Vigilante

by Robin Parrish

  Coral was still examining the pants, holding the fabric up close to her eyes. “Huh. It’s not Kevlar. . . . Where’d you get this?”

  “Ah, you know . . . Craigslist,” he said, and she actually let out a single breath of laughter.

  Carefully but forcefully, he used the knife to scratch out the white hand on his jacket. He wasn’t sure what it was made of, exactly; Arjay had applied it. Screen printed, maybe. Nolan worked at it for five or ten minutes, until the logo was erased and all that remained was the black material underneath.

  Done, he tossed the jacket back to her. “The Hand is dead. He died in that river.”

  Nolan pushed back until he was sitting on the mattress with his back against the wall. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer, asking for forgiveness and direction, and offering gratitude that his life had been spared once more.

  Coral returned to the chair and sat, patiently watching and waiting.

  “She was right,” Nolan said, speaking at last. His eyes searched the room.

  “Who was?”

  “That woman with the gun,” he replied. “Her name was Elise. She said I saved her life at Battery Park, but I didn’t save her fiancé. I’ve failed as many people as I’ve saved.”

  “That’s not true,” said Coral, apparently surprised.

  Nolan sat up and faced her. “Branford wasn’t the first friend I got killed. There was another. I also blew someone up. An innocent girl in a nightclub. I torched the place because it belonged to Vasko, not knowing there was someone still inside. She’s dead because of my actions. And Elise’s boyfriend couldn’t have been an isolated incident. I didn’t know about him—how many more are there that I don’t know about?”

  “Nolan, stop. You’re going to make yourself crazy—”

  “Nolan’s dead,” he said, interrupting her.

  “What?”

  “I killed Nolan Gray when I started all this,” he replied. “Now The Hand is dead too.”

  For the first time, Coral’s confidence appeared to waver, betraying a sliver of concern. “So who’s left?”

  “Just me,” he said in a bleak tone of voice.

  “Shut up and listen to me,” she said, taking him by the hand to get his full attention. She sat forward as if to look deep into him. “Whoever you are, there are still people out there who believe in you. I’m one of them. People who believe you can give them something that no else in this city can—”

  He pulled away from her grasp. “If your next word is about to be ‘hope,’ spare me. A friend named Alice put her hope in me, and I got her killed. I’m fresh out of hope.”

  I’m dead. That’s all I am. I am death.

  Wait a minute . . .

  “Vasko thinks I’m dead, right?” he said. “He doesn’t know about you or the fishing boat?”

  “I have no idea. But I wouldn’t think he does, no.”

  “What day is it?”

  “The thirty-first. Tonight’s New Year’s Eve. Pryce has got me working Times Square, but I can’t imagine why. It’s not like anybody in their right mind is going to show up at such a farce. . . .”

  This was it, then. The end of this year would be the end of everything.

  “They’ll show up,” he said slowly, his mind racing. “Because most of them haven’t left their homes in months and they need some release. Because they aren’t in their right minds. And because they’ll want to see for themselves . . . what’s going to happen.”

  He swung around and stood up, a surge of adrenaline helping steady him. With his feet under him on solid ground, he felt something he’d been missing for several days. Purpose. Resolve. Clarity.

  It was time.

  Nolan turned to Coral. “Will you do something for me?”

  She never hesitated. “Anything.”

  “I need you to get some things for me,” he said. “Stuff that won’t be easy to come by.”

  She merely nodded, as if nothing were out of the ordinary about such a request. If this concerned her, she hid it well. “What are you going to do?”

  “The only thing I can do. Finish what I started.”

  73

  A t sundown, Nolan drove Coral’s SUV west through Chelsea until he reached the river.

  Turning parallel to the shoreline, he drove south. He stopped and pulled over when he spotted Vasko’s massive storehouse through the falling snow, just two blocks away. Vasko’s dozens of men were still there, black forms visible through the white haze, surrounding the building just as they had a few nights ago. Nothing else seemed to have changed. Nolan noted with disgust that the cement truck was still parked on the far side of the warehouse.

