by Sean Black
‘Your mother was a cold-hearted bitch.’
‘Better that than a wimp.’
Mareta eyed the exchange with contempt. ‘I’ll give you both the chance to prove your manhood soon enough,’ she told them.
Stafford and his father stopped arguing and exchanged a worried look.
‘You don’t think I brought you here simply to kill you, do you?’
Seventy-eight
Silhouetted by the spotlight from an NYPD chopper, a piece of white cloth fluttered from Lock’s hand. His other hand clasped Josh’s as he led him to the perimeter gate, one section of which was hanging from a single hinge. He counted at least two sharpshooters with scopes sighted on them. Given the recent terrorist penchant for using both themselves and, in some cases, civilians as body-borne IEDs, it was hardly surprising.
‘Josh, can you take off your jacket for me?’
‘But, it’s cold.’
‘Just for a moment.’
‘Why?’
He could see in the kid’s eyes that he wasn’t doing it without getting a reason first. ‘Because you might have a bomb under it.’
‘Don’t be silly. Little boys don’t carry bombs.’
‘Not usually, no.’
‘But sometimes?’ Josh asked him.
Lock had once seen a twelve-year-old girl with Down’s Syndrome walk up to a Marine manning a checkpoint on Route Irish in Baghdad, shake the soldier’s hand, then blow herself up.
‘Not really,’ he said, ‘but I’d still like you to.’
Josh struggled out of his jacket. Lock lifted up Josh’s top for a moment so that his stomach was visible.
‘OK, you can put it back on.’
The snipers re-sighted fractionally. He guessed they were now both on him. One head. One torso.
Lock opened his jacket and lifted his shirt, giving a full three-sixty twirl, arms spread out to his sides. The snipers stayed sighted on him.
Twenty yards from the gate, he let go his grip on Josh’s hand. ‘Go on.’
The little boy stepped forward, then turned to look at Lock.
‘I’m going back, Josh. I have to go take care of your dad, remember?’
Josh almost managed a smile before taking to his heels and rushing towards a JTTF agent in a bio-suit posted on what was left of the gate. The agent approached the boy tentatively, put his arms around him, patting him down in the process.
‘Lock!’
Lock glanced over his shoulder to see Frisk. He was waving him forward. Lock raised a thumb back towards the complex.
Frisk broke from the ranks and darted into no-man’s land. Lock moved quickly to stay between him and the buildings. A shot from the detainees at Frisk and they’d both be toast.
‘What’s going on in there?’ he said, winded after the brief sprint.
‘They wouldn’t release Hulme.’
‘How about Van Straten and Stafford?’
‘You saw them, huh?’
‘They were reported missing about a half-hour after your buddy picked them up.’
Good, Lock thought. Croft must have decided to gift Ty a proper start.
‘I gave the detainees what they want.’
‘Which was?’
‘The people responsible for this mess.’
‘You mean the Van Stratens?’
Lock nodded.
‘And what do we get?’ Frisk asked him.
‘Everyone out alive.’
‘And you believe that crazy bitch?’
‘Look, Frisk, we don’t have much of a choice right now.’
‘And while you’re here, what’s with your girlfriend showing up?’
Lock scanned the circus on the perimeter, taking in the press and emergency personnel drawn in like moths. ‘Incidentally, what are you telling the media?’
‘Non-specific security breach.’
‘That should stand up for all of two seconds.’
‘Which is why it’s important we get this resolved as soon as possible,’ Frisk said. ‘One way or another.’
‘No argument from me.’
Just before he turned back towards the building, Lock glimpsed Josh, covered in the kind of foil blanket usually handed out at the end of a marathon, being helped into the back of an ambulance by two people in bio-suits. At least he’s safe, he told himself. That had to count for something.
‘Hold up. You’re not going back in there?’ Frisk asked, screwing up his face.
Lock kept walking. He waited for Frisk to start after him. For someone to try to stop him. But no one did.
