The Silver Gun

by L. A. Chandlar

  I turned to Roarke. “So, they weren’t lying, the explosives really are everywhere.”

  “So it seems. All right, these guys are out of the way, and since we are leaving them here, I believe they are motivated to be telling us the truth. So, the crucial wire to cut on each of the three main charges is the one with the orange tag. The first detonator is near us, on that second pylon. They said there’s a ledge that we can climb to. Let’s go have a look. The timers are set for eight this morning, when rush hour is in full swing. We have a little time.”

  “Okay, let’s go,” I said. It felt good to have some tracks to run on, albeit terrifying tracks. We both pocketed a couple of tools; I made sure to grab a wire cutter.

  The guys had been yelling at us to take them to safety. That was laughable. Roarke rounded on them. “You made your beds, now you can lie in them. And you better be telling us the whole truth, because if the bridge goes down, so do you.” His golden brown eyes flashed even in this dim early morning light, and his jawline had an angry twitch. For a guy with dimples, when he was angry, every ounce of him showed it in spades. Even the two big guys flinched back and shut up.

  We carefully made our way to the nearest pylon. The bridge was over twenty-five years old and repair crews and painting crews frequently worked on it, so I doubted anyone would have noticed the Schmidts’ handiwork, especially if they did it at off times or at twilight. Plus, nothing of this magnitude had ever been attempted; no one would think to look. It reminded me of H.H. Holmes, one of the first documented American serial killers, forty years ago in Chicago. No one had even conceived of that happening. Now we knew better.

  We got to the first pylon they had directed us to, and sure enough, when we looked down, there was a ledge sticking out just wide enough for a man to walk around with a small fence to prevent someone from falling off. I spotted what looked like a black bag that had to be the charge. The only problem was, we needed a ladder to get down to it.

  “Uhhhhh . . .” I started to say.

  “Here, we can do this. I’d do it, but it’s a blind drop. If I lower you, I can direct you precisely. I’ll lower you down by your wrists; it’s not that far—only about ten or twelve feet. You’ll only have to drop a few feet,” said Roarke enthusiastically.

  I was agitated and scared, but what could I do? There was no alternative. We’d have to try it. The reinforcements weren’t here yet; we had no idea when they’d show up.

  I stepped over to the edge of the bridge . . . and that ten feet looked more like forty. It was a straight drop. But it looked iffy to me. If a stiff wind came along and swayed us just the tiniest bit too far, I’d be in the East River after a very long free fall.

  “Oh, my God, Roarke.”

  “Lane, it’s okay. I’ve got you—you weigh hardly anything. I will not let you go.” His eyes were intense, his brow furrowed. I trusted him. I let him take my arms, forcing myself to let go of the precious railing so he could lower me.

  For saying I hardly weighed anything, he sure did a lot of grunting. But despite this, he lowered me with great strength, very carefully. He said he’d count to three and on three, he’d let go. “Get ready, Lane. One, two, three!”

  I knew it wasn’t far, but my knees buckled when I landed, nonetheless. But I did land. I took a deep breath, gave a thumbs-up to Roarke, and went to the black bag. There were wires coming out of it like black snakes or spider legs. I looked around, and the wires streamed out of the bag, both up and down around the pylon. I looked up, and I could see the faint outlines of oblong lumps that looked like thick candles along the pylon and tucked underneath the second level of the bridge. My heart raced faster.

  I gingerly opened the bag. Orange tag. Orange tag.

  I found it.

  I was plagued with what ifs: What if this was the wrong wire and we exploded? What if I died right now? What if we couldn’t do this in time?

  I took a good look at the rest of the wires and thought through if there was anything I was missing. Since we left Weasel on the bridge with us, I had a fair amount of confidence that he wasn’t giving us bad information. But there was the theoretical knowledge, and the I’m about to cut the goddamn wire reality.

  I cut the wire.

  And then my heart started beating again. I looked up at Roarke and nodded, giving him another thumbs-up. One down, two to go.

