by Lee Goldberg
Get rid of Shaw.
With pleasure.
Things were slowing, the words becoming clearer, the pain becoming more acute. His stomach suddenly heaved, vomit spilling out of his mouth and nose in deep wrenching gags and splattering on the basement floor.
His stomach empty, his body sagged and he felt chilled, shivering, his sides aching from bearing his weight and the stress of his violent regurgitations. Nostrils swelled with vomit.
What a great day this has been, Macklin thought, breaking into painful laughter, vomit dripping out of his nose.
The laughter was just what he needed to force back the helplessness and summon whatever energy and resolve he had left.
The laughter ebbing, he regarded the handcuffs and pipe anew, scrutinizing them for any exploitable weakness. His eyes narrowed on the valve several feet down the length of the pipe. The valve. He felt a surge of hope. The valve meant he was not bound to one continuous length of pipe but to two smaller pipes connected by the valve. If he could free the section of pipe he was attached to from the valve, he could escape.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Macklin began to swing his body, the arcs becoming larger and less agonizing with each pass. When the momentum was at its peak, Macklin strained the muscles of his lower back and brought his legs up and wrapped them around the pipe. He stayed like that for a moment, eyes closed, catching his breath and fighting back the waves of pain that swept his body.
Relax, it's just pain.
Opening his eyes, he saw the pipe directly over his face. With a deep breath, he slid along the pipe, drawing his body along with his legs. The valve grew closer. A clock ticked loudly in his head. Each second brought Shaw closer to death—if he wasn't dead already. Or Sliran could return and exact his excruciating brand of revenge.
Macklin stopped as his feet slid against the valve. Gripping the pipe tightly with his hands, he dropped one leg and stretched it under the valve to the other side of the pipe. He repeated the move with the other leg. He pulled himself along the pipe again until the valve was just over his midsection.
Okay, Mack, now the fun starts. He reached up for the valve with his cheek pressed against the pipe, and grabbed hold of it. Straining against the valve wheel, he tried to twist the entire valve structure down towards him.
It didn't move.
Shit!
Macklin summoned his strength again, pulling down the valve wheel. There was a creak and the subtlest of movements. A flake of rust fell into Macklin's right eye, stinging it.
Blinking, he pulled again. Another creak. A tear rolled out of Macklin's eye, taking the rust with it. Maybe, he thought, things aren't as bleak as they seem.
Pulling again, he turned the valve a bit more. That's when things started looking bleak to Macklin again. First he heard the hiss, and then he smelled it.
Gas.
He was handcuffed to a gas line. Macklin felt sweat break out between his shoulder blades. The more he loosened the pipe from the valve, the more gas would escape. Macklin quickened his efforts, damning fate, holding his breath to avoid taking in the noxious fumes. The valve structure turned slowly, the valve wheel pulled down now nearly over his midsection.
Turning his head away from the pipe, Macklin took another breath. Macklin could already feel the sour-tasting gas working against him, the queasiness riding over him. He reached over the pipe, grasped the valve wheel, and tried to finish his first counterclockwise turn of the valve structure.
The gas whistled softly in his ear.
Macklin didn't know how much longer he could fight the effects of the pungent gas, his vision already blurring and his head pounding, and still summon the strength to finish turning the valve structure and free the pipe.
Moving as if in slow motion, the gas hissing in his face, Macklin twisted the valve structure around the pipe two more times, willing himself to stay conscious. He felt the blackness threatening to overtake him.
There was a scrape, and the pipe slipped free from the valve, the gas whistling though the narrow gap between the two. Semiconscious, Macklin dropped his legs from the pipe and slid forward, the handcuffs slipping through the gap. He hit the floor on his knees, sending shockwaves of pain through his body.
Macklin wanted to curl up and let the blackness win, but something deep inside urged him to move!
Grimacing against the pain, dizzy from the gas, Macklin stood and hobbled across the room, falling against the boxes and knocking one of them over. Hundreds of small white candles spilled out and rolled across the floor.
Macklin saw Sliran's matchbook on the floor amongst the candles and picked it up, opening the flap. There were plenty of matches. He glanced at the candles, the pipe, and then the candles again.
I'll blow that son of a bitch Simon right into the heavens, Macklin thought. I'll sip a beer and watch the fireworks from my front porch.
Managing a battered smile with his cracked and bloodied lips, Macklin grabbed a handful of the candles and carried them up the steps with him. Up here, the air was clear of gas. He lit first one candle and then another, placing them behind pipes, beside wiring, until he'd set half a dozen of them. He didn't know how long it would be before the gas got up here in the right concentration to explode. He just hoped it would be long enough to get him out. He had read too many newspaper stories about gas explosions turning office buildings into so much dust.
