by Sean Ellis
She stood at the intersection, weighing both options. If the man had gone into the exhibit, then she had truly lost him. He would already be on the street, outside the museum, and probably in a waiting getaway car. Although that choice made the most sense, something about it didn’t seem right.
Four men had contributed to the night’s mayhem: three wearing the uniforms of security guards and one posing as a guest.
“Why?” she muttered to herself.
The first gunman had boldly killed Aimes right in front of her. The second man was conceivably his back-up, ready to shoot the place up in order to cover the first gunman’s escape. It wasn’t a bad plan, just poorly executed.
Why had the other two men entered the fray? With both assassins down, they could have simply slipped away. Instead, they had chosen to fight, leading Mira on a wild chase through the museum. Something wasn’t adding up.
“The Trinity,” she gasped. Of course. It made perfect sense. The running gun battle had been a diversion, drawing both her and everyone else away from the real target of the scheme.
Without further consideration she pushed through the doors of the auditorium, ready to fire. Only floor lights on the ends of the aisles illuminated the theatre, but she could still distinguish the ornate facade along the walls and the towering sixty-foot-high projection screen.
She strode directly toward the screen, her gaze weaving back and forth in case the gunman was concealed in one of the rows of auditorium seats, waiting for a chance to spring up and fire.
When the edge of the balcony was directly overhead, she executed a shoulder-roll and came up facing the rear of the auditorium. She brought the MAC-10 up, sweeping it back and forth across the balcony, searching for a target, then whirled back to the screen. She double-checked the balcony again, hopping backwards down the aisle.
The theater was empty.
The trail was growing colder by the second. Mira believed she knew where the gunman was headed, but there were too many variables for her to simply double-back to the Trinity sanctuary. She had to follow the man’s footsteps, surprise him from behind.
She turned down one of the rows of chairs, walking sideways with her eyes always darting into the shadows. She still half-believed that the assassin would spring up at any instant, catching her unaware with a burst of nine-millimeter rounds.
There was a good chance that the man had secreted himself in one of the two stairwells on either side of the theater, leading to the balcony. If she chose the wrong one, she would be dead before she even realized her mistake. Glancing up at the balcony, a better idea dawned.
She climbed up on the back of a seat positioned directly beneath the balcony and launched herself straight up, pitching the machine pistol and its spare magazine over the rail, and in the same motion caught the balcony rail in her outstretched hands. She swung her legs up and managed to hook one foot on the banister, from where she had little difficulty heaving herself over.
Bullets glanced off the railing in a shower of sparks to Mira’s left as she dropped onto the balcony floor. Upholstery stuffing and splinters of wood and plastic showered her as she crouched down to grope for the gun. She crept left, trusting that the gunman would expect her to move away from his line of fire.
Another burst tore up the seats on Mira’s right. She popped up and swept across the back of the balcony with a steady stream of gunfire. The assassin swiveled toward her position, forcing her to duck back down, but two of her blindly fired rounds struck him in the abdomen. When his pistol emptied, she heard his muted curses and knew that she had drawn blood. She waited for the next burst of gunfire, but heard only the click of a door latch resetting.
Mira straightened her dress, and then sprinted for the exit the guard had used.
She slipped through the door, dove forward and rolled, scanning for a target, and hopped lightly to her feet, ready to fire. The assassin had fled, but a trail of blood spatters marked the path he had chosen. With a triumphant grin, she sprinted after him.
A line of crimson splatters led straight through the Hall of African Mammals toward the flight of stairs that she had used earlier. The drops grew closer together, indicating that the man was slowing, perhaps fatally wounded, but still out of her visual range. The marble steps were similarly marked with bright red; the injured man had ascended to the next flight.
She charged up the stairs, taking two at a time, but maintained constant readiness to fire. Although she expected the trail to lead back into the Atlantean exhibit, the splashes of blood continued around the bend and up the flight of stairs leading to the fourth floor. She could hear his labored breathing and footsteps echoing down the stairwell, almost lost in the cacophony of noise from sirens and shouting rising up from below.