Seventy-nine
Stripped to the waist, cuffed and in leg chains, Nicholas and Stafford Van Straten, along with the remaining guards captured by the escapees, stood to attention. Mareta hobbled along the line, a black Sharpie in her right hand. She stopped at Nicholas and drew the number one on his chest with the marker. Stafford was marked number two. Just like cattle.
As she reached the third man, one of the guards, Lock spoke up. ‘This is bullshit. They’re hired hands. And what you’re doing is no better than what they were going to do to you.’
‘Except we’re not terrorists,’ Stafford chipped in.
She ignored them both, etched the number three on the man’s chest. Once all the men were numbered, Mareta stepped back to admire her handiwork. ‘Now, let’s begin.’
Two of the escapees stepped either side of Nicholas Van Straten and ushered him out of the room.
They gathered behind the glass partition, Mareta, Lock, Ty, the remaining terrorists and guards and, standing in the centre, with the same look of interest he’d reserved for Lock, Stafford. ‘Finally, someone’s found an actual use for the old man,’ he observed.
Lock glanced over at him as Richard, now clad in a bio-suit, emerged on the other side of the partition and walked towards Nicholas. ‘Don’t worry, Stafford,’ he said, ‘your turn’s coming real soon.’
‘Do I look worried?’
Lock had to concede that Stafford was a whole lot more composed than he’d imagined. Certainly more than when Lock had led him up on to the roof that night.
‘I’ve seen all the data, remember,’ Stafford continued. ‘The vaccine’ll work.’
‘Makes for a pretty damn solid endorsement if it does work,’ said Ty as on the other side of the screen Richard gingerly opened the container and filled a syringe from one of the vials. His hands were shaking.
‘I want you to know that I am administering this entirely against my will,’ he said as he pressed down on the plunger and forced the liquid into Nicholas Van Straten’s bloodstream.
A few minutes later, as Van Straten was led out, Stafford was led in. Nicholas looked straight past his son. His face was pale, his lips were edged white.
‘For God’s sake, it’s only vaccine,’ Stafford said. ‘It’s already been given to the trial subjects and they’ve shown no ill effects.’ He rolled his neck, as if working out some kinks left by a particularly strenuous set of tennis as two of Mareta’s men pushed him down on to the gurney. ‘I’ll stand, thanks.’
The two men forced him down on to the gurney and strapped him in as Lock and Ty shared a look of surprise.
‘Hey, could be worse,’ said Ty, ‘least he ain’t face down. Then he’d really be screaming for mommy.’
‘Not a show I’d be buying a ticket for,’ Lock said.
Behind Stafford, Richard walked over to a large refrigerator, opened the door and retrieved a stainless-steel vial with a rubber stopper from a large white cooler on the second shelf. His hands were steady now as he popped a fresh syringe from its sterile packet.
‘Come on, Hulme, let’s get this over with,’ Stafford taunted.
‘Yes, let’s,’ said Richard from behind the helmet of the bio-suit, filling the barrel.
Stafford raised his head as far as he could and stared, defiant, at the screen. ‘I mean, they’ve all had the vaccine, and they’ve suffered no ill effects.’
‘That’s correct,’ said Richar
d, emptying the contents into Stafford’s bloodstream.
‘So what do I have to worry about? Nothing, right?’
Richard paused. ‘Nothing at all, apart from the fact that I’ve just injected you with live Ebola variant.’
Eighty
Stafford’s stomach lurched with fear. He knew that the Ebola virus emptied your body from both ends. And when you had no more vomit or faeces left to expel, and you felt like things couldn’t get any worse, that was when the bleeding started. Ears, nose, mouth, anus. When multiple organ failure or hypovolemic shock showed up to put you out of your misery, it came as a relief.
But the process wasn’t instantaneous. Far from it. The virus took its time to take up residence in your body, secreting itself in your cells, lying in wait, giving you plenty of time to think about what lay ahead. And, as he stared at Richard’s upside-down features, unyielding behind the bio-suit, Stafford swore he could feel the Ebola variant dispersing through his body, hunkering down before it began its assault.
