Fury (The Butch Karp and Marlene Ciampi Series Book 17)

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  The Mole People decided it was their cue to cheer. “No!”

  Grale stood up and turned to Tran and Jojola. “Okay, before Lucy hits me again and removes the teeth I have left, what’s the plan?”

  A block away and ten minutes later, Al-Sistani stood as near to the bomb as he dared—not wanting to risk radiation poisoning. From above he could hear the thudding of rock bands and the faint cheers of the people gathering on Times Square. He looked at the boy, whom he’d had tied to one of the barrels, and then took a photograph on his digital camera. An award-winner for Al Jazeera, he thought happily. I’m sure his parents will appreciate knowing where their son spent his final moments.

  “How are you doing, boy?” he said. “Feel honored that you will be the first to die?”

  “Shove it, asshole,” Zak replied. “I know why you’re doing this.”

  “Oh?” Al-Sistani smiled. “Tell me.”

  “Because you’re so ugly, the girls you dated wore their veils across their eyes so they wouldn’t have to look at your face.”

  Enraged, Al-Sistani walked over to the boy and picked him up by his hair. The kid hadn’t shut up since they’d caught him. At first he’d wondered if the boy had been able to alert the authorities. But after they found the tall, young basketball player—the friend of the recruit, Rashad, lurking in the theater—he realized that the boy had simply followed his friend. Now it didn’t matter; the bomb was nearly ready. At eleven thirty he would give a signal to the martyr, who was working on the fuse beneath the scaffolding. The man would then wait for a half hour to allow Al-Sistani’s escape, and while every television station in the world was broadcasting the New Year’s Eve festivities in New York, the city would die.

  “What’s the matter, Pizza Face, the truth hurts?” the boy said and kicked him in the shins.

  Al-Sistani pulled his gun and was going to shoot the boy.

  “Leave him alone!” The challenge came from the basketball player, Khalif, who lay on the ground, tied up next to one of the rows of barrels.

  Al-Sistani whirled and walked over to Khalif, whom he kicked in the stomach. “Maybe I should shoot you instead?”

  “Allah curse you, you son of a pimp!”

  While somewhat tame by American standards, the traditional curse was one of the worst in the Arabic language, akin to saying, “Fuck you.” Al-Sistani pointed his gun at Khalif’s head and was about to pull the trigger when there was a burst of gunfire immediately behind him. He turned and saw Rashad pointing an assault rifle at the ceiling.

  “Khalif, dammit, what the fuck you doing here, dawg?” Rashad said.

  “Looking for you, brother.”

  “Shouldn’t have done that…we’re about set to blow up the New York Stock Exchange and this whole place is going to come down.”

  “Is that what you think? Is that what this motherfucker told you? Don’t you hear that cheering up above, brother? That’s Times Square. They’re planning on killing all those people up there.”

  Rashad, whose hands shook as he pointed the weapon at Al-Sistani, asked, “Is that true? Is that what this is all about? What was all that crap about destroying the economy but not killing people?”

  Al-Sistani shrugged. “This will destroy the economy…and kill infidels. But you have proved yourself not worthy of joining our glorious cause.” In the blink of an eye, he raised his gun and fired. A small hole appeared in the forehead of Rashad and then a trickle of blood as the young man collapsed to the ground.

  “Rashad!” Khalif cried out. “Oh God, you fucking murderer…”

  Al-Sistani silenced the young man with a kick to the head. He considered killing him and the boy. Not yet, he thought, they may yet be valuable as hostages. He listened again for the celebrations above and smiled. Firecrackers, he thought. The fools will soon have a much larger explosion to add to their celebration. Then a frown crossed his face. The sounds he thought were firecrackers came from the far end of the tunnel.

  Just then one of his men ran up. “We’re being attacked,” the man yelled.

  “Police?” Al-Sistani shouted back, ready to give the order to light the fuse as soon as he had time to get away and then flee.

  “No,” the man said and laughed. “Not unless the New York police are using old weapons and spears. We think it is that rabble we have seen in the tunnels. The rajim.”