  Roarke bent low over the railing, waving for me to come over. I’d have to get onto a step along the wall of the pylon to get just a little more height and then jump up to clasp Roarke’s hands. Then he’d drag me up.

  The plan worked perfectly. Until my hands just started to reach the top of the railing and a horrifying voice gurgled, “Look what we have here.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Only when I fall do I get up again.

  —ML

  I was completely blind as I groped for a hold on the railing. I heard a nauseating thud and Roarke’s arms were wrenched from me. I desperately grabbed the railing and held on with everything I had. I couldn’t make purchase with my feet; I would have to use all my shoulder strength to pull myself up. I was doing just that when two beefy hands grasped my forearms like meat hooks. My gut clenched as I struggled and turned my eyes up into the face of Daley Joseph.

  My mind roiled with being touched again by Daley Joseph. My skin crawled from his fingers on my arms, even as I struggled to survive, making me debate the choice of letting go. His leering countenance was only inches from mine, his stale breath reeking of old cigars and booze.

  “Lane, don’t you look extremely hale and hearty for having been shot dead recently,” he gurgled with contempt. His strength was astounding; his talon-like fingers were painfully digging into my arms as he kept me aloft without seeming to strain in the least.

  “Hmm,” he thought out loud in a carefree voice. “What shall I do? It seems a tragedy to drop you from here, after all you’ve been through. I mean, you deserve a much more glorious death. Seems lazy and unworthy somehow.”

  A crazy idea ran through my mind: His vocabulary was sounding much more like that of the sophisticated and slightly less cruel Joseph than the bloodthirsty Daley. Could I use that?

  “Ah, Mr. Joseph? If you pull me up, there could be a thousand more interesting ways for me to die . . . and you could think about it and make it more . . . worthy of you.” Where was I getting this? It wasn’t the cleverest thing I’d ever come up with, but hell, I was dangling from a bridge.

  He laughed in a mirthless way that said he knew exactly what I was doing but was slightly amused by it. He pulled with a mighty heave, and I was up and over the railing, sprawling onto the cement. Roarke was not far away, crumpled on the ground with a sickening amount of blood over his forehead from his head wound. I could feel the bile rising in my throat. The bravado of a second ago faltering, I looked up at Mr. Joseph.

  I was right, he was clearly not his alter ego; his shirt was tucked in and his tie perfect. However, it must have been a quick transformation, because his shirt was the stained, unkempt kind that Daley wore. Of course. Daley had to be there to oversee the carnage, but perhaps the orderly Joseph was unsure of his abilities to pull everything off without a hitch.

  My mind raced, trying to account for everything, grasping at straws: Roarke’s injury, the bombs, their whereabouts, how to get help, how to save my own skin. But before I could do anything about my thoughts, Joseph turned to me abruptly, saying, “Oh, no, how disappointing. Our delightful little encounter has just been cut short, I’m afraid.”

  “What are you—”

  He cut off my outburst by forcefully turning me around and putting a sharp knife to my throat. Then I saw him.

  Finn.

  “Look what I found, Finn,” said Joseph slowly, like he was enjoying every succulent morsel of each syllable.

  Finn came to a tight stop, every muscle taut. This time, his cover was blown, and when I looked at his eyes, that flash of the real him was there. And the fury.

  I didn’t b
reathe; I didn’t move a muscle. That knife was already making a small cut into my flesh with a painful pinch, and I felt a trickle of blood drip down my neck. I thought of all the options that Mr. Kirkland had shown me in our short time of training, but none of them seemed like they’d do the trick at this moment. Then an idea crystallized from that crazy thought I’d had earlier.

  I said, through clenched teeth, “Daley! Don’t you see? Joseph doesn’t trust you, he had to come out and make sure you didn’t louse things up.”

  “Lane! What are you doing?” yelled Finn desperately.

  “He thinks you’re a bumbler, Daley.”

  Joseph tightened his hold on me and jabbed my throat, and I yelped as the knife hurt more than I thought possible. But it worked.