‘Give me the vaccine, Richard,’ he begged.
‘Give me one good reason why I should.’
‘You’re a doctor. You’ve taken an oath!’
‘That’s true. I did. But I need something from you in return.’
‘Anything. Name it. Listen, if this works, Meditech could be the first trillion-dollar biotechnology company. I’ll double your stock options. Treble them. Just name a figure.’
‘I don’t want money. I want you to go public on how you brought these people’ — he gestured round the room at Mareta and her companions — ‘into our country to use them like animals, and put the lives of millions of Americans in jeopardy, all so you could step out of your family’s shadow.’
‘Of course, of course. That won’t be a problem. Soon as I get that vaccine.’
‘No. Confession first, then absolution.’
‘But this stuff is already in me! The longer it takes for the vaccine to be administered the less likely my chances of recovery! You know that!’
‘Then we’d better move fast, hadn’t we?’
Behind the screen, Mareta was getting twitchy. Since she was wired to enough explosives to take them all with her, Lock figured twitchy was bad.
‘What are they talking about?’ she asked.
‘I’ll go find out.’
When he was halfway to the door it opened, and Richard emerged. He took off the helmet section of the bio-suit. Face flushed, he swiped at a curl of hair pinned flat to his forehead by sweat. ‘I’ve given him an ultimatum. He’s going to confess on live television.’
‘What was the ultimatum?’ Lock asked.
‘I just injected him with the Ebola virus. He keeps his part of the deal and he gets the vaccine.’
‘And how do you propose we get someone who’s a live carrier on the tube?’
‘Your friend’s a reporter.’
‘No chance. Way too risky. Carrie’s not setting foot in here.’
‘But this way people will know the truth.’
‘The truth? The truth is that someone importing terrorists to use as guinea pigs in a drugs trial aimed at neutralizing their biological capabilities would get a ticker-tape parade in every state in the nation.’
‘Excepting maybe Vermont,’ interjected Ty. ‘They’re commies.’
Mareta clapped her hands together. ‘Enough. I didn’t ask to plead for my life. But this new method’ — she turned to Richard — ‘this I like. Bring in the next test subject, give him the live agent too. Then we see if this vaccine really works.’
Eighty-one
Mareta sat in a chair, her bad leg propped up on the control desk. Both the Van Stratens and all the former guards who remained had been given the Ebola variant and returned to their cells. Mareta had decreed that an hour should elapse before they were given the vaccine. Nicholas Van Straten, having received both vaccine and agent, would act as some kind of mid-point control, with Lock and the former detainees at the other end of the spectrum. Only Richard, Ty and Mareta were wholly unsullied.
‘Should have brought some playing cards,’ Ty said, to no one in particular, as they watched the security monitors suddenly go blank.
Khalid, who was sat next to the control desk, experimentally tapped one of the screens, first with his hand and then with the business end of an M-16.
‘Hey, Fonzarelli, that won’t work. They’ve cut the power,’ said Lock.
Mareta shrugged, unfazed. A second later, the lights went out. The darkness was total. Then the beam of a Maglite search lit everyone’s face, bar Mareta’s.
There was a staccato exchange between Mareta and Khalid, then the light went out again and the door slammed.
‘Who’s here?’ Lock asked, moving two paces right.
‘Yo!’ Ty shouted.
‘I am,’ said Richard.
‘OK, Ty and Richard. Anyone else?’
Nothing. He listened again, the darkness blanketing them in paranoia.
‘Have they gone?’ It was Richard asking.
The answer came as another flashlight beam emanated from the control desk. Khalid was shining the light straight at Lock.
‘Listen, we can’t stay here. You understand?’
Khalid didn’t answer. He probably didn’t speak English, although given Mareta’s record Lock was taking no chances.
‘If you understand us, Khalid, say something, you dumb-ass mother-loving camel molester,’ Ty said.