  “Quit saying that,” Al-Sistani said angrily. “They are not rajim, or jinn …they are filthy infidels—murderers and thieves—who live in this cesspit because even other infidels will not tolerate them. Kill them and be done with it, or are you incompetent?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but they do seem to have a few trained men among them,” the man reported. “But we still outnumber them and have better weapons. We will deal with them shortly.”

  Al-Sistani thought about it for a moment. Neither federal agents nor the police were likely to enlist the scum who lived in the sewers and attacked with spears. He looked back at the man working on the fuse. “How much time before you are ready?” he yelled.

  “Fifteen minutes,” the man shouted back.

  Al-Sistani decided to go see what was occurring himself. But first he cut Zak loose from the barrel and dragged him up by his arm.

  “Let go of me, you dirtbag,” Zak said.

  Al-Sistani struck him in the face with the back of his hand. He expected the boy to cry and was surprised when he spit out blood and looked at him coolly. “You’ll pay for that.” He yanked the boy and began to march with his two bodyguards toward the tunnel entrance. The man who had reported on the battle with the rajim fell in with him.

  Back at the mouth of the tunnel, Marlene and Tran hunkered down as the wall behind them was hit by another spray of bullets from the men twenty-five yards beyond them. They knew where the men were because they received regular reports from Lucy, whom Grale had taken to the viewing area above the tunnel.

  Before launching their attack, Jojola had asked Grale, “Is there a way to come at them from behind?”

  “The leader’s escape tunnel,” Grale said. “It comes out in the basement of the Red Sea Lebanese restaurant on Sixty-fifth. But it is well guarded, and not just by the terrorists.”

  “Who else?” Jojola asked.

  “The only way to come at the escape route other than from the restaurant is to swim through a flooded sewer and beneath an iron grate,” Grale said.

  “That doesn’t sound pleasant but I’ve done worse,” Jojola said.

  “Yes, but it passes through what we call an unsecured tunnel,” Grale said.

  “What’s not secure?” Tran asked impatiently.

  “The others…my people refer to them as morlocks…or rajim, the cursed ones, as our Muslim friends like to call them. For some reasons known only to them, they seem to guard certain areas in down-world more than others, and that is one of them. We know about the sewer and grate, but no one can go there.”

  “I did it once,” a small man in a hooded robe said, stepping forward.

  “Roger, I’m glad they didn’t kill you,” Jojola said.

  “I am too tough though I’ve had a headache ever since.”

  “No more than you gave me.”

  “Call it even,” Roger said. “Back to this, I’ve been to that end before. It was some time ago, when the others weren’t as numerous, but I know the way.”

  Jojola smiled. “Are you willing to be my guide again?”

  “Six of one, half a dozen of another,” Roger said and shrugged. “There are going to be a lot of ways to die down here tonight. It’s pick one, and this is as bad as any.”

  “Take one of my men,” Tran said. “In case you have to fight your way through.”

  Jojola shook his head. “You’re going to need all of them if you’re going to have any chance. The Mole People may be brave, but they’re going to be up against well-trained fighters and a superior force. You’ll have to at least keep them occupied long enough for Roger and me to get through.”

 
“I’ll go,” Ned said. “I’m not going to be any more good here than I would be there, and besides, us cowboys and Indians need to stick together.”

  “I’m going, too,” Lucy had said.

  “No, you’re not!” Tran, Jojola, Ned, and Grale shouted.

  “Then what am I supposed to do?”

  Five minutes later, Lucy found herself lying on top of Beach’s tunnel peering down as the terrorists made their preparations. Jojola patted her on the arm and left. “Hasta la vista,” he said.

  “Hasta luego,”she replied. “Until we meet again.”

  Jojola left her alone with Ned. “I love you, Ned Blanchet,” she said. “You be careful.”

  “I love you, too, Lucy Karp. See you a little ways down the trail.”

  Lucy let herself sigh loudly. “You’re such a cowboy.”

  “Vaya con dios.”

  “Yes, go with God.”

