by English, Ben
The voice on the other end was pinched, irritated. “I was trying to find Raines or Christine on the security cameras. The elevators sort of got away from me.”
“Sort of got away?” There it was, a list of notices and operating procedures printed in light red on the backside of the call box door. IN CASE OF FIRE, LIFT WILL PROCEED TO BASEMENT. USE STAIRS, it supplied helpfully. Jack worked a kink out of his neck, then calmly kicked the little door from its hinges.
“You alright, Jack?” Steve asked. “The system’s acting like there’s a real fire somewhere in the building.”
He was already pushing at the ceiling escape hatch. “Here’s one you won’t see in the movies, Steve,” he said, and dropped back to the floor as he pulled his gun. Three shots rang out like one-note thunder in the confined space, and the hatch tumbled back with a clatter and a crash that sounded tinny and far-off to Jack’s ringing ears. He planted a foot on the waist-high rail that ran the inner circumference of the cabin, and levered himself onto the roof.
“Any chance you can get control of this again?” he shouted. The noise in the shaft was tremendous. He couldn’t see any sort of ladder built into the wall, like those in movies used by the hero to escape and rescue the damsel in distress. Well, hell.
And it was lighted, which surprised him. Besides the cables and the bolstering lines for the other two elevators, a bright, almost glossy column ran up one wall, half hidden by iodized piping and sectioned, segmented steel wire casing. It embraced a sharp white light, much, much brighter than the conventional phosphorescent flame. No, he decided. Fire was the wrong analogy. He could feel a chill radiating across the gap. What lay before him was something even more elemental. This was heatless, liquid energy, almost plasma. Though it was crisscrossed with cables, its unchanging brightness lent it the illusion that the glossy pillar was keeping pace with Jack as the rest of the shaft flew upward around them both.
Ghostly blue-tinged light played just under the surface of the glass, and Jack felt a ripple pass over his skin. The small hairs on his arms stood erect.
Jack stared at it for a long moment, possibilities unraveling across his mind’s eye. Ian had found some monstrous device in the sub-basement.
--Intense Broadband Capability–Tower Transmits Crystal-Clear Images Using New Technology--.
Weak light behind him playing out over the laminated poster, an illusion of rising, furious energy coruscating over an enormous, electronics-laden disk—
Tesla.
The elevator halted, started moving upward again. Steve’s voice was a mixture of exasperation and fatigue. “There, is it working yet?”
Jack wiped his lips and checked the load in his pistol. It was a Glock-24; nearly identical to his lost -22, though a touch heavier. More importantly, the -24 also accepted a 15-round magazine, so his spare ammunition would fit.
Then, music sounding faintly through the wall. Someone must have left a stereo playing in their haste to obey the fire alarm, he mused.
It was a song he’d listened to during swimming workouts, years ago. Pride, by U2. “One more, in the name of love,” he murmured absently along with the music, eyes upward. The glowing tube, the malevolent pillar of frigid fire, was a bright line through the abyss above him as far as he could see.
The elevator’s speed doubled, leaving the song behind. Jack soared upward, into the gloom.
Heights
Ian leaned back into the bulldog cop who’d shackled him, feigning weakness. If he ducked his head he could see his gun amidst the pile of equipment the bobbies had removed from him and dumped on the hood of the police cruiser. Several of them stood around it, one was shaking the phone they’d yanked from him, trying to get a dial tone. Splashes of red light cast each man’s face in an expressionless, deathlike mask. They’d been so interested in his collection of gadgets and gimcrackery they’d left his wallet untouched.
Ian gritted his teeth as the constable yanked him to his feet. Should’ve removed the Bureau ID. They’d get to it soon enough.
“This bloke’s done up right proper,” said one of the policemen at the car. “He’s got as many weapons as one of Lopez’s couriers.” That got him another round of dirty looks. Boy, were they in for a surprise when they looked in his billfold—
While Ian made apologetic faces at the glowering bobbies, his hands were busy behind him. Bit by bit, he worried his last lock pick from a concealed pouch under the back of his belt. He wondered who he should thank for shackling him in the old-fashioned, sawtooth handcuffs–the new, seamless rubber ones were nearly impossible to pick.
