Siege Perilous

by Nigel Bennett

  "Wants me to think. One of his weaknesses is he tends to underestimate me. He likes to imagine he's got more brains. Maybe he does, but I've played down to his expectations before and got the better of him. Very aggravating to him, I'm sure. We'll take his bait. It's all we've got."

  "I'll have to do one hell of a lot of shifting to bring this together in time."

  "Use Boris and Natasha's people. He may not know they're involved. It'll give us a hell of a technical edge."

  "Plan to." Bourland looked doubtful, despite the clout.

  "Philip, I'm no fool, I want full security on this, but it has to be done my way. Make that crystalline to them."

  "No problem."

  Over the phone and in clipped, precise language Bourland told someone what was required and how fast it had to be in place, and they made it happen. Richard got the feeling his friend had ceased to call in favors and was now putting himself in debt to many, many others.

  In a spookily short time a nonmedical type of helicopter touched down on St. Michael's roof landing. Richard and Bourland climbed in, and the pilot shot them off south over Lake Ontario, taking a direct route toward the falls. Bourland put on a headset and continued to work out details with nameless people. Richard submitted specific input through his own headset, outlining what was wanted against what was possible. By the time they reached the landing pad at Niagara—the same one used by civilian 'copters to take tourists on aerial trips—many things were in place or getting there.

  Richard fully cooperated with them about some security matters, hence the Kevlar. He had people staked out at both ends of the Rainbow Bridge and on every tall building within a most generous shooting distance. The hard part was having enough eyes on the look-out, but not so many as to attract notice. It was impossible to cover every window within view of the bridge, though he understood that there was an army of research techs hacking their way into hotel computers looking for anyone of interest.

  They were primarily thinking of long rifles, but other weapons were considered, even the prospect of anti-tank missiles. They were expensive and the launching gear hard to conceal while walking along the street, but the possibility was not to be excluded. Teams disguised variously as maintenance workers, police, and tourists had been dispatched to go over the bridge, looking for in-place explosives.

  There truly was no way to predict what method Charon would use. He'd broken from his normal pattern of operation and turned it into a game of assumptions. Charon assumed that Richard would be onto the phony drop scenario, Richard would assume Charon would try for a hit, Charon would in turn—ad infinitum; it was a case of just how far one wished to carry it.

  Richard could count on the high probability that Charon wanted to shut him down fast and with absolute certainty. That's all that any of them knew for sure.

  "But he'll get his chance at you and then escape," Bourland argued.

  "Not if we have enough surveillance up. If that lot you brought in can keep their act together they can trace Charon the instant he makes his move. He's not one to hang about, so they better be prepared for anything."

  "You're still the bait. How will you get out alive?"

  "I have a plan," Richard assured.

  "Would you care to share it?"

  "That would be telling."

  Bourland quietly fumed, but was too busy to press. The truth was Richard had no plan of escape. He would rely on the other professionals and his own best instincts for survival. Those, and the Goddess's protection, which was not something Bourland would understand.

  I'm not sure I do, either, but deep inside Richard was convinced he would be able to take out Charon. Though he had no gift of seeing the future, he was as certain of it as Sabra ever was about her Sight. There would be a reckoning.

  And if I'm wrong, then so be it. I'll be with her. So long as Charon was killed, too.

  Perhaps Richard was to be met by a passing car, which would either have a shooter inside or be rigged with a bomb. The easy counter-measure: don't get into the car. Better to drag the driver out and dangle him off the bridge to scare information from him. If the driver turned out to be Charon himself . . . not likely, but—

  Richard's cell phone rang. He put it to his right ear so Bourland and the others could hear everything. It was the disguised voice again.

  "Cold enough for you yet?"

  "I'm where you want me, Charon. Now let's settle this."

  Charon chuckled but continued to use the voice device. "I knew even you would figure it out sooner or later. You got people recording this?"

  "Of course."

  "And the area is crawling with troops. I've been watching them hanging around getting frostbite. You and your bunch of clowns are a bundle of laughs, Lance-baby."

