Vigilante

by Robin Parrish

  Everyone seemed frozen in place, the tension of the moment wound so tight that it might explode any second. Nolan didn’t bother to contemplate the damage. Vasko stared Nolan down with unbidden hatred, but no one could see Nolan return the expression with his hood up around his face.

  Nolan sprinted. Shots were fired, but the bullets bounced harmlessly off his fatigues, only a few of them reaching him at all. He slammed into Vasko, tackling him to the roof, and mashed the pistol’s nozzle against his forehead.

  He would end this right now, before Hastings or his bodyguards had a chance to intervene.

  ———

  Coral fought against hyperventilating. Through her scope, she watched Nolan appear on the roof with a gun. Some part of her had known it would come to this, that this had to be what Nolan had been planning that morning, but she hadn’t believed in her heart that he would really do it.

  But then, he hadn’t done it. Not yet.

  With sweat forming on her forehead, her finger twitched at the trigger and she nearly pulled it by accident. She let go of the handle altogether, shaking off the nerves.

  She couldn’t believe this was real. Was Nolan really going to kill Vasko? And with the whole world watching?

  “Agent Lively!” shouted Director Pryce into her earpiece. “If you have a shot, you take it!”

  Lively’s instincts and reflexes kicked in. She was well trained to follow orders. Without thinking, she looked down the sights of her weapon again, her finger grazing the trigger.

  But there was no way she could ever shoot Nolan. Could she? She barely knew him; he barely knew her. She didn’t owe him any favors, and she had no reason to believe that he might feel the same about her. . . . Nothing at all to place such a hope on, except for a fleeting mutual gaze that they’d shared as she’d stitched up his wounds just hours ago.

  That was probably her imagination more than anything else. And there was no denying that Nolan had grown increasingly erratic since the tragedy at Battery Park. What if he’d suffered a mental breakdown?

  And if she had the power to stop him, but did nothing . . . ?

  No, that was absurd. She looked down the sights again. Nolan wasn’t crazy.

  She was almost certain of it.

  Almost.

  ———

  Blood drizzled down Vasko’s nose and chin from the Magnum’s nozzle tearing into his forehead. Nolan was so focused on Yuri Vasko that he didn’t notice that the blaring music had stopped and the massive crowd in Times Square was standing still and making no noise. They watched in silence.

  “Evac!” shouted one of the Secret Service men behind Nolan, apparently realizing that their guns were useless against this man.

  “No!” yelled Hastings, pulling free from his agents.

  “Sir, we have to get you to safety—”

  “You will stand down!” thundered Hastings with more deep-throated authority than Nolan had ever heard from him. “I am not in danger.”

  “Sir, my job has a very clear mandate—”

  “I am the president of the United States and I’m giving you a direct order. Stand! Down! Back away, all of you!”

  Nolan was peripherally aware of his friend taking a few steps forward, free of his circle of Secret Service bodyguards, in Nolan’s direction. But he ignored this.

  When he spoke, Nolan’s voice quivered with rage. “For the sake of my friends—because it’s what they would want—you get one chance. Confess. Turn yourself in, Vasko, right now.”

  Vasko never blinked, never altered his expression. His face was the epitome of hate. “I would rather die than surrender to you.”

  “You can’t possibly imagine how much I was hoping you’d say that,” Nolan growled and grabbed Vasko by the throat with his free hand. He jerked him upward while moving forward until Vasko was dangling over the edge of the roof, nothing to stop his fall but pavement.

  Far below, the enormous crowd gasped in unison. But no one moved.

  “Don’t, Nolan,” said Hastings from behind.

  “What are you even doing here?” Nolan asked, tossing Vasko back onto the roof. He lifted him by the back of the collar and pressed the gun into his forehead again. Vasko was once more backed up against the edge of the roof.

  “I invited myself,” the president replied. “I heard about what you did to the storehouse. I know you, and I know what that means. You’re here to end it. But I don’t believe you really want to do this.”

