus hurried east along 86th Street, wheeling the carry-on behind him. His stomach lurched every time it rolled over uneven pavement. He hoped the canister was sturdy.

  He hoped to hell it contained ZLK.

  That had been his worry from the get go: Was he being scammed? He'd have to find a way to test it. No hurry there. He had years.

  The mayor had already mentioned, under the promise of strictest secrecy, that he was planning a third term. It went against the two-term-limit rule for New York City mayors, but that could be finessed. And if anybody could finesse it, Michael Bloomberg could.

  But more than run, Bloomberg had to win. He was the champion NYC needed. He and he alone was the city's salvation. Rasmus had sweat blood working for the man, toiling tirelessly during election time, serving him proudly as a member of his administration. Two terms simply weren't enough.

  Winning a third term would be no easy matter, however. Voters were mostly morons. And after eight years, people tended to welcome a new face. To get them past that, Bloomberg would need what Rasmus had come to call a "Giuliani moment."

  Giuliani's handling of the September 11th attack had earned him the nickname of "America's mayor." If he'd wanted a third term, New Yorkers would have fallen over each other to vote for him. But by September 11 the ballot had been set and Giuliani wasn't on it. Bloomberg had won. And he'd won again last fall.

  And he'd win yet again -- a third time. Rasmus would see to that.

  Three years from now, six months before the election, New York City would suffer another horrendous terrorist attack. But this time it would be chemical instead of aeronautical.

  This amount of ZLK, released on an express train roaring along the tracks under the West Side, would spread all through the tunnels, onto the platforms, and up the stairways, seeping through every crack and crevice into buildings and vehicles and the lungs of those therein, leaving a staggering death count before it dissipated into the air. And into the ensuing chaos would step Michael Bloomberg, soothing the city, calming the country, claiming his rightful title of "America's Mayor."

  A third term would be guaranteed.

  Not that his boss had the slightest inkling about the plan. And Rasmus would never mention it. Bloomberg had to be kept in the dark. He needed genuine deniability.

  Behind every great man was another great man, destined to be anonymous, but just as essential. Rasmus knew he was that man. He was going to rewrite history, and restore New York City to its former glory.

  It was the least a mayor's aide could do.

  Chandler

  When Jack and I finally emerged from the labyrinth of the Met basement, it seemed Rasmus had vanished. NYPD officers swarmed the steps leading up to the main entrance, and rerouted traffic on Fifth Avenue. I peered into occupied cabs stuck in traffic, looking for that skinny little terrorist bastard, but came up empty. A pedicab whooshed by, the only traffic moving.

  "Might have taken one of those," Jack said.

  "God, I hope not."

  He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. "Something against pedicabs?"

  "Nah, just been there, done that," I said, thinking again of the last time I'd been in New York. I focused on the sea of limousines mixed with the yellow cabs. "Might he have had a ride waiting?"

  "If he did, he's not going anywhere." Jack stared for a moment, slapping his hands against his thighs.

  "What are you thinking?"

  "I'm being him. I come out, I see the traffic, I know I can't turn around and go through the park because there's no cover… I'd be a sitting duck." He snapped his fingers. "I know where he went."

  He started for the street, leaving me scrambling to catch up.

  "Where?"

  "Rasmus works for Bloomberg."

  "The mayor?" I hadn't been expecting that. "Seriously?"

  He nodded. "Bloomie's his hero, and Bloomie makes a point of traveling around the city on the subway. Rasmus can do no less. You can bet he's got a subway pass in his wallet."

  Jack reached the curb and kept going. A cab accelerated around another car and slammed on the brakes. Jack slapped his palms on the hood.

  "I'm walkin' here!"

  The cabbie hurled a few curse words out his window. Jack ignored him, glancing back at me as if expecting some kind of reaction.

  "No wonder you were hit by a cab."

  "Hello? Ratso Rizzo? Midnight Cowboy?"

  I shook my head.

  "You really need a film education."

  We continued across the street, moving fast, darting between cars.

  I said, "The Seventy-Seventh and Eighty-Sixth Street stations on the Lexington Avenue Line are the closest and about the same distance from here."

  He glanced at me. "You know that?"

  "I have the New York subway system more or less memorized. The question is, which one would your pal be headed for?"

  "That's a coin flip. If he's headed downtown, he'll choose Seventy-Seventh. If he's going up—"

  "Right. So you take Seventy-Seventh, I'll take Eighty-Sixth. We call if and when we spot him."

  "Sounds like a plan."