  For some reason there’d been no word from Jojola shortly after he and Ned left. Now things were looking bleak. Tran’s men were dead, as were the Mole People who hadn’t already faded away. Even Gilgamesh, who’d accounted for several terrorists, lay bleeding from a gunshot wound in his side.

  The terrorists apparently had a side entrance to their tunnel and had used it to come around behind Marlene, Tran, and the remaining Mole People. Grale crawled over to Marlene and Tran. “There’s still time to flee. We can get Lucy and retreat to our cavern where we can wait for the end.”

  Marlene shook her head. “We have to hold out here as long as possible and give John a chance to get to the bomb.”

  “He may already be dead,” Grale said.

  “I know, but as long as there’s a chance, I have to remain.”

  Just then Lucy’s voice came over the radio. “I see the leader; he’s got Zak with him. He’s almost right below me.”

  Marlene looked at Grale, who answered the look. “I’m going. If I can save Zak, I will.” Then he was gone.

  Tran popped up to give him cover, shooting until his clip was empty. He dropped down again. “I have one clip left.”

  “I have most of one,” Marlene replied.

  “Well then, I guess this is it, my friend,” Tran said. “The end for you and me.”

  Marlene smiled and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. “I could not wish for better company to take this path with.”

  Tran nodded. “There is one good thing. As a Buddhist, I believe we will be reborn in forty-nine days, and since we will die at the same time, we will be reborn together. I can only hope that this time you return as a Vietnamese woman.”

  “I think you’d make a pretty cute Italian,” Marlene laughed.

  “Well, shall we do this,” Tran said.

  “Ready when you are.”

  On the far end of the tunnel, John Jojola, Ned Blanchet, and Roger were also fighting for their lives. At first their trip through various tunnels large and small had progressed without incident. But as they neared the end where Roger said they would come to the sewer, they’d suddenly been attacked by the others.

  The first warning had been the sound of scurrying in side tunnels and the occasional glimpse of luminous eyes through holes in the walls and thin white arms that reached out for them as they passed. They’d conserved their ammunition until a large group suddenly blocked the tunnel in front of them, charging them with spears and clubs.

  Jojola’s Mac-10 had killed the first three with a sound like corn popping, and Ned’s .45 had accounted for two more, by comparison blasting away like a cannon. The others had melted away, but the sound of scurrying and the shrieking of insane voices grew behind.

  They rounded another corner only to find the way blocked by more. Spears jabbed at them from the sides. Looking behind, they saw a large crowd—some of them gamboling forward on all fours, others sort of hopping. Jojola shot those in front, and Ned two more who reached at them from a side entrance, but it was clear that those coming from behind were gaining.

  “Go on,” shouted Roger. “The sewer is just ahead. Jump in and dive down about five feet until you reach the end of the grate. There is just enough room to get under. I’ll hold them off.”

  Jojola looked at the small man and noticed that part of a spear protruded from his side. “I’m finished,” Roger said. “But don’t worry, I’m going to meet my God.”

  “Take the gun,” Jojola said. “I will see you on the other side someday.”

  Roger smiled and took the machine gun. “I’ve always wanted to shoot one of these,” he said. “Now go.”

  Jojola and Ned ran forward and had just reached the edge of the sewer when they heard the gun go off behind them. It fired over and over again until it fell silent.

  “Go,” Jojola shouted to Ned who plunged into the water and disappeared beneath its fetid surface. He waited a moment and jumped in after. Feeling along the grate, Jojola squeezed beneath the bottom when he felt a pair of hands and then another grab him from behind and start to pull him back. He felt himself running out of air and suddenly he saw his body floating in dark, filthy water…away from the sun.

  “Come on, Jojola, are you going to let some half-wit morons finish you after all we went through,” Charlie Many Horses said. “I believe you have a son waiting for you to come home.”

  Well, how about a hand, Jojola thought back. He extended his arm and felt a strong grip take his hand and pull him beyond the grasp of his would-be killers.

  He came up on the other side, held firm by Ned Blanchet, gasping for air. “I thought you’d decided to go back and help Roger,” the young man said.