He took one last look at his handiwork and then eased open the door and slipped quietly into the brightly lit, glass-enclosed lobby. Peering cautiously around the edge of the wood-paneled wall, he could see that he was at the far end of the lobby, a long stretch of marble floor separating him from the bank of elevators against the wall on his left and the glass doors on his right. Between the elevators and the door was an empty guard's desk.
From Macklin's angle, it was impossible to see if the guard stood on the other side of the elevator bank, just behind the desk, or whether the lobby was clear.
It didn't matter. Macklin had no choice. Within minutes the gas could reach one of the candles and cause a catastrophic explosion.
Macklin wanted to be long gone when that happened.
As Macklin emerged from behind the wall and started sprinting towards the glass entranceway, he heard a chime and saw a flash in the corner of his eyes. He stopped and turned back just as the elevator doors parted, revealing Simon and three of his men.
"Get him!" Simon yelled, hitting the twenty-second-floor button.
Macklin scrambled back to the basement, throwing his body against the door and leaping into the room.
The dozens of candles flickered at him around the room. He was cornered.
The grind of the elevator machinery caught his attention. There was no other way. He dashed madly across the room to the elevator shaft, jumped, and grabbed a beam on the undercarriage of the ascending car. Macklin was whisked up into the shaft just as the guards spilled into the basement.
The elevator raced up the shaft like a rocket. His injured arms, again tortured by his weight, seemed ready to snap apart. He willed himself to hold on. The cracks of light seeping through the doorways of passing floors gave him a dizzying sense of motion. His legs dangled in the darkness.
The car came to a shuddering halt, nearly knocking Macklin from his perilous hold. Macklin swallowed. What the hell do I do now?
Macklin wrapped his legs around the guiderail on his left. He looked down. A speck of light below was all he could see of the basement. At any instant the gas could reach one of the candles. The explosion would send a fireball up the shaft that would fry Macklin alive. In that case, he had only moments, or one wrong move, and he could fall twenty-two floors. They'd have to wipe him off the floor with a sponge.
He grabbed for the slippery guiderail with both hands. For an instant, he had no handhold, tottering dangerously over the open shaft, held from death only by his legs. His handcuffed hands grasped the rail. Breathing deeply, he quickly shimmied down the rail the fourteen fee
t to the next crossbeam, which looked no wider than four inches to Macklin. His foot hit the beam. Still holding on to the guiderail, he glanced up at the elevator. If it descended, it would snap off his head and slap his headless torso right off the beam.
Lowering himself so that his legs straddled the crossbeam, Macklin began to pull himself along it to the center ledge in front of the twenty-first-floor doorway. Macklin was relieved to see that the outcropping was twice the size of the crossbeam he now straddled. Grabbing a guiderail for support, he pulled himself up to a standing position on the cement ledge. Macklin pushed apart the twenty-first-floor doors and stumbled into the hallway. The bright fluorescent lights burned his eyes. Across the hall was a door marked "STAIRWELL." He ran to it, flung open the door, and vaulted up the steps two at a time until he reached the twenty-second floor.
Opening the door slowly, Macklin saw the elevator door across from him and a wall on his right. To his left was a glass doorway and a secretary's desk. On the paneled wall behind the desk the words "SIMON MINISTRIES" were written in marble letters. Macklin eased the door shut behind him and locked it by turning a bolt above the knob. Stepping to the elevator, he pressed the "down" button. The doors slid open. Macklin reached inside to the control panel and flicked the tiny switch from "run" to "stop."
Now, Macklin thought, it's just the two of us. I may die trying, but I'm taking you with me.
He opened the door to Simon's office foyer. Two hallways branched off from the foyer. He took the one on his right. Macklin followed it slowly, hugging the walls, passing offices along the way. The hallway curved to the left and Macklin saw the oak doors of Simon's office. As Macklin edged closer, more of the office became clear. He could see the huge marble desk. Beside it, Simon stood, his back to Macklin, staring out the window at the city below.
Macklin, his heart pinging furiously, stepped through the doorway into Simon's office. Simon turned. Macklin froze. Simon smiled, seemingly undaunted by Macklin's appearance in his office.
"You are a tenacious man, Brett." Simon rubbed his cheek and walked toward Macklin. "I respect you. It's important you understand that before I kill you."
Macklin bent low, his hands out in front of him. The compulsion, the killing instinct, commanded him now, overriding his fears. Although he knew he could hardly defend himself handcuffed, he was swept up in the tide of absolute hatred.