At the fourth-floor landing, she discovered that her quarry had jumped the rope barrier and continued upward, toward the roof. Genuinely perplexed, she charged up the final flight, catching a glimpse of the roof access door swinging shut. Moments later she burst through that door onto the roof of the museum.
The city noise was sudden and almost overwhelming. The thick stone walls of the museum had effectively insulated her from the almost constant orchestra of honking horns, police sirens and screeching tires. But there was another element to the melody, a deep bass tone that was far more immediate.
The imposter guard was still on his feet, but only just. Mira could tell by his aimless staggering that he was not long for the world. Yet the goal toward which he was moving was all too apparent. Fifty yards from the access door, a Bell 206-B JetRanger III helicopter rested on the roof, its rotor blades beating the air with a noise that hammered at her gut and all but overwhelmed the sounds of the city.
Two barely visible figures occupied the aircraft. One of them was female, her head capped by an extraordinary mane of blonde hair. The other was a man, a hulking figure with a shaved head. Mira inferred that the woman was piloting the craft; helicopters, unlike airplanes, had no autopilot and required constant attention, even when sitting on the ground, if the rotor assemblies were engaged. The woman had to be at the controls, because her large companion slid open the door and stepped out of the aircraft, hefting an AK-47 assault rifle.
Mira rolled for cover as 7.62mm rounds chewed up the roof in a deadly stream that quickly curved her way. She leaped into the air, taking herself momentarily higher than the flow of lead, and twisted her body to return fire. The gunman in the helicopter seemed unconcerned as her bullets danced harmlessly off the metal and fiberglass shell of the JetRanger.
Mira hit the rooftop rolling, seeking what little shelter she could from a protruding vent cover. She dove away an instant later as rounds from the Russian-made Kalashnikov shredded the aluminum without even slowing.
Her next barrage from the MAC-10 was only slightly more accurate, but a lucky shot found the interior of the helicopter and got the attention of the pilot. Mira could see her turning to her companion, unrestrained rage clouding what were otherwise beautiful features. Though the large gunman apparently believed himself invincible, the woman did not seem to share the sentiment.
Mira ineffectually emptied the clip at the helicopter. The MAC-10 rounds simply didn’t have the muzzle velocity to do much more than scratch the paint at that range. Nevertheless, her unrelenting assault forced the pilot to flee the scene prematurely. While the wounded guard was still twenty feet from the rescue aircraft, the skids lifted from the flat surface, kicking up a sudden windstorm.
The gunman in the JetRanger ceased firing at Mira, giving her a moment to slam the last magazine into the grip of the MAC-10. She got to her feet and, throwing caution to the wind, charged toward the ascending aircraft.
The wounded man took another step forward, a betrayed look mixing with the agony on his countenance. Suddenly, a ragged hole appeared on his forehead as his head snapped back. Mira caught a final glimpse of the gunman in the helicopter. He wore what could almost pass for an expression of grief as he lowered the rifle after adm
inistering the coup de grace to his comrade. Then the airframe swiveled beneath the rotors and he was lost from her view. The helicopter turned ninety degrees on its central axis as it moved forward over Central Park.
Despite the sheer futility of the gesture, Mira could not simply stand by and watch as the last two members of the murderous conspiracy fled the scene. She charged to the edge of the rooftop, emptying the captured weapon with surprising, but impotent, accuracy. A frustrated howl escaped from between her clenched teeth as the MAC-10 spoke for the last time and the final bullet sparked harmlessly against the whirling tail rotor blades.
The running lights of the JetRanger shrank into the shadows of the park, the beat of its rotors similarly fading. A moment later, the sound of footsteps on the roof behind her indicated that a new potential threat had arrived.
The shout from behind her was authoritative, but there was no concealing the undercurrent of uncomprehending panic. “Drop the weapon.”
Without turning, Mira extended her arm and let the empty gun fall to roof.