  “Roger’s beyond our help,” Jojola said, standing and drawing his knife. “But I believe he’s at peace. Now, let’s finish this.”

  Lucy jumped when Grale touched her leg. “Just your friendly local madman,” he said with a smile. “They still below?”

  She nodded and moved aside to let him look. He peeked through. Almost directly below him was one of the terrorists, and behind that one were three more, one of whom was holding Zak by the arm.

  Grale carefully slid the rest of the cover back, revealing a three-foot-square hole. “What are you doing?” Lucy whispered.

  Grale looked at her and put a finger to his lips. “Going to make like Batman, my little Robin.”

  “What…?” Lucy began to ask but there wasn’t time to finish her question as Grale looked down once more, then leaped through the hole.

  Lucy scooted back to the hole just in time to see Grale stand and lift the man he’d landed on to his feet. The other surprised terrorists had jumped back and looked on in terror as Grale spun the man around and, with a vicious slash of his long, curved knife, decapitated the hapless man, who stumbled forward before collapsing into a puddle of water.

  The remaining terrorists—including the one leading the way, who pulled Zak—retreated. She could hear them beseeching Allah for protection.

  Lucy scrambled up and crawled as fast as she could to the next viewing spot. She looked down as a terrorist turned and tried to shoot Grale, screaming, “Shaitan!” But he panicked and his shots went wide. He had no time to shoot again.

  In a fury Grale closed, his knife arced through the area, and the man’s head rolled from his body. “Hurry, he’s coming,” shouted the leader to the last man behind him.

  However, the third man stumbled and fell against an opening in the tunnel that gave way to a dark space. Suddenly, thin white arms reached out and grabbed him. “Help me, the rajim have me!” Then the man was pulled back into the dark space where he screamed again. There was the sound of scurrying and a whispering, excited voice; then the screaming stopped.

  The man with Zak retreated back to the end of the tunnel and turned to face Grale. “Stay were you are, Iblis,” the man shouted.

  Lucy could see the muscles of the man’s pitted face twitching with fear; his eyes, as wide and luminous as twin full moons, were almost insane with hatred and terror. He pulled Zak’s head back with one hand and with the other pulled a
knife from his belt.

  Lucy screamed. “Zak!” But no one heard her.

  Grale advanced toward the man, his knife held loosely in his hand. He tensed to pounce, but a shot rang out and instead he fell to his knees.

  To Lucy’s horror, several more terrorists ran up and surrounded Grale.

  Down on the tunnel floor, Al-Sistani smiled and shoved the boy down to the ground. “Good work, men,” he said, recovering from his own fear of the dark-robed man. He walked up to Grale and kicked him in the head, sending him sprawling, unconscious.

  “What news from the tunnel entrance?” he asked the men surrounding the wounded man.

  “Allah be praised, only two still lived when we left,” one man said with a grin. “They are warriors, and fighting fiercely, but our men were preparing to rush their position. We heard firing just before we arrived. They must be dead by now.”

  “Excellent. Now see how the enemies of Allah die,” he shouted and turned to shoot Zak, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. Then he looked over to where the basketball player knelt facing him. Al-Sistani could see the boy hiding behind him.

  “Murderer,” Khalif spat. “You shouted for Iblis. Well, he waits for you in the eternal fires.”

  Al-Sistani laughed and raised his gun. But suddenly there was the sound of a dozen angry bees and his men crumpled to the ground. Al-Sistani looked up and immediately knew that his chances of escaping had evaporated.

  Advancing in short runs up the tunnel, black-clothed men wearing bulletproof vests came toward him. “Hands up,” shouted their leader, a middle-aged man with short gray hair. “Get your fucking hands where I can see them.”

  Al-Sistani whirled toward the man with the fuse. I hope it’s true there are seventy-two virgins in paradise for every martyr, he thought, then shouted, “Light the fuse!”

  Then to his shock, the man beneath the scaffolding pulled the mask off his face. “Sorry, pendejo,” the man said, “no can do.” He held up a man’s head. “You looking for this guy, maybe?”