  “Oh, yes I do!” seethed Nolan.

  “Go ahead,” said Vasko, speaking up for the first time. “It’s what you’ve always wanted, so just do it.”

  If it were possible, Nolan became enraged even further, his face blood red as he rounded on Vasko. “You think I want any of this?!” he screamed in Vasko’s face. “I didn’t ask for this! I just wanted to help people! I wanted to make things better for them! That’s all I’ve ever wanted. But you couldn’t allow me to have even that much. I didn’t kill your family! But you were absolutely miserable, so everyone else had to share your pain. So selfish. So full of pride.”

  Vasko spat in Nolan’s face, and Nolan almost lost his grip on him. “You are determined to force your beliefs on everyone, and you call me selfish? You can’t make me subscribe to your dogma. To my dying breath, I reject you and your ‘better way’!”

  “Nolan . . .” said Hastings, his voice wavering only slightly.

  “He declared war on the U.S., Thor! On you and me and all of them!” cried Nolan, nodding at the silent crowd below. “How many members of your OCI are dead because of him? How many of those people down there have lost someone all because of him?”

  “I know he deserves it; that’s never been in question. . . .” said Hastings slowly.

  “I could do it, Thor,” said Nolan softly, pressing the nozzle against Vasko’s head. He was barely able to keep from shaking. “You can’t. They can’t. But I can. And I should.”

  “Do it, Nolan,” shouted Vasko. “Kill me!”

  Nolan’s face was still red and he was breathing fast as Vasko leaned in. “I could do it right here,” Nolan said, “in front of all these people. I want to, more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. What does that say about me?”

  “No.” Hastings shook his head, unwilling to entertain this. “You’re a good man, and you always have been. The best man I know.”

  “I’m a good killer,” said Nolan, as if he hadn’t heard anything the president said. “It’s what I do, better than anyone can. It’s what I was born to do.”

  ———

  Coral’s finger touched the trigger.

  “Agent Lively, you take him out!” yelled Pryce in her ear. “We have to protect the president!”

  Nolan’s not here for the president and you know it, you old windbag. . . .

  But what if Hastings got caught in the crossfire? What if Nolan really had lost control? This whole situation was nearing madness and getting worse by the second.

  “Agent, take that shot! That is a direct order! Or you’ll stand before a court martial first thing in the morning!”

  Coral gripped the rifle and focused down the sights for the last time.

  ———

  “Nolan, please,” said Hastings, taking a step closer. “Please don’t.”

  “Are you a man?” screamed Vasko. “Are you a soldier? You said so yourself: this is war! Finish it! ”

  “We killed a lot of people during the war, Thor. This man is more dangerous than any of them. He’s the enemy. The one rule during war is that you kill the enemy.”

  “Nolan, are you really here for justice? Or for something else?”

  “Don’t you dare . . .” seethed Nolan. “This world is cruel and hateful, and no matter how hard you try to do something good, there will always be people like Yuri Vasko! Why should anyone bother trying to make a difference? What’s the point of any of it?”

  Hastings was starting to breathe faster. Nolan knew his friend was growing desperate.

>   “Nolan, if you do this, he wins.”

  “If he lives, they died for nothing!”

  Nolan fixed his eyes on the throng far below. So far away at this height, they were little more than large dots, but every dot held two eyes that were trained on him. So many eyes, so many lost and weary souls.

  “Look at them!” Nolan shouted, nodding at the people standing shoulder-to-shoulder in Times Square. “Every one of them has lost someone. This isn’t about me—it’s about what this man has done to all of us!”

  “Then let the legal system sort it out,” said Hastings. “I will personally take him into custody right now, and you have my word—”

  “No!” roared Nolan. “The legal system is a joke. It’s broken, Thor, it’s all broken! Good people are harassed at the pleasure of the courts to the point of losing their sanity, while scumbags like Vasko get away with anything. No! I won’t let him destroy anyone else. Never again!”

  Nolan hated this man with everything he was. “This is war,” he whispered. “I can’t let him live.”