TWO
Detective Michelangelo DiLorenzo looked across the table at the woman in custody. Beneath a mane of cropped, spiky auburn hair, her brown eyes, like chocolate mixed with honey, matched his gaze, a piercing stare, from which he was forced to look away after a moment. He fumbled with his papers in an attempt to appear nonchalant.
“Miss Raiden—Mira—May I call you Mira?”
“Whatever.”
DiLorenzo raised an eyebrow. “Well, Mira. I want to apologize for having kept you here so long.” He gestured to the bleak environs of the interview room. “As you can imagine, we had a lot of people to interview in order to get some idea of what happened last night.”
He waited, watching her eyes for some hint of how to proceed. Mira stared back coolly, saying nothing. She still wore the black evening gown, torn and streaked with dust, though her feet were bare. DiLorenzo knew that she had been waiting in the interview room for nearly six hours, yet had not succumbed to irrational antics of the caged. She had not even asked for a bathroom break. Instead, she had merely sat quietly, meditatively, refusing to be “softened up.”
“Well?”
DiLorenzo started, as if waking from a daydream. “Pardon me?”
“Were you going to ask something, or just keep staring?”
He chuckled nervously, glancing behind him at the one-way glass through which his partner was doubtless observing the interrogation. “I’ll ask the questions when I’m ready,” he said, realizing as the words escaped his lips, how foolish he sounded. She was getting to him and he hated it; there was no place for feelings like that in police work.
“Let me know when you are ready.”
DiLorenzo’s cheeks flared red in embarrassment. He saw her full lips curl ever so slightly at the ends, a smile at his expense. “Right. Okay, Mira, we’ve talked to everybody that survived last night’s little brouhaha at the museum, and they all agree about one thing. You killed two men.”
Her smile slowly melted away and DiLorenzo found himself regretting that he had initiated its disappearance. Mira waited several seconds before speaking a single syllable. “And?”
“What?”
“You keep making statements, detective. I’m not quite sure how I ought to respond.”
DiLorenzo sighed in exasperation. “Miss Raiden. Would you like to tell me your version of what transpired last night? Please?”
“Since you used the magic word . . .” Mira’s smile returned, but now it was merely a polite smile. She started talking, recounting the events at the museum, starting with the moment she and Aimes had entered the exhibit and ending with the disappearance of the helicopter over the park.
When she finished, he glanced back at the first page of his notes. “Okay. Back up a second. It sounds like Aimes was the target here.”
“I agree. Whatever else they hoped to accomplish, assassinating Walter was their first priority.”
The detective maintained a neutral expression, having composed himself during the long narrative. She was, after all, the suspect in a shooting spree that would likely occupy headlines for weeks to come, not some girl in a bar that he was trying to impress. Although he couldn’t simply turn off the emotions that the sight of her stirred in him, nor suppress the bio-chemicals that were responsible for that reaction, he was a professional; he knew how to deal with it. “But you think they were also after this Trinity?”
“The Trinity is an immensely powerful artifact. People will kill for it.”
“Hmm.” He tapped his pen against his notepad. “Why is it called a ‘Trinity’? I saw a picture of it, and there’s nothing triune about it. I’m Roman Catholic, I know a thing or two about the real Trinity.”
“That’s what they called it in Atlantis. The concept of triune godheads is much older than your Christian religion, detective. Perhaps something about this powerful talisman implanted the concept of worshipping trinities into the collective unconscious.”
“You keep talking about how powerful it is. What the hell is this thing anyway?”
Mira shrugged. “From what we can tell, it was created several thousands of years ago by a race of superior humans—”
“Superior?” DiLorenzo knew it was irrelevant to the investigation, but he was curious in spite of himself.
“Their technological advancement makes our progress seem pitiful by comparison. They were on the brink of evolving into a new level of existence. The Trinity may have been the key to that leap forward.”
“I don’t get it. What does this thing do?”
