Vulcan's forge m-1

by Jack Du Brul

  When Mercer had outlined his plan to Hat, the professional thief’s opinion was, “You’re fucked if da system’s zoned.” If the brownstone’s security system lacked individual secure zones, then the destroyed front door would have crippled the entire system. But if individual zones could be compromised without affecting other areas of the building, then Mercer’s attempt to breach the back of the offices would trip further alarms.

  Mercer didn’t see movement in any of the darkened windows, but knew that a watcher would not give himself away so easily. He had to take a chance. From under a urine-soaked tarpaulin that Hat had placed in the courtyard hours before, Mercer took four lengths of ten-foot pipe, each with rungs protruding at regular intervals. Joined, the sections became a crude forty-foot ladder.

  Mercer carried the ladder to the base of the building and set it up with minimal effort, resting the top between the building and a rusted drain pipe. Then he drew his gun, a Browning Hi-Power, a souvenir from Iraq. The 9 mm pistol could not carry as many rounds as the H amp;K he had lost in Washington, but its stopping power was fearsome. The gun and the spare clip were loaded with mercury-filled hollow point bullets that would break up on contact. If a man were hit, nearly anywhere on his body, the shock alone would kill him.

  He cocked the pistol and thumbed off the safety. The silencer attached to the barrel made it slow for a quick draw, but he needed both hands for the next few minutes. He reholstered the weapon and climbed the ladder.

  On the train ride to New York, Mercer had explained his plan to Tish. At first she had balked at his intentions, but as he spoke, he could see the trust growing in her eyes. He outlined the four weeks of CIA training he had received prior to his insertion into Iraq, and that seemed to alleviate most of her fears. Though his training had focused on weapon tactics, he had learned the basics of breaking and entering and felt confident in his abilities.

  At the top of the ladder, just level with the fourth-floor window, Mercer paused and scanned the darkened room. He saw nothing. From a pocket in his black pants, he withdrew a three-quarter carat cubic zirconia engagement ring he’d bought that afternoon while shopping for clothing for Tish. The retailer at the jewelry store had scoffed at Mercer’s poor choice, but he didn’t know that the ring would never be used as a betrothal gift.

  At 8.5 on the Mohs’ hardness scale, the zirconia easily etched the glass. Mercer traced one of the panes of the window. The protesting squeal of the cutting glass was loud in his ears. Judging that three times around had weakened the glass sufficiently, Mercer paused for a deep breath. He was about to find out if the system was zoned. If the alarm sounded, neither he nor Tish would have enough time to escape the courtyard before the guards rushed out to investigate. He took another deep breath, his pulse pounding.

  “Fuck it,” he said as he gave the weakened pane a slight tap with the heel of his hand.

  The tiny filament wires of the security system parted and the glass fell softly to the carpeted floor of the building. An alarm screamed in Mercer’s head, but the building itself remained silent.

  He could hear his heart pounding a furious tattoo in the eerie gloom of the courtyard. Then he realized that the noise wasn’t his heart. Searching the square of visible sky above his head, Mercer saw the lights of an approaching police helicopter. The chopper was no more than ten blocks away and already the powerful halogen spotlight mounted in the nose was piercing the dark streets.

  He tried to open the window, but countless coats of paint applied to the frame had glued it solidly shut.

  “Shit,” Mercer cursed under his breath, and hammered at the underside of the open pane. The small amount of glass left in the windowframe sliced painfully into his hand.

  After several hard blows, the window sprang up, slamming into its upper stop. Mercer didn’t worry about noise being heard inside — the sound of the police helicopter would easily drown it out. He wriggled through the window as the downblast of the chopper’s rotors whipped up a maelstrom in the small courtyard. Dust and debris choked the air. The sound was deafening.

  “Tish, come on,” Mercer called, trying to be heard above the din.

  Tish scrambled up the ladder as the searchlight beam blasted into the courtyard, probing into the darkest corners, seeking its prey.