  Richard hoped the tech people could somehow trace the call this time. "Come on out, I'll buy you a drink."

  "Yeah, right. I know you're pissed off about your girl, but it had to be done. Nothing personal, but it had to be done."

  This was meant to provoke him. Given the chance, Charon liked to torment his victims. "And here I thought it might be a little revenge thing on your part, for that time we pulled your teeth."

  "Well, sure, there's that, can't deny it. But it's just a change in diet. You think I don't have any fucking power?"

  "Yes. Else you'd be down here to enjoy a face-to-face."

  "Only 'cause I'm not as dumb as you. Got a news flash for you: single combat on the field of honor is long-gone with the wind. I've moved with the times, you're still stuck in the dark ages—which were fun, don't get me wrong—but there's better ways to snuff people."

  "Just what did you do to Sabra?"

  "Heh—wouldn't you like to find out?"

  "Then why have you got me out here? You must want something or you'd have dropped me before this."

  "Whoa, pard, you developing some brain cells in your old age? If that don't beat all." He fell to chuckling, an ugly, sobbing sound with the sound distortion. "Weeeell, as a matter of fact I do have a tiny little problem. Seems I moved too fast on your old lady. I should have picked up the magic muffin first, then thought about doing her. As it is, I could do with her help about now. Instead, I'm forced to talk turkey with you. If it makes you feel better it sticks in my craw like a fishbone. You remember eating fish, don't you?"

  "What do you want?"

  "For you to be dead, of course."

  "Any special reason?"

  "Love your sense of humor. Your girlfriend might have been able to explain, but tough nuts and all that. This has to do with the dingus I lifted from her place. The damned thing's attracting the wrong kind of attention to me. Screwing things up like you wouldn't believe."

  "What things?"

  "The stuff she was into, stuff I can't describe. It's messing with my head—making me see things, feel things, fer Chrissake. It wants to go back to where I found it, if you know what I mean."

  Richard could believe that, but not quite. Charon was lying, but only because his lips were moving. "So?"

  "So I'm giving it back. It wants to be with you for crying out loud. The fucking thing's screaming at me. Has been since I grabbed it. Making me nuts, y'know? Check out the cab coming your way. The driver has it."

  A yellow cab approached, slowing. The driver peered at Richard, who braced. The man was either a dupe or an agent. Charon was known to subcontract scut-work jobs. The cab pulled over and stopped, motor running. The driver leaned across and opened the passenger door. He looked perfectly ordinary.

  "You the guy?" he asked. "I got a delivery for a man using a cell phone. You him?"

  "Yes."

  On the seat next to him was a thick briefcase similar to the one Richard carried, shiny-new. "This dude told me to give this to you."

  Richard stepped back, his instincts buzzing into overdrive. He dropped his own case. That was the signal for everyone to run clear. Grab any civilians and run. He hesitated in place, hoping to stall things a few more seconds. Yes . . . p
eople were moving . . .

  "Hey, dude, are you the one? I'm gonna have to cross and return and go through that customs crap—"

  "Get out of there and run. Now!" he told the driver, knowing it would be futile.

  "Huh?"

  "You've got a bomb in the car." Richard repeated his order, louder, but the man wasn't getting it.

  "You kiddin' me? Hey—?"

  Backing off, the phone still to his ear, Richard heard Charon's warped voice. "Well, I got things to be and places to do. Hasta la Winnebago, asshole."

  This was it . . . and Richard couldn't move fast enough. He sprinted for all he was worth, but couldn't outrun the speed of light. He felt an almighty wallop against his whole body, a blinding flash of red and yellow, and went hurtling over the shattering guardrail as it blew outward. There was no up or down for an endless moment, then gravity seized him. He had only a second to see the steel gray water of the river rushing up.

  He spun, trying to hit feet-first—

  * * *

  Charon watched from his hotel window on the Canadian side of the river. He pressed the autodial on a second cell phone in his left hand. A third cell, carefully wired in the briefcase, got the signal . . .

  "Hasta la Winnebago, asshole."

  . . . Got the signal and detonated, neat as neat.