  “Well, Lane . . .” said the oily voice of Daley. I could even feel his body change as his alter ego came to life—the subtlest shift of posture and even how he handled the knife, changing his grip. “I didn’t know you liked me so much. I would have made a few more visits to you had I but known.”

  That did it. Finn dove at us as I kicked back into Daley’s knee, striking him off balance, while I simultaneously pulled at his arm holding the knife to keep it from cutting into my precious neck. I relentlessly kicked and thrashed for everything I was worth until his arm released me.

  I stood up, grabbing my gun out of my belt, ready to shoot. But Finn and Daley were in a death grip, wrestling on the ground. Daley had his knife out, and Finn held his gun, trying desperately to point it toward Daley while warding off that knife. If I tried to shoot, I could hit Finn. Just as I was about to jump in and at least start hitting Daley over the head, I caught the look on Finn’s face.

  It was a primal mass of rage. “I said . . . I would never let you touch her again.” With one final, savage burst of energy, he headbutted Daley, and with arms and legs tangled in the deadly wrestling match, a shot rang out.

  I screamed, “No!” My God, they were so closely entwined.

  Then Finn said breathlessly, “It’s okay, Lane! I got him. He’s done.”

  I had been knocked to my knees. Daley was still holding on to the knife, blood spreading quickly from his chest wound, which was certainly lethal. Blood streamed from his grotesque mouth, his eyes slowly turning over to look at me. And then his head rolled to the ground with a low thud as his life ebbed away.

  Finn rushed over to me. We wrapped our arms around each other like we were holding on for dear life. His hand held my head to his chest as he kissed the top of it. I exhaled as if I’d been holding my breath for hours.

  We pulled away and ran over to Roarke. Thank God, he was still breathing. The head wound was serious, but his heart was still beating and his lungs were working. Finn took off his suit coat and laid it on top of him to keep him warm. I took Finn’s tie and my scarf and tied on a rough bandage to slow the blood loss. To my relief I could see that it was already clotting. I didn’t want to move him without a doctor, though.

  While we were taking care of Roarke, I quickly brought Finn up to speed.

  “Okay,” he said, fully alert to the critical nature of our next steps. “We have two more charges to take care of. Let’s go.”

  We started running toward the next pylon, which had the detonator for the midsection of the bridge.

  “But, Finn, where are Donagan and Eliza? How did you give them the slip?”

  We were running side by side, the next pylon seeming impossibly far away. “Said I was going to go check on things, make sure Daley was handling everything all right. That was a stroke of genius back there. I’d never seen Daley drawn out before.”

  “Thanks!” I was panting now as we ran. “At first I was glad to see it was the slightly less terrible Joseph, but then again, he was much more calculating. I was gambling that if Daley were there, he might make a rash mistake or misjudge something—anything! I had to try something.”

  “Nice.” I caught that he was smiling broadly, but then we cut the niceties short as we were both spent. We sprinted in silence, the rhythm of our feet pounding the pavement and the panting of our breath blending with the noise of the traffic.

  When we got to the next pylon, I told Finn how Roarke and I handled the first one. He lowered me down without hesitation. We were running out of time now. I found the pouch, cut the wire, and shuddered as I saw many, many bundles of dynamite underneath the bridge now that I knew what to look for. I jumped up to Finn’s waiting hands, and he lifted me up and over.

  We started off to the final pylon, the one closest to Manhattan. Rush hour was in full swing now. I noticed a couple of curious onlookers as they passed by on their way to work, but the busy New Yorkers were used to seeing everything, so we really didn’t stand out too much.

  The final pylon was within reach, when out from behind it strode Donagan Connell and Eliza. Donagan’s gun was at the ready, pointing right at us. We lurched to a stop and put up our hands.

  From a half-amused, half-irritated Donagan, I heard for the second time that morning, “Well, what do we have here? Set your gun down, Finn.” He did.

  Eliza murmured sulkily, “I knew it was too good to be true. Should’ve stabbed her myself.”

  “Quiet!” snapped a now fully agitated Donagan, but then his voice became silkier, as he had second thoughts about his rebuke. “Well, actually, Eliza, my dear, maybe we’ll just give you your chance.” The pouting Eliza brightened up at that. Finn put out his arm and barred me behind him.