  He sat back in the driver’s seat and slammed his foot down on the gas, tearing through the snow on the road. When he neared the storehouse, he slammed on the brakes, sliding sideways to a stop across the street from the pier where the warehouse stood.

  Vasko’s men stationed on this side of the building were startled and began shouting at this unwelcome vehicle and its driver.

  Nolan swiveled in his seat to grab a large object that was waiting for him in the back seat, along with a black duffel bag. He opened the vehicle’s door and stepped out into the biting cold, his boots crunching the snow. He walked around to the front of the SUV so Vasko’s men could get a good look at him.

  They recognized him right away and raised their weapons, but Nolan ignored them. Onto his shoulder, he hefted an RPG-7, the large object he’d retrieved from the vehicle’s back seat. One look at the long tube-shaped device and Vasko’s men shouted in fear and ran.

  Nolan took quick aim with the preloaded rocket launcher and pulled the trigger. The grenade, shaped like a thick javelin with a cone on one end, jumped free of the RPG-7 and then lit like a missile, soaring straight across the street and through the outer wall of Vasko’s storehouse, where it left a hole more than two feet wide. Nolan watched until it finally hit something deep inside the warehouse and ignited. The blast tore a hole in the roof and shattered the snowy quiet of the evening. Once the explosion ended, Nolan could hear dozens of Vasko’s men yelling in a panic.

  Nolan knelt and unzipped the duffel bag, pulling out another grenade, indifferent to the chaos taking place across the street. He loaded the grenade and fired again.

  After the second explosion, he fired again. And again.

  And again.

  ———

  The crowd in Times Square already numbered in the thousands when Vasko’s phone rang. He was making an early appearance before the crowd, standing atop his glass tower at One Times Square, looking down at the masses and waving with a huge smile on his face.

  When his phone vibrated a second time, it was a text message from Marko. It read simply, “CALL ME! NOW!”

  “What is it, Marko?” asked Vasko after dialing Marko back. “This better be important.”

  “The storehouse is gone!” shouted Marko, and it registered with Vasko that he was hearing a sound like rolling thunder in the background.

  “Say that again,” said Vasko slowly.

  “It’s destroyed!” yelled Marko, more panicked than Vasko had ever heard him. “Blown up, burned to the ground! Yuri, the men are saying it was him.”

  Vasko froze, but kept waving and smiling to the crowd. “That’s not possible, he’s dead.”

  “I know that!” shouted Marko. “But they say he just showed up with a rocket launcher and demolished everything! I’ve got the rocket launcher right here—he left it on the ground.”

  Vasko swallowed. This couldn’t be happening. It was impossible. There was no way Nolan could have survived his trip down the river.

  But the destruction of the storehouse and the rocket launcher being left behind were a message. Nolan Gray was coming here. He was coming here, tonight, to end it. And he wasn’t going to attack the building. He was coming for Vasko himself.

  Breathing hard, he hung up on Marko and dialed the number for Speck and his team. “Get down here now. Now,” he said, st
ill waving at the crowd with a faux smile. “Nolan Gray is on his way here, and you’re not to allow him to reach this roof under any circumstances. I have VIP guests coming, and . . . That’s right, kill him. Cut him up into little pieces, tear him limb from limb, blow him up, I don’t care. But leave nothing of him. I want him destroyed.”

  ———

  Nolan was only mildly surprised to find that the RV was still where he and his friends had left it, six blocks east of Vasko’s storehouse. He was less surprised to see a light was on inside.

  “Hi, Arjay,” he said, opening the door.

  His friend raised up and gasped. He’d been curled in a fetal position on one of the cots, wrapped in a blanket. He jumped to his feet and ran to embrace Nolan.

  “You’re alive!” he said. “You look terrible.”

  With the fresh scars from that Elise woman, and the smoke and soot from his rocket launcher, he was quite certain he did look awful. But he knew from Arjay’s unblinking stare that the man meant more than just appearance.