  Mercer grabbed Tish by the wrists when she reached the top of the ladder. The searchlight was systematically spotlighting every window of the OF amp;C building, and it was only seconds before her form would be in the beam. He yanked her into the room. She yelped as her breasts scraped over the hard wooden sill. Mercer lunged up and slammed the window closed just as the searchlight probed into the office. He thought for a moment that the cops above had seen his face, but quickly the light passed on. He could see its beam forming bizarre shadows in the hallway beyond the room. From the helicopter, the ladder would look like any of the wiring conduits that clung to the building like ivy.

  “Jesus, that hurt,” Tish said, massaging her chest.

  “I’d do that for you, but you’d probably slap me.”

  The grin she gave told him that she would be all right. Mercer pulled a flashlight from his jacket and switched it on. A red lens diffused the light, but he could see easily enough. Before beginning the search, Mercer pulled the Browning from its holster.

  He didn’t know how long they would be in the offices, so he had to eliminate the pair of guards. He couldn’t chance being discovered unexpectedly. Mercer had no illusions about taking on two professional assassins in a fair fight, but he had no intention of being fair.

  “Do you have any doubts about what we are going to do?” Mercer asked Tish, perhaps more for his own benefit.

  “If these people have anything to do with the destruction of the Ocean Seeker, then they deserve to be punished.” The steel in her voice was chilling.

  “All right then, I want you to wait here until it’s over. I’ll come back to get you.” Her eyes were fearful in the dim light, but there was a determined set to her jaw. When he took her hand for an instant, the trembling he felt was mild.

  All the lights on the top floor were off, but dim light spilled up the stairway. Mercer handed Tish the flashlight and began his search, the night-vision goggles over his face giving the building an eerie green glow.

  The rooms on the top floor, storerooms mostly, were all empty, dust coated, and neglected. Mercer padded silently down the stairs. On the third floor, a single wall sconce illuminated the narrow carpeted hallway. The doors which led off the hall were all locked and there was no one in sight. Mercer licked his fingers and unscrewed the bare bulb, plunging the hallway into darkness.

  The old wooden stairs creaked as Mercer eased himself down one more flight. The entire second floor was one huge room, divided into small cubicles each containing a desk, chair, and computer. There were plenty of lights in the large work area, so Mercer removed the goggles and left them on a desk. He was thankful to have his peripheral vision restored.

  He slid down to the floor and scanned the room. He saw only the legs of desks and chairs and not those of a guard. Like a snake, he slithered through the room, every sense tuned to perfection.

  An instructor at the CIA facility had said: More often than not, you will find your enemy with your nose or ears before you will ever see him. When the wisp of tobacco smoke tickled Mercer’s nostrils, he silently thanked the instructor. The room was so quiet he could even hear the sizzle of tobacco as the guard drew on the cigarette. The man was no more than ten feet away, on Mercer’s right, shielded by a thin cubicle wall.

  Mercer glanced at his watch. He had left Tish more than fifteen minutes ago, so he had to hurry. Panic would begin to overwhelm her soon.

  He decided to be bold. He removed his black leather jacket, figuring that the black pants and shirt he wore were similar enough to the guard’s to confuse him for a second. He stood and began to whistle cheerfully. Immediately, he heard the unseen guard spring from a chair and begin moving toward him.

 
The guard turned a corner directly in front of Mercer, a machine pistol held at the ready. In the millisecond it took him to realize that Mercer wasn’t his partner, Mercer brought the Hi-Power to bear. The guard died an instant before his own trigger finger could squeeze. His body crumpled against a steel desk, his arm sweeping a pile of papers to the floor. The massive tissue damage caused by the Hi-Power sickened Mercer; a hole had been punched almost completely through the guard’s body.

  Reclaiming his jacket, Mercer retraced his steps to the stairway and cautiously made his way to the ground floor.

  The lobby of the building also occupied an entire floor. The waiting area was furnished with several tasteful couches, a large Turkish carpet, and an expansive reception desk. The walls were painted a calming salmon color and the prints which lined them were all of ships. A few dim lights kept the room more in shadow than light.