  We exchanged numbers, then he veered downtown while I headed up.

  East 86th is one of Manhattan's rare two-way streets – twice as wide for cars but no extra space for pedestrians. I had three long blocks between me and Lexington Avenue, and Rasmus had a good lead. If he reached the station and hopped a train before I arrived, he'd be gone. Yeah, we could track him to his home but who said he'd ever go back? The guy was obviously deranged. He could do anything.

  Mission goals: eliminate the seller, eliminate the buyer, secure the toxin.

  I was one for three at the moment. At least I had an extra set of eyes with Jack along. And he was almost as motivated as I. Almost. No one was more motivated than I.

  My foot still hurt but I was making decent time between the avenues, thanks to Mrs. Nikola's sneakers, but when I reached Madison the bunched crowd of tourists and workers on lunch break became almost impenetrable. I pushed my way through and dashed across against the light, dodging cabs and panel trucks and flipping off angry horn blowers. What had Jack said?

  "I'm walkin' here!"

  Same good pace on the next block until another crush at Park Avenue. I got horned and nearly run over again, but reached the far side in one piece. This was taking too damn long.

  So I hopped off the curb, dodged to the center of the street, and began jogging along the double line. No pedestrians here, and I had a clear view of both sidewalks over the cars, except when I passed a truck.

  I happened to be looking straight ahead when I saw a man dragging a carry-on across 86th, all the way down at Lexington. Looked like Rasmus. Couldn't be sure, but close enough. I pulled out my phone and called Jack.

  "Pretty sure I see him," I said.

  "Swell. I'm turning uptown. Don't let him get on a train. We don't know what he's planning, but it can't be good."

  Jack didn't need to tell me. If I saw Rasmus, I'd shoot him dead.

  Rasmus

  He reached the entrance to the Lexington Line and took the carry-on in his arms, carrying it down the steps as someone might carry a toddler. He set it down and wheeled it through the turnstile, then carried it again down to the downtown platform.

  A 6 train was just pulling out, leaving the platform fairly empty. He sat on one of the benches and stared at the carry-on between his knees.

  Real or fake?

  He'd have to test it before the big release. If he'd been duped, he'd have to return to the underground marketplaces.

  Against his better judgement, he unzipped the carry-on -- just enough for a peek inside. The hazardous material symbol was reassuring, but not proof that it contai
ned anything more toxic than Mountain Dew. He opened it a little more and --

  Was that a Blackberry taped to the top? Yes…someone had taped a phone to the canister. Now why…?

  Rasmus leaned closer and saw wires running from the phone to the nozzle atop the canister.

  His gut clenched. Was it rigged to explode? Why would someone—?

  Movement to his right caught his eye. An overweight, elderly black woman was stepping off the stairway and headed his way. She dropped on the other end of the bench and opened her enormous handbag. She withdrew a bag of what appeared to be homemade popcorn and began shoveling handfuls in her mouth.

  Rasmus zipped up the carry-on and wheeled it away. He kept moving until he reached the downtown end of the platform where he settled himself on the last bench. He was reaching for the zipper to take another peek when he glanced across the tracks to the uptown side. A lithe young woman raced down the stairs, then started trotting along the platform, obviously looking for someone.

  Rasmus recognized her: the crazy woman from the museum.

  And just at that instant, she looked his way. Their eyes locked. She froze for a second, then bounded back toward the stairs she'd just descended.

  She was coming for him.

  He sprang to his feet and dashed to the edge of his platform. No light down the tunnel, not even a breeze indicating something was coming.

  What do I do?

  She'd had a silenced pistol at the museum. You didn't put a silencer on a gun for self-protection. Only if you planned to shoot someone. He had his own pistol, but he was a terrible shot, as he'd proven in the museum. He'd bet she was excellent.

  He had no place to go except…

  He rushed back to the bench and grabbed his carry-on. Cradling it in his arms, he jumped off the platform and landed between the tracks. The third rail ran along the far wall, humming faintly with the high voltage running through it. He knew to keep his distance from that. But maybe she didn't. Maybe she'd step on it and fry herself.

  He should be so lucky.

  Keeping between the tracks and watching his footing very carefully, he hurried into the dark maw of the tunnel.

  I don't believe I'm doing this.

  But what choice did he have? Besides, the tunnels weren't like caves. They had red and green signal lights, and bulbs in sconces at regular intervals. They also had recesses in the wall opposite the third rail where workers could stand when trains passed through. And every so often a storage room. If he could find one of those he could hide inside and set an ambush.