70
Carver and I didn’t talk much after that. There really wasn’t much more to say. I tried making some more small talk, but Carver wasn’t having any of it. I even asked the black mask by the door to give us a few seconds to talk in private, but of course there was no response. And so we sat in silence for a long time—minutes, what may have been an hour—before a radio squawked from beneath the black mask’s robe. The black mask brought it out, spoke softly, listened to another squawk, then moved to the door and opened it.
Ten seconds later several black masks swarmed into the room. Half of them went to Carver, the other half came to me. A few others stood off to the side, Uzis in their hands, a friendly reminder of what could happen if either of us got unruly.
I considered it, I really did. When the black masks came and began cutting the zip ties holding me in place, I considered making a move. What move that would be, however, was the biggest question. Whoever these men and women were behind the black masks, they were pros. They were well trained. They were killers. They wouldn’t think twice putting a bullet in my head. Carver, on the other hand, was different. He still had a purpose. The members of the Inner Circle were waiting to watch him die.
But what could I possibly do now with over a dozen black masks surrounding us? Even if I managed to do something and incapacitate one or two of them—or hell, if we’re daydreaming, all of them—Carver was too weak to move on his own. He’d already told me as much, and I knew he wasn’t lying. He might manage to climb out of the wheelchair, but he would take only a few steps before falling back down.
So I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even give up the slightest struggle. Everything in my body told me I was a coward for letting it happen, but there wasn’t much more I could do besides tire myself out. I still had hope the Kid and everyone else might have a chance to save us. And if not them, then maybe Bae and his crew. And if not them, well, I had led an interesting life. I could at least go out knowing that.
They wheeled Carver out of the room first. Two of them grabbed me by both arms and pulled me to my feet and marched me out after him. Another black mask stayed directly behind me, covering me with a weapon. I knew that for certain, because the steel barrel kept digging into my back.
We went down a hallway and turned a corner to a set of stairs. Four of the black masks picked up Carver’s wheelchair and carried him down the stairs. The black masks gripping my arms pushed me forward.
I said, “What, I don’t get carried too?”
None of them answered, unless you wanted to count the gun barrel pressed even harder into my back.
Down the stairs then to another hallway, which was darker. I thought about the pictures I’d seen of the Fillmore, about the floor plans the Kid had managed to secure, and knew we were behind stage. This was confirmed a few seconds later after a black mask stepped forward with a roll of duct tape, cut off two ends, placed one strip over Carver’s mouth, another over mine, and then we were rushed through a door into near-darkness.
Several more black masks were waiting behind the curtain. One of them stepped away from the others and approached us. A gloved hand tilted the mask up onto the top of the head, and Clark smiled at me.
“That secret I mentioned earlier? It’s coming soon.”
He stepped back as the black masks took me to a folding chair. Just like they did back in the previous room, they pushed me down into the chair and began securing my wrists and ankles with zip ties. It took three of them to do my legs, one to hold each foot (I guess they worried I would kick out, though I couldn’t imagine where they would ever get that idea), the third to tighten the zip tie around the chair legs and my ankles.
One of them had a radio and set it aside on the floor to do this. I didn’t give it much thought until the radio made a strange noise. The volume was turned low, so it could just barely be heard, but it was quiet enough back here that it was momentarily the loudest thing. The noise wasn’t a squawk so much as a ballooning sort of noise, first low and then high and then low again. I don’t think the black mask noticed it at all—like I said, I barely did myself—but Clark was standing nearby, and he noticed it.
“What was that?” he whispered.
The three black masks paused long enough to glance up at him.
Clark crouched down in front of me. The black masks had already tightened the zip ties around my ankles, so he clearly wasn’t worried about being kicked in the head. The three black masks moved away, the one even reaching for the radio.
“Leave it,” Clark said.
The black mask left the radio where it was.
Clark gave me a look before picking up the radio. He moved it around my left foot first, slowly, but got no strange response. Then he moved it around my right foot, slowly, and yep, that strange response happened again, that low and then high and then low noise.
Another black mask stepped up next to us and whispered, “What’s wrong?”
Clark didn’t answer. He moved the radio around my right foot again, even slower this time. When the noise came again, he grabbed my shoe and pulled it up far enough so he could move the radio underneath.
The low and high and low noise came again, this time even louder.
“What’s wrong?” the black mask asked again.
Clark shot me a glare. I just stared back at him. Even if the duct tape wasn’t over my mouth, I wasn’t sure what I would say. Probably Oh shit. Most definitely Oh shit.
Clark tugged the shoe off my foot, then held the radio up to the heel. Again, that strange warbling noise, much stronger now.
He handed the radio to the black mask and then began to twist the heel back and forth. It didn’t take long before the damned thing popped off. It didn’t take much longer before Clark pulled the transmitter out of the hollow space it had been hiding in. It took even less time for Clark to drop it on the floor and smash it with the heel of his own shoe.