  Kaah-boom—or so it looked from here. Big noise. A second later and the windows rattled.

  "God, I love it when tech works!"

  He had a powerful telescope set up on the balcony, focused on a man's black-clad figure on the bridge. Well, he used to be on the bridge. The flames, dust, and smoke didn't quite conceal his long, swift fall. He turned once, frantically trying to right himself. An instinct thing. Hopeless, of course. If the five pounds of C-4 Charon rigged in the case didn't blow Dun to ribbons, the drop and running water would finish him for sure. Of course, all three combined made the ideal scenario.

  Lots of smoke. In almost the same instant as the first, was the secondary boom that would be the car's gas tank going up. Nasty. There wouldn't be enough of the driver left to fill a shot glass, but they didn't need much for DNA identification. He'd get his spot on CNN in due course if not the balance of payment for his one-way errand.

  As for Lance . . .

  Let's see, just over three seconds of free fall for a two-hundred-foot drop, he'd get up to at least sixty miles an hour, and at that speed the water would be like concrete . . . talk about pulverized.

  It hurt like hell to laugh, but Charon couldn't help himself. Damn, I'm good!

  There was no sign of a body in the water; the splash and any resulting blood would be quickly swallowed up by the river's violent flow.

  He clinically observed the gradual response to the disaster. Yeah, first the boom, taking a short second for the sound to travel to every building in the radius of effect and do its window-rattle thing. Then the shocked silence as everyone wondered "what the hell was that?" Heads turning to find the source, then spotting and beginning to move toward it. There would be some major freaking out over whether or not the steel arch bridge would collapse . . .

  In another minute the sirens would start up, people would jam the 911 board, trying to be helpful, and so on and so forth, but it was all waaay too late for old Lance.

  "He's Dun for," Charon said to them, smirking. He washed down a few pain pills with some celebratory Jack Daniel's, then picked up his carry-on bag with the Grail and walked out of the unoccupied room he'd broken into, leaving the telescope as a parting gift to the hotel.

  * * *

  Philip Bourland's gut twisted in sharp agony as he watched Richard's sickening plummet into the river.

  No!

  His friend's black figure, still alive, turned once in the fall and then was gone, swallowed by the water so fast the splash was lost. One of the people who'd helped set up the surveillance cursed; others, whose jobs were to react to worst-case situations, did just that. Cell phones were opened, babble commenced, things shot into motion. No one tried the radio link to Richard's receiver. What would be the point?

  Philip was on his own phone, running to a waiting car. It was too late to help, far too late, but he called for the 'copter to be ready to lift the moment he was inside.

  To lose them both, so close together. Dear God, what will I tell Michael?

  He snapped out orders, people scrambled. Another helicopter was already in the air racing toward the bridge and the smoke; he urged his driver to more speed to get to the pad.

  Richard never should have done it, never, never, never . . .

  The car skidded to a stop. Philip sprinted out and hoisted into the warmed-up machine; it leaped into the thick gray air, roaring angrily. He belted in, was passed headphones against the noise, and put them on.

  As they approached the bridge it was evident that their prep work was in place and running as well as could be expected. Traffic from both ends was shut down. A few straggler vehicles hurried to get clear and were directed to holding areas for search. Ambulances appeared, nosing their way against the current.

  Swinging around, his pilot carefully avoided the other machine. They were busy getting pictures.

  In the exact center of the Rainbow Bridge black smoke rose from the southern side. Little was left of the burning cab. He thankfully could not make out any remains of the poor driver. Some people had caught the shock wave of the blast, maybe struck by shrapnel and other hurtling debris. A few were down, others moved toward them, helped the walking wounded away.

  It looked like some unseen creature had taken a bite from the metal and concrete of the bridge, but Philip's focus was the water below, searching vainly for any sign of Richard. The Kevlar and body plating might have protected him from the blast, but the fall . . . no, don't think that, don't.

  Philip wrestled with his earphones and headset, then motioned for the pilot to dip low. They cruised back and forth just above the water, churning the restless dull surface to froth. Even if Richard was there, how could they see him in that mess?

