Brendan had already expected the bump in price and discreetly handed the kid two bills. The kid looked at the money, and, just as discreetly, slid it into the backpack sitting next to him.
“Can I sit down?”
Now the kid became standoffish. “Huh? Why?”
Brendan put the headphones around his neck as the train finally stopped.
He sat down and turned to the kid. “What are you listening to?”
The kid cut a sideways glance, his voice low but vehement. “Dude, are you fuckin’ gay?”
“No,” Brendan said. “Just looking for a little company, man. That’s all.”
“Last time some guy told me he needed some company, wasn’t a good thing,” the kid said, his eyes hard and direct.
“It’s not like that.”
The kid looked out the window, as if connecting the train’s unscheduled stop with Brendan. Then his head swiveled back as Brendan spoke.
“Just thinking, maybe you got something else I can buy. Long trip; I’d like to relax, you know?”
The brakes hissed. The doors opened.
Brendan could see movement outside on the platform. He was careful not to make a show of looking outside to see who was there. He held his hands up, palms out, in front of him. It was becoming his new trademark gesture.
“Man, what I got ain’t nothing for you.” The kid glowered at Brendan. “Get the fuck out of here before I take my headphones back and keep your money.”
“Alright, man,” Brendan said. “I was just trying to be friendly.”
Brendan got up and slipped back a few rows and sat back down. He watched the back of the kid’s head.
A minute passed. Brendan put the headphones on and sat back in the seat, looked out the window, down at 125th. He bobbed his head slightly, moved his lips to non-existent music.
An eternity. Two minutes, five. What were they doing? They were checking every car. The passengers were getting riled up. One of the two women got up to use the bathroom. A man and his son were having a hard time — the son was bored, starting to whine. The kid with the Starter hat looked ready to crawl out of his skin.
Every minute that passed was one of doubt. Doubt that he had done the right thing, leaving Sloane. Doubt that the message from Jennifer Aiken was legitimate, when it could’ve been one of Staryles’ tricks, aiming to flush Brendan out. Which it had. Doubt, even, that the book from Colinas had really been a valid clue at all, or if Brendan had been grasping at straws. To make the connection that Leah Heilshorn was now being kept near where Brendan had once tracked the paid killer of Angie and Gloria — where he’d met the ultimate darkness in his life — it was just an idea. Now, on this unmoving train, the minutes crawling by with agonizing slowness, it all felt insubstantial, like smoke. He was only getting himself in deeper; the more he struggled, the tighter the noose around his neck.
Ten minutes.
He continued to listen to imaginary music. He put on the gloves. He was a bike messenger from the city, an affectation of his new personality, as William Chase. William Chase, originally from Sarasota, Florida. Now living in Queens. Retired parents dividing their time between Sarasota and Lake Placid, New York. One sister, stricken with breast cancer at the age of thirty. A daughter, six years old, his niece. The name had been selected for him at random, but the backstory was his to invent. He focused on these details, aimed his mind there, sharpening his will to a point. He would not waver; this would be his new identity, and it would work.
The prosthetic finger looked terribly fake.
Now the first NYPD officer stepped onto the train.
Behind the officer was a plain-clothed agent. Brendan wondered what his code name was. Artemis, maybe. Or Zeus. He wondered if they fought over who got the best Greek-god names. He realized he was punchy. Punchy was dangerous. He needed to quell the adrenaline twisting in his veins, slow himself down, act a little stoned. Show his new ID with one hand, keep the other out of sight.
The agent was in his early thirties, short reddish hair. He tucked his chin in and spoke into his wrist for a moment, his gaze sweeping the train car. The NYPD cop preceded him, body language suggesting that this was his show, federal jurisdiction be damned.
“Hey what’s going on?” said the passenger with the restless son.
“Everything is okay, sir, we ah, we’re taking care of it.”
“Yeah,” the passenger said with a typical, New Yorker, no-nonsense tincture, “that’s great, but what’s the problem? We’ve been here a half an hour. This train ride is eight hours as it is.”