  A figure leaned against the front doorframe, a holster cocked off one hip. For a moment, Mercer wondered if he could kill a man from behind, without warning.

  As if alerted by some primal instinct, the guard whirled around, drawing his pistol and firing in one continuous motion. The bullet grazed Mercer’s pantleg as he dove out of the way. Mercer hit the floor rolling as bullets gouged the marble floor near his head and torso. He managed to duck behind the reception counter, and when he looked back to see where the guard had gone, another round slammed into the wood, driving splinters deep into his jaw and right cheek.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, wiping blood from his face.

  Suddenly, the lights went out in the lobby.

  Mercer rolled silently from behind the counter, hugging one of the walls. His plan was to crawl to the light switch and flip it back on, hopefully using the surprise to target his opponent. Halfway to the switch, he bumped into the guard’s leg.

  Neither man had anticipated the contact, so neither had an advantage. Mercer reared back, then sprang forward like an all-pro lineman playing in the Super Bowl, his shoulder connecting with the guard’s knee. The joint failed and the guard fell forward, but he still had time to whip his pistol at Mercer’s head, shearing skin from his already bleeding cheek. Mercer smashed a fist into the guard’s thigh, paralyzing the leg momentarily and giving himself time to bring up the Hi-Power.

  The guard kicked out with his good leg and sent Mercer’s pistol skittering across the marbled floor. Mercer twisted away from the guard who was already trying to regain his feet. The room was too dark to see where the pistol wound up, so Mercer ignored it and concentrated on his opponent. He leapt to his feet and charged again, catching the guard low in the stomach and forcing the breath out of him in a loud whoosh. The guard backpedaled as Mercer continued to push him but twisted aside just before they hit the sofas. Mercer flew over one of them and crashed to the floor, wrenching his shoulder painfully.

  There was a brief spark of muzzle flash as the guard fired his silenced pistol at Mercer, but the shot was several feet off target. Mercer used the flash to locate the other man in the darkness and leapt at him, but missed. The guard had moved. Mercer hit the floor and rolled twice, coming up hard against another wall. It was cat and mouse again. Neither man could see the other in the gloom and neither could hear the other over his own labored breathing. Mercer edged forward, feeling along the floor, and found his pistol. The cool steel was a needed reassurance.

  Just then the lights snapped back on in full brilliance. The nerves and muscles that controlled Mercer’s pupils reacted just the barest fraction of a second faster than the assassin’s. While the other man was squinting through nearly closed eyes, disoriented by the glare, Mercer’s gaze was sweeping the room. Tish stood next to the bank of light switches, one hand still on the rheostat, the other holding the bulky night-vision goggles. The guard was twenty feet away, peering off to Mercer’s left. Mercer didn’t take the time to properly aim. He fired from the hip, his first two shots going wide but his next six catching the guard squarely, pounding his torso into an unrecognizable mess.

  Mercer moved over to Tish and took the goggles from her slack hand. “Tish.” Her eyes swiveled to his. “I told you to wait upstairs. Please, from now on, never listen to me again, okay?”

  He slid his arms around her and her body eased into his embrace. He calmly stroked her hair for a moment. “Now we’re even. I saved your life and you just saved mine. Thank you.”

  “I waited until you had your gun and he was turned away from you,” she replied after a moment.

  They went back up to the third floor, dousing all the lights again and relying on Mercer’s goggles to get them to the executive offices. Quickly scanning the names on the doors, they found the locked door of the highest ranking employee, a vice president. Mercer smirked at the man’s name: Russo.

  “Nice touch,” he commented.

  “If they are Russian,” Tish replied.

  “To have guards like those two, they’re something.”

  It took Mercer five frustrating minutes to pick the lock. Although he remembered the technique from his CIA training, theory and practice were two entirely different things. One of Hat’s men could have done it in ten seconds.