“Notify Caesar,” he said to the black mask. “Tell him they’ve been bugged the entire time. Tell him I recommend putting off the Pax Romana presentation to the very end. Tell him I recommend killing these motherfuckers first.”
71
“Shit,” the Kid said. “Shit, shit, shit, shit!”
The second communication feed from Ben had just gone dead. They’d found it—how, the Kid wasn’t exactly sure—and they had destroyed it—the Kid had a pretty good idea how they did that—and now he didn’t know what was going on inside. The Fillmore had a limited security feed, but the entire thing had been shut down for tonight, so he had no eyes inside either.
Ronny said, “What’s wrong?”
Only the Kid had been listening in on Ben’s second feed. Only he had heard about Ian being a backstabbing motherfucker—he had already called Graham and told him to split ASAP—and only he had heard Congresswoman “Frank” Houser and Caesar. And now only he had heard that Ben and Carver were headed toward their execution.
“They found the second transmitter,” the Kid said.
“Who found it?” Maya asked.
“One of Caesar’s people. They destroyed it. I have no idea what’s happening inside right now. Drew, you notice anything happening from your position?”
“Negative.”
“What about you, Mason?”
“No.”
Ronny said, “Any word on the Koreans?”
“We don’t even know if they’ve made it in,” the Kid said. “And if they have, it doesn’t matter. We can’t wait any longer. It’s time to crash the party.”
72
Augustus apparently approved of every one of Clark’s recommendations, and the black masks went into overdrive making sure everything fell into place.
Clear plastic tarps—seriously, they must have bought them in bulk from some clear plastic tarp megastore—were laid out on the stage. Carver was wheeled toward the center, right behind the curtain. Several black masks picked up my chair and moved me next to him. They did this all as quickly and as quietly as possi
ble. Then, just as quickly and as quietly, the black masks disappeared.
A minute passed. We could hear the members of the Inner Circle on the other side of the curtain. Like before, there were no murmurs or whispers circulating around the auditorium, but the soft shushing of their robes as black masks escorted them to their seats.
Augustus appeared off stage. The faint light was just enough to glimmer off the gold mask. He spoke briefly with Clark. He waited several seconds before the spotlight came on. Then he stepped out onto stage. The auditorium erupted into to an uproarious applause.
Through the curtain we watched him walking in his slow, measured pace toward center stage. He held up his arms, signaling for silence. That silence soon came, and then he spoke.
“Friends, Romans, countrymen, again lend me your ears!”
Again, the audience ate it up, and the applause swelled like a tumor just waiting to burst.
• • •
DREW STARED THROUGH the scope of his rifle at the front of the Fillmore. A few people walked back and forth—clearly civilians—but that was it. Beverly squatted beside him. She had the night vision binoculars propped up on the ledge. Neither of them had spoken much since they came up here and assembled his rifle and tripod mount and got everything ready. He had made himself so small that none of Caesar’s people—and he had to assume Caesar’s people were out here somewhere, watching for someone like him—could see him. Beverly was to be his spotter, but she was also supposed to help keep his ammunition full. It was a lot to ask of her—she didn’t care for weapons of any kind and she had next to no field experience—but she hadn’t complained once. She hadn’t said much, either. Again, neither of them had. They just waited up here on the top of the building, a block away from the Fillmore, twenty-eight stories up from the street. Just waiting for something to happen. Soon it would, because the Kid had told them about losing communication, and Ronny had confirmed they were on their way. And now, in Drew’s earpiece (just as in Beverly’s earpiece), Ronny’s voice came through: “Three blocks away.”
• • •
AUGUSTUS HELD UP his hands again for silence.
“I understand the interlude was entertaining for many of you. The live games we set up went very well. There was, however, an incident at one of the games. Fortunately, nobody was hurt. I assure you, we were in control of the situation the entire time. The person responsible thought he was working under subterfuge, when in reality we were tracking his every movement. This person, in fact, came to try to save the Man of Honor. This person, as you well may know, failed, and so his death tonight will accompany the Man of Honor. Brothers and sisters, I present to you the Man of Honor and the Man of Wax!”
The curtain rose, and suddenly more spotlights came on, glaring down on both of us.
And the audience went wild.
• • •
THE KID SAT leaning forward in his chair, his elbows on the table, staring at the computer screen. Watching the yellow dots situated around the Fillmore. Watching in particular the two yellow dots that were right now moving toward it. In his earphones, Ronny said, “Two blocks away.”
• • •
AUGUSTUS LET THE applause go on longer than before. Finally he held up his hands again, and the crowd quieted.
“For years the Man of Honor has waged a personal battle against us. He tried to stop what we were doing, and when that cost him his family, he promised revenge. But look at what revenge has brought him. The Man of Honor has become weak and pathetic. He is quite near death. And before tonight is over, he will beg for death. They both will!”