“I understand, sir.” The cop tried to keep moving. The agent was coming slowly behind him.
“You understand? What does that mean?”
“It means I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
“Not at liberty,” the guy said with disgust. “Yeah, okay. Not at liberty. Thanks.” He turned to his kid and in a lower voice sternly attempted to get the little one to siddown and shaddup.
The cop’s eyes passed quickly over the women, the businessman, and then found the kid, where his gaze lingered. The agent loomed behind him, skeptical, at the ready.
Brendan felt badly, but it had been his only chance. If the kid was holding, he was going to pop.
The kid stood up. His face white as a sheet, he turned and walked stiffly down the aisle.
“Hey,” the cop said. “Hey wait up.”
“Better run,” Brendan said under his breath.
The kid jammed one hard look at Brendan and got moving faster.
“Hey,” the cop called. “Hey, whoa.”
But the kid was going faster now, reaching the last of the seats. He leapt from the train onto the platform and took off running.
“Hey, hey!” the cop kept calling, now backing up. He pushed past the agent and ran out of the train, his handcuffs jangling on his belt. Brendan looked around, acting as if he was just now sensing some commotion, pulling one of the headphones from the side of his head, eyes wide. If the agent was clocking him, he didn’t really know, because he didn’t make direct eye contact. Instead he sort of half-stood in his seat, as people do when there is some drama happening, keeping one headphone pressed to his ear.
The businessman had set the paper aside and was craning his neck to look out the window. Brendan saw the cop run past. Finally he risked a glance at the front of the train. The agent was gone. He heard shouts coming from the platform. Then, nothing.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE / FRIDAY, 9:17 AM
Staryles didn’t want to look at the playback of Healy jumping on the northbound train out of Penn Station. He didn’t need to. He knew Healy’s mind, by now. He knew where Healy wanted to go. Staryles stood in the security room at Penn Station a half an hour after Healy had dispatched the three agents and outrun them to the train. Staryles was furious.
“Hey,” said the security guard playing the video for the NYPD. The small room was messy with that morning’s breakfast wrappers. The space was crowded, the wall was lined with soundproofing, like a recording studio. “Excuse me, but you can’t just come in here,” the guard squawked. That nasal, chirping version of the New York accent. “Who are you guys, anyway?”
Staryles didn’t answer him but turned to leave. He was blocked by a fence of fleshy NYPD cops, standing shoulder to shoulder. They scowled at him as he stared back at their large hairy arms, looking for a way to cut through them. He debated, for a second, taking out his weapon and sticking it in their faces. Sharpened that morning, his knife would enter them like butter, and when he retracted it the serrated back edge would tear through muscle and sinew. Or a sideways slash, maybe just cut a smile in the fat stomach of the one in front of him, let the entrails slip out.
Grudgingly, they parted, and he slipped through them and out of the cramped quarters. He was wasting his energy in there, and he knew it. He was still off his game, just slightly. With Heilshorn gone, the last seven months had required a serious adjustment to the new order. General Wick was a fake bast
ard, as much as he tried to wear the mask of a real human. And he had terrible hair.
Staryles descended the stairs to the main concourse at Penn Station. He slipped into the crowd, becoming one of them.
But that was how these things worked. Nothing ever happened with everybody involved in-the-know. Each person had limited information, enough to play their part. The cop sitting beneath the Sky Watch tower with its Panopticon glare on the demonstrators didn’t even know what he was guarding. The spies in the CIA were so caught up in their own convoluted operations that no one knew who to trust. The man driving to one of the CSS quarters in Pennsylvania in a Honda Civic with the lunchbox and the white hair and the glinting medals on his uniform never knew the ultimate decoded enemy message.
They knew only enough to effectively execute their specific orders. They were given assurances that any questions they may have, any concerns would be rightly addressed. And if, when certain events occurred, and they felt responsible, at least indirectly, and they didn’t agree with the results, they could be dealt with. There were a number of ways to change a person’s mind, to shut them down. It didn’t always have to be by killing, in fact, in some ways it was best not to be.