“No one has been able to explain how it worked, but my theory is that it could amplify the thoughts of its user. It could literally do almost anything that the person possessing it wanted.”
“You mean like turning lead into gold or something?”
Mira chuckled dismissively. “That would be a trifle. A person controlling the Trinity could easily manipulate the elements, but that’s only the tip of the iceberg. The Trinity could make a person virtually immortal.”
DiLorenzo raised a skeptical eyebrow, but did not pursue the issue. “So, you think that what happened last night was also a bungled robbery attempt? That they were really after this Trinity?”
She shifted in her chair, pausing thoughtfully. “Those men were professionals—mercenaries. A single sniper could have killed Walter at any time. They were definitely after the Trinity. You should take immediate steps to secure it. It must be removed from the exhibit.”
It was the detective’s turn to laugh. “No need for that. Thanks to you, the exhibit is closed indefinitely. Besides, you’re getting ahead of yourself. By your own admission you killed a man last night. That doesn’t count the one that was apparently finished off by his buddy on the helicopter. You’ve got other things to worry about.”
“You can’t be serious.” Mira’s tone was incredulous, but she did not appear as concerned as the detective had hoped she would. At this point in the interview, suspects were usually fidgeting nervously, or begging for their lawyers. “That was clearly a case of self-defense.”
DiLorenzo smiled like a serpent, poised to strike. “Well, that’s not up to me—”
He was interrupted by a terse knock at the door, which opened a crack, and a head peaked in. “Mike, could I have a word?”
DiLorenzo’s eyes rolled back in annoyance at the interruption; Winslow should have known better. He brought his facial expression back under control and stood, his arms crossed over his chest. “This will only take a minute. Don’t go anywhere.”
Mira denied him the pleasure of a sarcastic retort and simply folded her own arms, to better advantage than he, and remained silent. DiLorenzo sighed, perturbed, and headed for the door.
Mira remained motionless, a regal sphinx awaiting the detective’s return. Almost as soon as he was through the doorway, shouting was audible from the hallway. DiLorenzo’s voice was not the only one in the argument, but it was the loudest. The wait
was mercifully short. A few seconds later, the door virtually exploded open and a clearly irritated detective stormed into the interview room. His face was a mask of barely controlled rage through which a tight, but by no means contrite, voice escaped.
“Thank you for your assistance, Ms. Raiden. You’re free to go.”
Mira couldn’t resist taking a jab at the detective’s wounded ego. “Just like that? No bright lights and torture?”
DiLorenzo actually seemed to soften, as if trying to convey that she was not the focus of his ire. Though his words still burned with acid, Mira got the impression that he was speaking for the benefit of those listening over the intercom. “It seems that the politician elected to be our District Attorney was at the gala last night, and he feels that your actions were justified, or at least that it would not be politically expedient to pursue a case against you. Like I said, it’s not up to me. As far as I’m concerned, you committed a crime last night.”
Mira rocked forward slightly. It wasn’t an entirely unexpected development. Indeed, the shootings had been completely justified, and it irked her to be counted with the real villains of the previous night. But there was no longer any point in stating her case, and she didn’t have the energy to expend in such a futile endeavor. She rose from the hard chair, determined not to let the detective see how tired and sore she was, and walked with determined steps toward the door, ignoring the stinging pain that burned in the cut on her bare foot. The door seemed to open of its own volition as she approached.
She paused on the threshold. “If you want my opinion detective, you’ve spent the last several hours investigating the wrong crime.”
DiLorenzo continued to face the empty chair where she had been sitting. “Thanks, Ms. Raiden. But I don’t want your opinion.”
Mira shrugged, then pushed past a heavyset man in a stained dress-shirt hovering near the door. He regarded her with a contemptuous leer but said nothing. While she was still within earshot, he entered the interview room. “‘If you want my opinion . . .’” His attempt at mimicking Mira was hopelessly thwarted by his Bronx upbringing. “Can you believe the nerve of that bitch?”