  A third helicopter appeared, bearing the logo of a TV news station. They made a pass by the bridge, then sped away, apparently warned off by the police. His machine swept wide, its searchlight spearing at the water.

  His headset crackled, making him jump. He adjusted something and suddenly heard the pilot.

  "—won't be here anymore, I'm sorry, sir."

  "What?"

  "The river flow will have carried him away by now. Our best bet is to have people on watch at Niagara Gorge. That's where the bodies always turn up, sooner or later."

  Bodies. Body. A quarter hour ago Richard Dun had a name, a life, friends, family. Now he was flotsam.

  * * *

  His only awareness was of infinite burning pain through his entire being.

  Water. Deadly, free-flowing water. Ever his enemy.

  The stuff festered in his mouth and nose, scorched his lungs from the inside.

  His clothes dragged at him, pulling him heavily downward to dark death.

  Had to fight it. He'd always fought it. Had always won.

  Instinct moved his sluggish limbs, but he had little control. It hurt, Godithurthurthurt . . .

  Awakening. His Beast. Last resort. The thing that served him for so long, and now here was a threat to its survival, a cessation to feeding its hunger. No. That must continue. It roared awake, but too late, had to be too late. But still—

  He struggled with coat buttons, clawing them off, shrugging himself free in the blind, spinning dark. Boots, they weighed tons, he got rid of them.

  What else? What held him back? The armor. The fasteners were unfamiliar. Never mind, tear them off. Tough stuff, doesn't want to come loose.

  There, one of them snapped, another . . .

  So dark, so heavy, too much pain, but he was growing strangely numb. Overload on the nerve endings, the boiling acid he drifted in was quickly destroying them, eating them away one layer at a time.

  Ripped another fastening, fingers
numbed, desperate, twist out of it, ohgodthathurtsnopleasemakeitstop.

  Too tired to move. Even his beast slowed and succumbed, not knowing up from down.

  Relax, relax and float up . . . but he couldn't, the pain was worse than fire. The awful, deadly water filled his lungs, burning. It hurt, but brought oblivion after the first shock. That was best, go back to what came before, back to when he breathed water in the womb . . .

  Dim perception of light. No, it wouldn't be here, not in this safe place. This was the one haven where darkness was good and light meant the assumption of troubles. Light was life, and he didn't want that anymore. Gobackgobackgoback.

  His arms thrashed, feebly. Sudden sting of cold air on his face.

  No, not ready for this. Leave me here in the sweet dark.

  But his muscles contracted, and he gave a violent cough, spewing fluids. He coughed and choked and tried to breathe, tried to keep his head above water . . . water?

  What's happened? Where was he . . . ?

  He glimpsed high rocky bluffs coated with snow looming around him, speeding by. A swift, freezing stream tossed him this way and that, carrying him helplessly along. The air he gasped was made thick by intense cold, and there's death . . . hovering close, just above the surface, over there. Trying to hold it in sight, he reached out, but it backed shyly away. He wanted to die; Sabra was waiting for him on that Side. He had to get to her.

  He'd done this before, swimming in blackness, in a watery hell, the burning cold on his flesh, but for a good reason: to keep the Grail from that bastard. Fight and swallow water and spit it out and keep going because Sharon was at the other end of the stream, only he'd not known that, but he hadn't dared stop.

  Sharon, taken by blackness herself. Was she lost in an Otherside hell or dead? He'd failed her; he should have tried to help in that vision. She'd helped him, hauled him from the well, loved him, left him, but called to him at the end, and he'd done nothing.

  Too late now. The Goddess would forgive. She would know this had been too much. He'd reached his limit. She would look after Sharon. Have to . . . have to . . . keep . . . going . . . get to . . . death, touch death . . .

  He heard Sabra singing—encouragement to him—but she was yet far in the distance. He had to reach her and made a frenzied effort to swim toward her clear voice. She was the siren who would bring him release from the pain, not continuance. His legs dragged, no feeling in them, couldn't move them, might be just as well, might be a good sign, death creeping up slow and easy so as not to frighten him. No need, he wanted it.