He reached the station exit and pushed his way out into the bright morning. He wiped his arms, as if they were covered in the germs from all the people in the train station. And of course they were. The world was full of germs. Viruses. People. It would be a better place with the numbers reduced. After a little cleansing.
His earbud chirped and he listened as Agent Ares informed him of the developments at 125th street.
“He’s not here.”
“What?” Someone bumped into Staryles as he stood on the sidewalk. People rushing about every which way.
“He’s not here. We searched the entire train. One guy got off and ran — not him. Some kid afraid we were sweeping for drugs. Had a gram of coke and two hundred cash on him. NYPD’s got him in custody.”
Staryles felt his skin prickle with perspiration under the rising, already blazing sun. He hated to sweat. Someone else checked him from behind. He didn’t even turn to look at who it was.
Ares continued. “It’s possible he got between the cars and jumped from the train before it came to a stop. NYPD is patrolling the tracks now, going back a mile. We had trouble, but we got a look at everyone at least.”
Staryles gritted his teeth.
“Let it go.”
“Yeah?”
Another pedestrian bumped into Staryles on the street, and he found himself fingering his knife.
Keeping hands off Healy had been the obvious choice to gain access to Sloane Dewan. Dewan had been working on software to update Dark Wallet, and they wanted it. First, however, he had refused visitation. So Wick had contacted the Attorney General and the two of them had set up the idea of the Nonsystem sting, and bringing in Jennifer Aiken. If she’d made it out of the last situation alive, maybe she could be of use. They had dangled a deal in front of Healy. But again, the stubborn bastard had refused. He’d gotten out on his own by turning the tables on the Deputy Warden, a slick move that even Staryles admired. And then at last they had her, coming to Healy at the Sheraton. But they got the room wrong. Healy had switched it on them. By the time they figured out where they really were, Healy had left.
But Staryles thought he knew where Healy was going. In fact, if he got going now in the Cutlass, he could beat the train.
“Let it go,” he repeated, and cut the transmission.
He dialed a number on his phone. He brought the phone to his mouth, his gaze scraping over the people in his midst. He watched them as he gave the destruction order for two of the data centers. He watched them closely, less angry with them now as they passed by and bumped him and lived their oblivious lives. Less angry, more content. Many of them were now going to die.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO / FRIDAY, 9:21 AM
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we apologize for the interruption. We’re going to resume the express schedule of the 8:08 AM Adirondacker train to Westport, NY, and points beyond. Thanks for your patience.”
The train began to roll forward.
The relief came as a blast of oxygen inflating his chest. Brendan wanted to stand up and shout and to grab one of his fellow passengers — the business man, the two older ladies — and hug them. But then the emotion passed, and he had a moment to reflect. He’d been nervous. But he hadn’t been afraid.
He’d already been to jail. What more could they do? Kill him?
And the relief dissipated like a sudden flurry of wind becoming calm, still, and he realized something.
For the first time since he tried to asphyxiate himself in the garage, he wasn’t afraid of death. If he’d died just now, his only regret would have been that he hadn’t yet reached Leah, and what lay beyond her.
And Sloane. But Sloane would have understood. She was part of something larger than herself now, too.
He realized he was still getting glances from some of the other passengers. They looked away as soon as he returned eye contact. He felt himself smiling.
There was a distant, muffled explosion, and a roll of black smoke plumed into the sky further down in the city. Brendan stared out the window, smile gone, his heart sinking. The explosion had come from downtown.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE / FRIDAY, 9:19 AM
The Liebherr yellow excavator across the street from 66 Hudson Street was moving. The body rotated and the claw-scoop end extended out over the single available lane of traffic. The cars in the street screeched to a halt, first two cabs, then a pickup truck, horns blaring. With the street already closed down to one lane, they were unable to pass. It wasn’t long before the cab drivers were standing outside their vehicles and shouting towards the machine.