  Nolan was dead within, and it had to be showing on the outside. His features betrayed nothing but an expressionless distance, save for a righteous fury that rose a notch higher with every thump of his heart.

  “Branford’s dead,” he said mechanically.

  Arjay looked down. “I know. I saw . . . what they did to him. Tucked tail and ran as far as I could go after that. Not altogether brave or noble of me. I’m very sorry.”

  “Running was the smart move,” said Nolan. “Now it’s time to make another.”

  Nolan pushed past his friend and sat down on one of the bunks. He pulled a roll of medical tape out of his pocket and began winding white strips of it around his fingers. His eyes got lost somewhere in this, and he gazed without seeing as he wrapped his fingers one at a time, slowly, like a boxer before a big fight.

  “Nolan, what’s happening?” prodded Arjay. “Are you okay? What are you planning? And where’s your gear? Your weapons?”

  “No more weapons,” said Nolan. “No gadgets, no . . . nothing. Just me. I’m the weapon now.”

  “But what are you—?”

  “You have to go,” said Nolan, his countenance dark and solid as granite. “Get as far away from me as you can.”

  “What?” asked Arjay. “Why?”

  “If you’re with me, I’ll get you killed,” explained Nolan, looking only at the tape as he wound it around his fingers. “Take the RV and go. Leave the city. Keep driving and don’t look back. Don’t ever look back.”

  “You’re scaring me, Nolan.”

  Done with his work, Nolan dropped the roll of tape and stood. He looked up to face his friend. “Don’t be afraid. After tonight, I promise you, no one in this city will ever have to be afraid again.”

  74

  A ferocious blizzard raged across New York at ten o’clock as Coral Lively stationed herself inside the tall building under construction near the ball-drop site.

  Under direct orders of the president himself, all OCI agents had been dispersed throughout the civilian throngs who had shown up to celebrate the New Year despite the ungodly weather. All agents except for her, whom Director Pryce had diverted to sniper duty, without offering any explanation.

  As ordered, she positioned herself in what would soon be a corner office on the twenty-seventh floor. She was protected from the wind and snow yet had a straight shot down to the rooftop of 1 Times Square. She was to keep an eye on Yuri Vasko’s glass tower and report any suspicious activity directly back to Pryce.

  Visibility was horrendous through the billowing gusts of snow. Glancing down at the revelers partying on the street, Coral wondered how in the world they were staying warm enough to have so much fun.

  She was just thankful that her assignment was protected from at least some of the elements.

  Her thoughts drifted to Vasko’s storehouse and the incredibly satisfying heap of ruin to which it had been reduced. She was wholly unbothered by what Nolan had done with the ordnance she’d secured for him. The world was a better place without Vasko’s central storehouse in it. In one bold move, Nolan had wiped out a monumental target that the OCI had only heard rumors about. Taking it down likely would have taken weeks of planning—certainly enough time for Vasko to hear of their plans and move his stash.

  Nolan’s attack had done the job, but her one concern was Nolan’s mental state. Had he really destroyed that warehouse because it was the right thing to do? Or did he do it . . . because it felt good?

  What if he showed up here, tonight, bent on doing something dangerous and foolish?

  ———

  At 11:24, Nolan Gray burst through the glass double doors of One Times Square.

  All was dark; there were no lights on inside the building, though the outside lights from Times Square offered plenty of illumination.

  There was only one reason for the lights to be off inside this place, this “beacon of hope” that was supposed to light up the city. Vasko had received his message. And he was ready.

  Nolan knew exactly whom he would be facing in this building tonight, and he was looking forward to it.

  Centering himself, he closed his eyes and reached out with his other senses. The slightest tick of sound. Any smell that didn’t belong. The tiniest disturbance of the air. It was all there, if one knew how to detect it. Nolan let his training take over, the kill-or-be-killed instincts he’d been taught reviving once more from the part of him in which they’d been buried.