Nope. Not even a guy who’d picked up a few key phrases from rap records.
‘Don’t think he speaks English, Ryan.’
‘Thanks for clarifying that for me, Tyrone.’
‘Welcome. You still armed?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Me too. Homeboy’s outnumbered.’
‘That’s what I was thinking. Richard?’
‘Yes?’
‘You ever play murder in the dark when you were a kid?’
‘Sometimes with my cousins. They always won.’
Great, Lock thought.
‘OK, in a moment I need you to move. Make some noise doing it. And stay low.’
‘I can’t.’
‘How come?’
‘I’m scared.’
‘Would it help if I told you I am too?’
‘Not really.’
The chatter of light-arms fire struck up outside. Then the boom of what Lock guessed was a thunder flash going off. Or some spare C4. Whatever it was, it sure as hell wasn’t the sound of the President putting pen to paper on any guarantees.
Richard’s voice: ‘Lock?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m ready now.’
‘OK, in your own time.’
Richard’s chair skittered across the floor. The beam snapped from Lock’s face and to his right. Where Khalid should have found Richard, there was only glass.
Lock made his move, launching himself across the room on the line Khalid had established a moment ago with the Mini-Mag. It was as existential a moment as stepping off a cliff.
Lock caught the butt of the M-16 with his stomach, but his momentum carried him forward, tipping Khalid from his chair. A starburst of light broke in front of him as he caught the butt again, this time on the face. He tried not to fall back, to stay as close as he could. He drew back his right hand and short-punched Khalid, glancing off a jut of bone and finding what he guessed from the sudden wheezing was windpipe. Then he did it again, and again, until the wheezing gave way entirely.
He rolled off Khalid’s limp body, and grabbed the Maglite. He used it to locate the M-16, which had spun away a short distance. He kept the light moving, finding Ty gun-facing him and Richard huddled into a ball in the corner of the room.
Richard peered out from between his fingers as the wave of a blast rolled through the room from outside. Mareta? Lock doubted it. You didn’t walk out of all the situations she had just to go meekly to God when there was a chance of escape.
Lock crossed the room and helped Richard to his feet. H
e clapped him on the back. ‘You did good. Now, let’s get out of here.’
‘Wait.’ Richard crossed to where Lock was. ‘Give me that,’ he said, taking the flashlight. He shone it on Khalid, who was laid out on the floor. ‘Is he dead?’
‘I very much hope so,’ said Lock. ‘Now, let’s move.’
Eighty-two
Too soon. The words had clambered into his mind and refused to vacate. It wasn’t that he’d die alone. Or in agony. No, the worst thing about how this had turned out, the ultimate ignominy, was that he’d die a footnote.
Then, with a loud thump that shook the walls either side of him, he was given a sign that maybe all was not lost. The light went out. A puff of dust caught at the back of his throat, and he coughed. More powder sucked into his nostrils.
He lowered himself down on to the floor and crawled to where he thought the door might be as another explosion shook the concrete floor. His hand slid out from under him and he fell, face first.
He took a moment to right himself, then started to edge along again, using his fingertips to navigate. Cold metal. The door.
He felt his way to its edge. It was at an angle. He could get his hand round the side of it. More than his hand. His arm. Both arms.
He squeezed his way through and into the corridor. The dust had begun to settle back to ground level. The door at the far end was open, light seeping in.
Tentatively, he got to his feet. The door next to his cell had been damaged too, wrenched away from its frame. He pushed at it, and it fell in. He almost fell in after it.
He could make out a man lying on the bed. Stafford Van Straten stepped through and stared down at his father. Two deep cuts bisected the old man’s face in a bloody cross.
‘Stafford?’
His father reached out a hand, but Stafford chose not to see it.
‘The vaccine. You have to find the vaccine,’ he whispered.
‘And then what?’
Nicholas tried to raise his head, but the effort was too much. ‘If you don’t, you’ll die.’
‘Die in prison, don’t you mean?’