  Donagan’s eyebrows went up, and he said interestedly, “Really? You mean Daley was right after all? Very intriguing.”

  I hated that man. It felt like my blood was boiling.

  Finn chose not to take the bait. He mastered his face and remained motionless.

  But then Donagan looked past us, where I knew he could see the form of Daley lying flat on the cement. I closely watched Donagan’s face as he took in that fact. Eliza was still consumed with herself, as usual, and probably dreaming up torture scenarios for me. Donagan’s face registered disbelief, then shock, then anger . . . and finally indifference. The worst of insults.

  “Oh, well,” he said, as if someone had just knocked over an inconsequential glass of milk that would quickly and easily be replaced. “And I assume you’ve taken out the first two charges?” He looked at our faces and got his answer.

  He took a good look at the final chain, around and above us on the underside of the upper level of the bridge. Everything was still in place. “Well, it won’t be as spectacular as I had hoped, but it will still do the trick. Pain, plenty of mayhem and destruction, and your precious mayor will be out on his ass. And of course, I’ll be there to pick up the city’s pieces!” he said, with a satisfied smirk.

  So, that was it. Donagan not only wanted to create chaos, he planned to swoop in and be the savior to the city. With his ties to Tammany, that was a pretty likely scenario. If we didn’t stop him.

  From what the Schmidt brothers told us, we probably only had about fifteen minutes left to stop this charge. Donagan was too cool and collected to manipulate like Daley. They had walked right up to us, both within a few feet. How could we distract them?

  Suddenly, there were loud yells, running feet . . . then that ridiculous, wonderful trumpet. And there he was, my knight in shining armor. Well, my short, round knight in rumpled suit and off-kilter fedora. Fiorello was leading the charge. Eliza and Donagan looked to see what the commotion was about. Finn saw his opportunity and grabbed Donagan’s gun, pointing it away from us. He was just about to wrench it out of his hand as Eliza reached to her thigh and, quick as lightning, brought out a gun.

  The silver gun.

  The flash of silver caught Donagan’s eye. He looked thunderstruck and uttered, “You?” That split second allowed Finn to wrestle him to the ground.

  I grabbed the muzzle of the silver gun and pointed it away from me as I grappled with the seething, writhing Eliza. All the past months and years of internalizing her acute hatred started to boil up and over. He
r sheer strength was almost too much for me. Her face was a ragged, hateful mask with bared teeth. Her knife-sharp nails were biting into my hands, blood starting to drip, mingling with the red scroll on the handle of the gun. My wrists were shaking with the force needed to keep that gun from pointing at me.

  Finn was having the same problems with Donagan; they were matched physically. The rescue group was almost upon us, and I glimpsed a pistol waving in Fio’s hand. They were gaining on us, but I had no idea how long I could hold out against Eliza’s fierce wrath.

  I heard a thud as Finn brought Donagan down hard to the pavement, having kicked his knees out from under him, and punched him over and over again. Donagan’s gun skittered across the ground. I finally kneed Eliza hard in the gut, but as she doubled over, she knocked my feet out from under me. She stood over me, the silver gun not wavering one iota as it pointed at my heart.

  Before I could even blink, a gun went off. I winced, shutting my eyes, certain I’d feel my flesh tearing. Instead, Eliza was struck. Her hand came up to her chest. Her eyes were wide with shock, and her knees began to wobble. She staggered backward. A sharp spasm of pain hit, her face wincing with agony. Her feet faltered, making her lose her balance. She fell hard to the ground, her head hitting the pavement and her hand, with the silver gun, coming down last with a crack.

  The gun slid from her grasp. The silver gun of my nightmares skidded inexorably toward the edge of the bridge.

  Donagan uttered an agonized, “No!”

  The gun went right to the edge, slipping beneath the railing. Its heavy handle went over the side, slowing nearly to a stop. Then it gently tipped, the weight of the handle dipping downward, and it fell.