  “This is not a war you’ll win with a gun. Nolan, think! You used to know that, but somewhere along the way—”

  Nolan pulled the trigger.

  The shot rang out, echoing through Times Square. He was sure it was louder than any gunshot that had ever been fired.

  Time froze. Nothing moved. No one on the roof or a single soul among the masses on the streets below.

  Vasko slowly tipped toward the edge of the rooftop, teetering there for an endless moment before suddenly slipping off and plummeting to the ground below.

  Hastings watched the body fall with eyes wide. He took a step back and shifted his numb expression to his friend.

  Nolan looked at the gun in his hand, and the other people on the roof and the vast crowd far below all disappeared. He was alone, watching as a small whiff of smoke wisped from the end of the barrel and then dissipated in the icy atmosphere.

  The gun. It was an extension of his arm, the instrument of his will. What he’d done was right. It was good, he was sure it was. It had to be done.

  Another second passed and Nolan staggered, for just a moment, as if he were the one who’d been shot. He looked at the gun again, this time cold and offensive in his hand. He almost felt the burning of it in his palm. Its touch seared him.

  The gun fell from his grasp and disappeared after it tumbled into the crowd below. Everything spun wildly—the world, the mass of people, the skyscrapers, even that ridiculous brightly lit ball that had touched the roof a few seconds after he pulled the gun’s trigger. His knees buckled as reality twisted around him.

  No! No, this was righteous! Don’t you let the guilt in—it had to be done!

  He swallowed hard to keep from vomiting. It felt as if the entire world were crumbling around him, and he was a tiny, inconsequential dot on the canvas of the universe. A dot who deserved to die.

  Muffled voices, as if coming from a far-off distance, ordered him to put his hands up. Hastings’ Secret Service agents were surrounding him, guns raised, and he watched them move as if in slow motion. Hastings was doing nothing to stop them; he merely watched in silence.

  It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

  He was done.

  Justice prevailed.

  Mission accomplished.

  Epilogue

  The next two days of Nolan Gray’s life were the very worst. Despite all the horrors he’d suffered in his past, and the loved ones he’d lost along the way, he actually managed to make things even worse.

  He was left completely alone in NYPD lockup—at his own request—and sequestered himself in the hell that was his mind. It was a new form of torment that he’d never before undergone, and he let it overtake him, body and soul.

  It was the fate of which he was worthy. His “grand” reward.

  For hours on end, the shooting replayed in his mind. It was true that he did it for the people of New York as much as for himself. But he hadn’t just crossed the line by killing Yuri Vasko, he’d erased it. Nolan wasn’t better than that man so consumed by evil. He was him.

  The better way he’d promised was a lie.

  Killer. Murderer.

  Chief of sinners.

  A police officer opened the outer door to the cellblock and stepped inside. As he was unlocking the door to Nolan’s iron cubicle, Nolan snapped out of his inner anguish.

  “I requested no visitors.”

  The officer, an NYPD sergeant, was a slightly overweight fifty-something black man. He sat down on the bench across from Nolan and stared at him. Nolan saw no judgment on the man’s blank face.

  “Do I look like I’m here for a visit?” the officer replied.

  Nolan was so tired. So tired of everything. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? Who was this guy? What did he want?

  Wait a minute. This guy sitting across from him looked vaguely familiar.

  Nolan squinted, trying to read the metal name tag above the officer’s badge. He couldn’t quite see it from that distance.

  “Regan,” the man said. “Sergeant Regan.”

  Regan . . . ?

  Alice.

  “Barry Regan?” Nolan asked, feeling a rising bitterness toward this man. This abusive husband who had tormented and then hunted his wife like a predator.

  Barry nodded. “That day we met . . . you busted into my home and took my wife away. I wanted to thank you.”

  Wait, what?

  “Didn’t see that coming, right?” said Barry, half a smile on his lips. “Doctors diagnosed me with a chemical deficiency. It was messing me up in the head, said it ‘increased my disposition toward aggressive and violent behavior.’ The man you met in my home wasn’t me. Not the real me. I don’t know who he was, but thank God he’s gone. Doctors gave me some good meds.”