  A slight gust of wind to his right. He opened his eyes and stepped back, throwing out a hand to catch his assailant by the mouth. He fish-hooked the mercenary and spun around behind him, jerking the man’s head around hard to the left. Nolan knocked free a Magnum that was in the man’s right hand, as the assailant threw his elbow backward into Nolan’s ribs. Nolan felt a crack but dropped to the ground, holding the man in a ferocious headlock with his whole arm, cutting off his oxygen supply. The man twitched and fought, but Nolan held him there with pure strength of will until he went limp.

  He freed himself of the dead man and rolled sideways on the floor, snatching the pistol that had been dropped.

  He closed his eyes and listened. A tiny creak to his left—

  In one move, he slipped off the gun’s safety, extended it toward the sound, opened his eyes, and pulled the trigger. A second mercenary across the room, holding a pair of Uzis, slumped to the ground, the wound right between his eyes.

  Instantly, a third mercenary came at him growling and charging like a beast. It was the leader, Speck, the one he’d faced at the storehouse. The man’s appearance was so sudden, so close, that Nolan was on his back with Speck straddled over him before Nolan had any chance to respond. Speck still wielded his twelve-inch knife, and when he stabbed at Nolan’s heart, Nolan barely had time to bring up both his hands against Speck’s knife hand. It was a test of strength as the merc punched him in the face repeatedly with his free hand, but Nolan refused to budge, to let that knife come any closer.

  The merc reared back with a knee and struck him hard in the groin. Nolan’s face turned red as the searing pain made it hard to breathe. His arms were growing tired. The knife edged closer to his chest. . . .

  Nolan freed his legs and brought them in under Speck’s chest. Kicking up with both feet, he sent Speck flying backward behind him. Nolan coughed and rolled, trying to catch his breath, but by the time he was on his knees, Speck was right there again, slashing with the knife. This time it came down against his arms, his chest, his neck, as the merc systematically tried to find a weak spot. Speck glanced down and saw that Nolan’s jacket didn’t cover his hands, so he launched a brutal sideways slash meant to cut deep into Nolan’s left wrist.

  Nolan ducked at the last second but popped back up again and used the other man’s own momentum against him. Nolan spun him but popped the man’s knife arm with one hand slamming down and the other punching upward. The knife flew into the air and Nolan grabbed it. Speck spun again, facing him, but this
time Nolan was ready and he jabbed the knife straight into Speck’s chest.

  Speck leaned forward and spat blood into Nolan’s face, grabbing Nolan by the shoulders and grinning as death came for him.

  Nolan struggled against Speck’s hold but finally pulled free of him, leaving the knife stuck in his chest. Speck howled in an animalistic rally cry, and then staggered backward until he fell at last.

  Three down, two to go.

  ———

  On the eighth floor, Nolan stood over the last mercenary’s body with blood covering his hands.

  Nolan grabbed the guy by his shirt and suspended him above the floor as he bled all over the expensive rug in Vasko’s office.

  “Where’s Vasko?” Nolan growled.

  The man smiled at him. “Where do you think?” he said with eyes that danced.

  Nolan balled up his fist and backhanded the man with it, and then flung his limp frame across the room.

  75

  When Nolan emerged on the roof, bloodied and sporting at least three broken bones, he saw a small group of black suits gathered near Vasko at the far edge of the building, where the huge apparatus had been erected for dropping the New Year’s Eve ball.

  Those were no ordinary suits. Spiral wires snaked down from the ears of the men and Nolan knew immediately who had to be there in the center of them. He glanced left and right and saw that four more suits were spread out across the roof at strategic spots.

  Cheers and music from the crowd below met his ears, and he noticed that the snowfall had finally abated, though it remained dangerously frigid.

  Nolan stepped out into the light, brandishing the pistol he’d taken from the first mercenary down on the ground floor. He fired five shots into the air to get their attention, and then brought the gun down with both hands to point at Yuri Vasko.

  Ten pistols were trained on him at once, from all of the Secret Service agents, who wore the black suits.

  “I’m not here for you, Thor!” he yelled over the din. “I only want him!”