  The office was paneled in rich oak, the carpet was soft under their feet. A window behind the broad desk looked out onto Eleventh Avenue. Mercer shut the thick drapes and turned on the desk lamp. Pictures of the OF amp;C fleet adorned the walls. David Saulman in Miami had been right. Each ship had a different bunch of flowers painted on the funnels: April Lilac, September Laurel, December Iris, and a score of others. There was a fish tank against one wall, and though it was large it only contained a single fish.

  Mercer turned to the four squat filing cabinets and opened a drawer at random. He started leafing through the folders within.

  “Pick a drawer, any drawer,” he said lightly.

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Anything that might jog your memory. There could be something here that you may remember from when you were rescued, a name, anything.”

  Tish pointed to a picture on the wall. “That’s the ship that rescued me, I think.”

  Mercer looked at the picture and recognized the September Laurel as she calmly plied some distant sea.

  “That may be the ship that reported finding you, but I don’t think it’s the ship that pulled you from the water. You remembered a black circle and a yellow dot on the funnel, not a bunch of flowers. Besides, Dave Saulman told me that her crew are mostly Italians, not Russians.”

  “I could have been wrong about hearing Russian.”

  “Even if you are, it’s obvious that something is going on here. Let’s just go through the files and see if anything turns up.”

  For the next half hour, Mercer and Tish pored through the files without turning up anything conclusive. The only odd thing was a loose file tab labeled “John Dory” lying on the bottom of the drawer containing the ownership papers of the OF amp;C ships. There was no file to go along with the tiny scrap of paper. Because all OF amp;C vessels were named after a month and a flower, Mercer guessed that John Dory was the name of a captain or ship’s officer employed by OF amp;C.

  “This has been a complete waste of time, hasn’t it?” There was hopelessness in Tish’s voice.

  “I know I’m right. There has to be something here that we haven’t seen,” Mercer persisted. “But we have to get out of here.”

  “Did you kill those guards without a reason?”

  Mercer looked up from the file. It was a question he did not want to address. Was there a chance he was wrong about OF amp;C’s involvement?

  “No, we didn’t, and I’ll tell you why. Look around this office. There’s nothing personal anywhere, no photos, no diplomas, nothing. This may be a legitimate shipping line to some, but to the man who occupies this office, shipping is not his career.” Mercer walked to the desk and scanned the address file. “There isn’t one ship broker’s number in here, not one chandler. Christ, he doesn’t even have the private numbers of his
captains.”

  “He could be just a figurehead.”

  “He is, don’t you get it? Most shipping lines are built by individuals and based on personal contacts. I’m willing to bet this Greg Russo wouldn’t know a hawsepipe from a hole in the wall. Whoever occupies this office has a job to do, but it has nothing to do with shipping.”

  “Hold it right there,” a male voice commanded.

  Mercer froze, his pulse pounding. Hat’s son had said only two men had entered the building, and they had already been eliminated. Whose was the voice behind them?

  “Step away from the desk and turn around slowly.” The command was punctuated with the cocking of a revolver.

  An overweight security guard stood in the doorway. He was a frightened rent-a-cop with a pale, jowled face and a trembling grip on his weapon.

  “You got a lot to answer for. Keep your hands where I can see them. Move toward the fish tank.”

  Mercer backed away from the desk, Tish right beside him. She hadn’t screamed when the guard entered and seemed in control. Mercer wished that he felt as calm as she appeared. The guard had scared the hell out of him.

  Greg Russo must have called in additional security after Cap had left his post across the street. Mercer had no way of knowing if more men were scouring the building. The guard crossed to the desk, his eyes and gun never straying from Mercer. With his free hand he fumbled for the telephone. Mercer’s chance was coming.

  The instant the guard glanced down at the phone, Mercer launched himself.

  Time slowed to a crawl. Mercer’s senses were heightened so that he could see the individual hairs on the guard’s face, smell the nervous sweat of the man, and hear his labored breathing. Mercer flew across the room, focusing on the hand holding the revolver, the rings of fat around the man’s wrist, the knuckles tightening around the trigger. The hammer began to drop and Mercer’s fingers were still inches away from their mark.