• • •
MASON PRESSED HIS back against the wall and rose to his feet. He reached into his dirty coat and gripped the Uzi. He heard the constant traffic on the street, but he also heard Ronny and Maya in the distance. The low growl of the engine. The heavy weight rolling over the pavement. It could have been anything, really, but Mason knew it was them, and he was ready. His hand gripped tightly around the Uzi. His other hand reached for his gun. Staring intently at the front of the Fillmore, while further up the street that low growl and heavy rolling neared. In his ear, Ronny said, “One block away.”
• • •
AS THE CROWD roared again, four black masks came on stage. Two of them carried a long table topped with the same tools that had been used in the Torture Room: knives, pliers, hammers, saws. They set the table down and turned and headed back off stage. Two other black masks stayed. One of them, I knew, was Clark. This was confirmed almost immediately when he came up to stand directly behind me. He leaned down and whispered, “Are you ready for that secret now?”
• • •
MAYA HELD ON tight. She had been in many different kinds of vehicles before—especially during her past life—but had never once ridden in an armored security truck. She’d seen them countless times, of course, but had never actually sat in one. It wasn’t as comfortable as she would have liked. The truck wasn’t meant for high speeds, and Ronny was pushing it as hard as he could. They’d been parked blocks away, in a side street garage. The truck wasn’t stolen—they were “borrowing” it—but it wasn’t common to see armored trucks parked along the side of the street, especially at this time of night. So they waited in that garage, and now here they were, barreling down West 43rd Street, less than a block away, Ronny’s fingers white against the steering wheel. He didn’t slow, didn’t even tap the brakes. He just jerked the wheel to the left and sent them up over the curb straight toward the glass entrances doors of the Fillmore.
• • •
THE APPLAUSE WAS just dying down when we heard it from somewhere outside the auditorium. It wasn’t clear at first what it was—some kind of sudden but dull explosion—but everything went still and silent at the same time. Clark had just breathed in, ready to say whatever he meant to say next, but instead leaned back. For a moment, the world was frozen in place. Then, suddenly, the auditorium was swallowed by darkness.
73
My wrists were tied behind my back to the chair, and my ankles were tied to the legs of the chair, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t move completely. There was still some give—just a little—and right after the lights went out, I leaned as far as I could to the right before immediately shoving all my weight to the left. That was where Clark had been standing only a moment earlier, and I was hoping he hadn’t moved.
He hadn’t.
He wasn’t as close as I would have liked, either, but I had to work with what I was given. It was enough, though, that the bulk of my weight went into him. He wasn’t expecting it, and went down hard. We both did. The chair was metal, so it wasn’t like it could snap apart (though I was hoping), and quite honestly, I wasn’t sure where things would go from there. Whatever was happening, it was going to happen fast, and I couldn’t waste a second.
Gunfire erupted in the auditorium, first coming from the balcony, then from all over.
Emergency lights came on a second later. They were scattered around the auditorium and backstage, but there weren’t many, and their combined glow didn’t bring much light.
Directly following the emergency lights came the fire alarm. It was a high-pitched blaring, and the dim radiance of the emergency lights was accompanied by a sudden and faltering strobe, cutting everyone’s rushed and hasty motions into half second snapshots. Those in the auditorium were already climbing to their feet, shouting and screaming.
I looked over at where Augustus Caesar had been standing only seconds ago. He was gone.
More gunfire started up somewhere backstage, coming from multiple weapons. Some of the reports were from semi-automatic handguns, spaced out a half second apart, while other reports were a nonstop stream of bullets, mostly from Uzis.
Most of my chair and myself had fallen onto Clark. He groaned and crawled out from under me, pushing the chair aside. I watched his stunted movements from the strobes situated around the stage. He tore his mask off and glared down at me. He lifted his foot, meaning, I think,
to smash me in the face. Before he could, though, the gunfire neared us and he ducked away. He dropped his mask to the floor, reached for a gun under his robe, but someone was hurrying toward us, firing at him, and he dove over the side of the stage into the front row of the frantic crowd.
A black mask sprinted toward me, the movement just as rushed and hasty in the strobes as everyone else’s. The black mask was carrying an Uzi. The black mask’s other hand reached underneath its robe to come back with something long and black. The black mask flicked its wrist and a silver blade jerked out from the handle.
I watched this happening—the black mask coming closer and closer, an Uzi and knife in each hand—and did everything I could to free myself from the chair. But the zip ties were too tight. What little room I’d had was enough to tip the chair over into Clark. That was it.
The black mask came to a stop right over me. It leaned down, extending the knife. I clenched my teeth, took a breath, waiting for it to happen, for the blade to slice into my heart.
Instead, the black mask cut the ties binding my wrists in place, before moving to the two front legs of the chair. Seconds later, I was back on my feet, breathing hard, staring at the black mask.
“Which one are you?” I asked.
The gloved hand gripping the knife reached up to take off the black mask so I could see his face.
The Inner Circle (Man of Wax Trilogy) Page 36