“Look at this, boys.” The same cop who’d spoken before held up a packet of cigarettes. He’d peeled back the wrapping enough to expose the heads of six mini-missiles packed inside.
Ian pushed the slender rod into the path of the ratchets, inserted it delicately like a shim under the teeth of the cuff, began to press–and then lost his grip on the pick as the cop shook him. “I said, what do ya think yer doing with this kind of contraband, mister wee beard-man, if you please?” He thrust a grenade under Ian’s nose. “And what the ‘ell is this thing?”
It was obvious they hadn’t seen military grenades yet, at least this particular packaging. Ian frowned and stammered, knitting his brows together while his concealed hand groped for the lock pick. He almost let the relief explode across his face when he found it still jammed in the handcuffs.
Now the hard part. He pushed the pick as hard as his curled, cramping fingers allowed, squeezing the cuffs even further closed with his free thumb. Metal bit into his flesh. Pain knifed up his arm–
And then the narrow rod slipped past the locking ratchet and triggered the release. He awkwardly shoved the pick back into his waistband.
“Look, you bugger, we’ll get the truth out of ya one way or t’other, now--”
Ian spoke, startling the red-faced constable. “You know, there’s just one thing I don’t like about you fellas finding out who I am and where all the special gear comes from.”
“What might that be?”
“Because then I could probably never bring my wife here on vacation.” He drove his heel down hard, scraping the shin of the cop who held him, feeling the skin grate away. As the man screamed, Ian stepped forward and snatched the flash-bang. He looked the senior officer dead in the eye. “We mean no harm to your planet,” he said, and triggered the grenade.
Ian was already ducking into a crouch as he tossed the disk straight up, covering his ears and opening his mouth wide. The explosion knocked him flat anyway, and he tasted cold, wet macadam flavored with his own blood. It sounded like someone had ripped open a portal on the threshold of a howling Hell barely a meter above their heads.
As soon as he was able, Ian drove himself back to his feet and looked about. Thankfully, his glasses had not shattered. A wave of shock and panic rippled out through the crowd from his epicenter, and he noticed immediately that those policemen not blinded or knocked flat outright had immediately turned out to the crowd, some obviously searching for him, others seeing to the needs of the staggering mass of Londoners.
Ian threw himself across the hood of the police cruiser, scooping up what he could of his equipment, including his gun and wallet. He shoved past a stumbling officer and dodged into the crowd.
The sweat running off Steve’s palms was so cold and greasy-thick he was tempted to wring out his hands. He activated one after another of the surveillance cameras, searching in vain for the cluster of men he and the major had glimpsed. An old-fashioned paper blueprint lay spread out on the floor next to him; he constantly glanced back and forth from it to his screen. It was apparent that Raines had made at least more than one last-minute alteration to his building’s design. Down this hall? No, nothing that way but construction; no egress there. What about this one? No, it lead straight out onto the roof. Steve swore. The interior of the Illuminatus was straightforward enough, but all the slanting, canted roofs and connecting walkways on its exterior bothered him
.
And what was with the statuary? Workman’s sketches along the borders of the blueprints showed the positioning of some of the most obscure images Steve had ever laid eyes on. According to the notes on the border, Raines himself had sculpted the original models of what now stood guard outside the building. Steve saw one or two that actually looked uplifting. All the rest were grotesque. A few of them looked almost human, but normal men and women were never designed to live through such agony as was evident by their posture and expression. The portly man shuddered involuntarily. What could Raines have possibly seen in his life that would conjure up such warped creations?
The phone hummed briefly.
“Hello?”
“Steve? This is Ian, thank God I got the right number this time! I just called some lady in Sussex!”
“What?”
“Never mind. I’m calling from a pay phone in the park. What’s going on up there? Two fire trucks just pulled up and the place is lousy with cops. Least I think they’re cops; nobody I can see’s got a gun. What’s going on?”