  Nolan blinked and let out a cautious exhale. He didn’t know what to say.

  “I read your statement—your debriefing or whatever,” said Barry. “For what it’s worth, I’m grateful for what you did for her.”

  “I got her killed,” said Nolan, his voice thick and heavy, his eyes unable to meet Barry’s.

  “You helped her live,” Barry said. “She hadn’t been alive in years, because of me. She just . . . existed.”

  Nolan certainly knew what that was like.

  “Sooner or later I would have killed her,” he went on. “God help me, I would have. We were told years ago that Alice couldn’t have children. Doctors said I had some kind of psychotic break or something. That was how it started. But for the short time she was with you, she was alive and she was safe. From me.”

  Nolan shook his head. “I’m so sorry. For your loss. The world . . . is a darker place without her in it.”

  “Yes, but heaven is a brighter one.” Barry smiled. “And I’ll see her there. I found something of hers a while back and I’d like you to have it.”

  As Nolan watched, Barry Regan pulled out something small and black from under his arm. Nolan hadn’t even noticed he was carrying anything.

  Barry got to his feet, crossed the room, and handed the small object to Nolan. “I think she’d have given it to you if she could’ve.”

  “Thank you,” said Nolan, speechless. Tears came to his eyes when he realized that the small object still smelled like her.

  Barry never sat back down. He stood in the doorway, allowing Nolan a moment.

  “Heard a rumor that the president might pardon you.”

  “What?” He couldn’t have heard right.

  “Probably has something to do with the two or three million calls and emails the White House has received in the last forty-eight hours.”

  Again, Nolan had no idea what to say. It was too much—far too much to hope for. He didn’t deserve such treatment.

  “In the meantime, I’m afraid we’ve run into a problem. You have no valid ID. You say you’re Nolan Gray, but you can’t prove it. Your face is all messed up. We can’t match up your prints. The perpetrator wore g
loves.”

  “Why does that matter?” he asked. “I’m guilty. I did it. Most of the country has probably seen the footage by now.”

  “The video shows a nondescript man in a black hood. Could be anyone.”

  Nolan didn’t understand where this was going. It was preposterous, though it occurred to him that without the white hand emblem, his black fatigues would appear to be nothing out of the ordinary. “So take my DNA and run a comparison.”

  Barry nodded patiently, expecting this argument. “Our investigators couldn’t find the killer’s DNA at the crime scene. Snow’s melted and whatever was there is gone. Gun’s gone, too. Disappeared after it fell.”

  “But I did it. I killed him.”

  Barry Regan leaned back and took a long, deep breath. “In the last forty-eight hours, more than seven thousand New Yorkers have turned themselves in, confessing to the murder of Yuri Vasko.”

  Nolan was sure he’d just been punched in the stomach, because there was no air in his lungs. This wasn’t possible. For the second time, he was sure he’d heard Officer Regan wrong.

  “That number, by the way, includes a very persistent government agent who’s camped out in my office as we speak and refuses to leave until she’s allowed to see you.”

  Had he not been so wracked by guilt and confused at what Barry was trying to say, he would have laughed at this last bit.

  “NYPD’s overwhelmed and understaffed,” Barry said. “The paperwork alone is going to take months to sort through. Maybe years. So I suggest you retire. Find yourself someone to be with, and settle down.”

  Barry walked out but didn’t shut the cell door.

  “Wait, what are you doing?” said Nolan, rising quickly in alarm. “You’re letting me get away with—”

  Barry swiveled his head to look at Nolan through the bars. “You’re not getting away with anything. You’ve been through enough, son. Whatever punishment you deserved in this life—it’s already paid. Everything else is between you and God.”

  “But . . . you can’t . . .” Nolan blustered as Barry reached the outer door. He threw out the only thing he was able to articulate. “Why are you . . .”