The driver of the excavator climbed down, lifted his hands in the air, and shrugged. Behind him, the engine of the yellow machine was smoking. In the distance, coming from around 8th Avenue, there was more smoke on the horizon, and the sound of sirens.
People walking along, on the construction side, stopped to watch. The pickup truck was trying to back up in order to go down Thomas Street, half a block back. But its reverse route was obstructed when an SUV came up behind it and stopped. More horns honked and the pickup driver got out and started shouting at the SUV to back up.
The rear door to the SUV opened, and the pickup truck driver fell silent. He started to back away. A second later, a bullet took him in the shoulder and spun him round like a top. He collapsed in the street and the blood began to spread beneath him. Still alive, he was trying to crawl to the sidewalk when a figure in full black riot gear stepped over him and up onto the curb.
Two more black-clad figures exited the SUV. By now the passers-by were shouting and running for cover. There were flashes of light from the dark building across the street from 66 Hudson. Sniper-fire caught several civilians and dropped them to the ground. One of the black-clad figures exiting the SUV entered the cordoned-off area where the Liebherr excavator now sat unattended.
Randy, the security guard from the Hudson building, stepped out into the bright day, looking around at the entrance to the Downtown Art Gallery. He rushed towards the pickup truck driver, shouting at the cabbies to help. But the cabbies had gotten back inside their vehicles. The driver of the excavator had disappeared. Everyone else had scattered.
The security guard reached the pickup truck driver and got an arm beneath him. He was trying to help him to his feet when one of the snipers shot him in the side.
Randy howled in surprise and pain, dropped the truck driver and fell to the ground where he tried to roll away from any more shots. As he rolled, one of the men from the SUV, face covered entirely in black except for the eyes, walked slowly towards him, the tip of a sound-suppressed submachine gun pointed at Randy. Three other operatives in black gathered where the first was extracting something from the back of the excavator. He handed them each a bundle, which they carried across the street and took inside the b
uilding.
They moved quickly to the elevator. The receptionist sat stunned at her perch behind the front desk, her hands in the air, her face a twisted grimace of fear and confusion.
In the elevator, Agent Zeus pulled off his mask and swiped a hand across his face. “This has to be quick,” he said to the others. “Ninety seconds.” They nodded agreement. Zeus felt the excitement pumping through him, and he was eager to get the job done.
The doors opened to the top floor. A hail of bullets pummeled the rear of the elevator car. After a few seconds, the firing ceased, and the four operatives in black peeled themselves off the walls of the elevator and returned fire. They began marching into the room, their ammunition pulverizing everything, shattering the glass wall behind the long desk at the entrance to the Meet-Me-Room.
There were screams from inside the room as the busted glass crumbled to the floor. Once the operatives reached the front desk they rounded it and riddled the two security guards, all three of them firing at once, until Zeus broke away and was the first one through the ragged glass and into the room, with all of those servers humming, their red and amber eyes glowing in the din.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR / FRIDAY, 11:54 PM
Jennifer weaved through the traffic on route 6 in Cape Cod in the SUV she’d boosted from Rascher. Her eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror. Coming up behind her was a military caravan of vehicles; cars, Jeeps and trucks. Gaining on her quickly. She watched them close in. The lead car looked like an ordinary police car, and then the lights began flashing.
“Oh, you got to be kidding,” she said.
Two vehicles sped up on either side of the SUV, cops looking out at her. She tamped down on the gas pedal.
As she white-knuckled the steering wheel, and pushed the SUV past eighty miles per hour, she noticed something along the service road paralleling the three-lane highway. The streetlights were dark. Traffic had snarled around one intersection beside the highway and people were out of their cars. As she blew by them, she noticed one of the vehicles in the caravan on her heels break away from the back and take the exit to the service road.
DAYBREAK: a gripping thriller full of suspense (Titan Trilogy Book 3) Page 24