Steve wiped his hands on his shirt. “That’s a little complicated right now. “ His fingers resumed their dance over the keyboard as Steve activated set after set of surveillance cameras.
“Raines and whoever is with him are moving, and they’ve got nowhere to go but up. Alonzo just tripped a motion sensor on the thirty-fifth floor; he and Jack and the major are going to meet up there. No contact from Brad or Solomon–they may be down.” Steve gritted his teeth and continued. “The Sikorsky is up here, all prepped and warm--looks like somebody’s going for a little trip, and tonight. Can you get around the police?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
“Then get up here as quick as you can. Listen, there’s a service elevator in the back of the building, it comes straight up to where the construction starts. Hurry! I don’t need to tell you how badly we’re outnumbered.”
The D-11 squad moved fast and quietly up through the darkened hallways. “Looks as though nearly all of Harrods is clear,” the team leader whispered into his helmet-mounted radio, then turned, sweeping slowly over the dim racks and shelves of sporting goods for the benefit of the anascopic camera, also mounted on his headgear. Modeled after their SWAT counterparts in America, the officers of the D-11 carried the best array of anti-terrorist equipment available to law enforcement. “Proceeding to the next level–hold up. Blake, right ahead.” A huge figure advanced toward them, resolving out of the dark like some ponderous juggernaut.
“Put up your arms and come forward slowly!” He shouted at the enormous man, lifting his sidearm and taking aim.
The large, black male–nearly half as wide as he was tall, held a smaller man in his arms. At least one of them was bleeding, most likely the small Asian, as he was covered by a profusion of bandages.
Oddly, the bald giant held a dignity about himself, a strength and an assurance reserved for nobility. He might have been a member of the ruling class addressing an embassy from a distant court as he said, “I assume you gentlemen are skilled medics as well as sharpshooters. My friend requires expert attention, instantly.”
Jack, Alonzo, and the major came together in a tight, black knot on the thirty-fifth floor. “Talk, Steve,” whispered Jack into his mouthpiece as he glared up at a camera. Alonzo and Major Griffin were quickly, professionally checking their guns and loosening extra clips of ammunition. This would have to be quick.
“Uh, uh, okay, I got it!” Steve breathed excitedly. “There are three groups of guards moving on your floor. Raines and more than half-a-dozen guys in light-colored suits are headed parallel to you, in the third corridor to your . . . right. They’ve got about (he counted under his breath) a hundred yards to go until they get to the corner, then another hundred to the north stairway. They’ll walk right past your hallway.” Jack looked at his two companions. Their expressions confirmed they were getting the feed as well. “I can’t make out what–wait, Raines and two other guys are walking about fifty feet behind the others, and one for sure is carrying a little kid!”
“No time to do this by the book.” said Jack to the other two. “Get ahead of them and cause a diversion, I’ll make the grab. Meet me in the wing that shoots off the other section of the building, this same floor.” Without a word they dashed off, running silently. Jack slipped around the corner and ghosted through an unfurnished office. The smell of new carpet enveloped him. If the plans he’d studied on the train were correct, beyond where he would intercept Raines would be a balcony across the face of the central tower that connected the two main wings. He prayed the construction workers were on schedule.
Near the stairwell to the north, Alonzo and the major worked on opposite sides of the hall, lightly slapping their flash-bang grenades against the corridor’s wall and then waiting the fraction of a second it took for each to adhere. Thanks to Steve’s timely heads-up, Alonzo figured they could trigger the flash-bangs and then hose the goons in front before Raines and the princess even rounded the corner.
The beat of disciplined, hard footfalls approaching them was maddeningly close.
Alonzo took an instant to look over the major’s work and nodded admiringly. She knew what she was doing, setting her three charges high, medium, and low on the wall so as to create the widest possible flash. He was surprised to catch her scrutinizing his own placement. They traded tight grins and stepped back into doorways on either sides of the hall. “I’ll go high, you stay low,” she whispered across the digital connection.
Alonzo ran his thumb around the detonator stud and wondered briefly if the Eurotrash they were facing had anything better than his Heckler and Koch MP-5 submachine gun. He’d soon find out.
Ian left the steel cage of the construction elevator and quickly got his bearings. Much of the top several floors lay uncompleted–but he managed to find a path through the joists and support columns to the more finished hallways and chambers near the building’s center. He’d overshot the thirty-fifth level by at least one floor, unable to judge correctly in the unmarked cab of the construction lift.
Further down the hall, the elevator chimed. Ian immediately took a defensive position in the doorway, training his weapon on the slanting block of light. He waited a long moment, evening his breathing, sweeping his thoughts clean, even smiling a little to help himself relax, waiting, waiting for something to enter his kill zone.
Solomon stepped out of the elevator, his face a mask of concentration. He looked right at Ian, then nodded.
Ian felt like yelling at the top of his lungs, but choked the stress deep down inside, blocked it off. “Hey,” was all he said.
“Where’s Jack and the others?” Solomon asked, sidestepping quickly out of the light. He held a long, heavy rifle in one hand. In the movement, Ian noticed the wetness–blood?--covering the front of his friend’s ninja suit. Solomon followed his eyes downward, and said, “It’s Brad’s. He’s being cared for right now.”
Quickly, they traded information. Solomon was at a loss to explain why the elevator worked for him. “It was the only one to respond after I pushed the call button. The rest are evidently in the basement. Fire’s taken three floors below, in the east wing.
“D-11 has surveillance and sniper units in position on some of the surrounding buildings, scanning the surface with infrareds. They won’t be of much help; the Tower is much too tall, and the wind is picking up. More clouds, more rain.”
Ian smoothed his beard. “Take up a position near the main stairs?” he offered.
“Tactically risky. Four stairways, remember? We’ll need to sweep them all.” He pointed.
Ian fell into place at his side. Motioning to the long, thick weapon, he said, “Plan on hunting some Cape buffalo or rhinoceros tonight?”
Solomon lifted the elephant gun. “.410 caliber. ‘At Harrods, sir, we carry everything.’”
Raines laid his hand on Michael’s shoulder, slowing the big Chinese and the other bodyguard. Michael shifted the limp
child to his other shoulder, then looked quizzically down at his employer. Raines stared intently ahead as the last of the advancing men rounded the corner. His teeth gleamed in the half-light from the single florescent bulb before them, and he cocked his head, as if listening to something.
“Wait,” he said suddenly. “We’ll have to take another route, my sons.”
Unquestioningly the two other men turned back, and blinked in surprise at the face that seemed to carve itself out of the blue shadows behind them. Raines gasped.
Jack clicked his tongue, winked, and spun into a blur, his foot driving upward and into the smaller bodyguard’s Adam’s apple, actually slamming the man up and backward into Raines. In the same motion he lashed his other foot sideways into Michael’s knee, folding the huge man toward him and pitching Michael’s burden directly into Jack’s arms.
Then a bright light flared behind them, and a shattering, palpable roar sundered the hallway. Raines shoved Chomriel’s limp form to one side and grappled at Jack, but lost his balance. He wrenched himself to his feet in time to see Jack Flynn, eyes seething, toss something small and black and round into the hall from the room he’d entered.
Then Michael heaved into Raines with enough force to knock both men back through another doorway as the hall exploded into a blindingly white fireball.
Take no pleasure, feel no regret, just move. From his supine position on the floor, Alonzo watched the six men die. The two million-candlepower flash combined with the 185 decibel bang had caught them totally off guard, and he and the major had opened fire immediately. Alonzo didn’t relish death; he’d never come to terms with actually enjoying killing as had most of the professional shooters he’d met. He didn’t wonder what thoughts choked through each man’s head as he fell, or what metaphysical reasoning process the major–a woman–was engaged in behind her own blazing, cannon-like gun. He didn’t mourn the passing of Raines’ hired killers, or contemplate what marks their cries–pitiably weak--left on his soul.