Simon yelled and leaped into the air, his right leg lashing out towards Macklin's head. Macklin sidestepped, raising his arms to protect himself. He felt a sharp pain as Simon's boot glanced off his right forearm. The blow knocked Macklin sideways.
Macklin stumbled, quickly retaining his balance. Simon whirled around on the ball of his left foot and faced Macklin.
They circled each other. Simon smiled. "Killing is a release, a sport. I think you would have grown to enjoy it as much as I do."
Simon's right leg snapped up. Macklin jumped back, grabbing Simon's ankle, and lifted. Simon, unbalanced, tumbled backwards into the marble desk with a loud grunt. Macklin took advantage of the opening. He swatted Simon across the face with his fists and followed through by ramming his right elbow into Simon's belly. Macklin felt the air rush out of Simon's mouth.
Macklin had left his right side exposed. Simon jabbed Macklin sharply in the kidney and pushed him away. Macklin, lurching to the side, momentarily paralyzed by the blow, pivoted to face Simon. As Macklin turned, Simon brought his knee up and slammed it into Macklin's jaw. Macklin's head exploded with pain and he fell backward, his body hitting the floor.
On impact, Macklin rolled on his side, instinctively trying to get distance. Simon's foot crashed down beside him. Macklin, on his back, lashed his legs out at Simon, smashing his heels into Simon's groin. Simon cried out, doubled over, and stumbled back.
Macklin bolted up and aimed a wild punch at Simon's chin. The blow spun Simon around. Macklin yelled, spread his wrists apart, and flung his hands over Simon's head. Macklin jerked, the handcuffs digging into the flesh where his hand met his wrist as the chain tightened around Simon's neck. Simon clawed at Macklin's bloody wrists.
Macklin was oblivious to the pain. Even if the cuffs dug so deep they scraped bone, he wouldn't release his choking hold on Simon.
Simon, twisting and turning, pushed Macklin backwards. Macklin lost his balance and they plunged to the floor. The impact jarred Macklin's hold for a second and Simon tried to squirm under Macklin's arms. Macklin rolled over on top of Simon, sat up straight, and with a guttural cry, leaned back and gave the chain one final, merciless yank.
Simon's body convulsed. Macklin, gritting his teeth and wincing, refused to lessen the force he exerted against the chain. He felt something snap inside Simon's neck. Simon gurgled and then stiffened, dead weight against Macklin's chain.
Macklin held tight for a moment longer, the cuffs slicing deep into Macklin's flesh, and then released Simon. As Simon's swollen face struck the floor, the building was rocked by a tremendous explosion. Macklin fell forward onto Simon's back. Water burst out of the sprinklers on the ceiling, creating a virtual rainstorm. Another explosion, like a thunder clap, shook the building.
Macklin struggled to his feet, reaching out to the marble table for support. The building shook under him. He heard something growl beneath the floor. Macklin walked around the desk to the window, pressing his face against the wet glass. An explosion in the middle of the building spit glass and flame out into the air. Smoke encircled the lower floors, obscuring his view. But he could see tentacles of flame lash out to other buildings, setting them ablaze.
There was no escape. The rumble of explosions was growing more forceful. Fire was eating its way upwards through the floors below his feet. Water soaked him. He would have to wait here and hope he could keep the flames at bay. It was a foolish hope, he knew, but the only hope he had. And what would happen to him if he was found there, standing beside Simon's corpse?
A light from outside blinded him. Shielding his eyes, he heard the beating mechanical rhythm of a helicopter drawing near. Macklin ran out of Simon's office, through the shower in the hallway, to the foyer. The elevators had blown open. Flames licked out between the twisted metal, scorching the ceiling and setting the wall aflame. The sprinklers spit in the face of the firestorm. Macklin had to get to the stairwell.
Raising his arms across his face, Macklin pushed open the glass doors and ran though the hallway, under the canopy of flame, to the stairwell door. The heat around him was excruciating. He felt at any instant he would just erupt in fire. He reached out for the bolt, recoiling. The knob was red hot. The flames roared around him. Macklin twisted the bolt, searing his fingers, and dropped his burned hand to the doorknob, turning the red-hot metal and throwing his weight against the door. It flew open. He tumbled into the smoky stairwell, gasping for air. Barely able to see through, he bounded up the two flights of stairs to the roof.
He opened the door. The cool wind slapped him in the face. Through his teary eyes he could see that the helipad in front of him was ringed with flame. A gaping hole at the far end of the roof spewed fire and hot metal into the sky like a volcano. That must have been where the fireball, streaking up the elevator shaft, had burst through the roof. The helicopter wouldn't be able to land. Macklin ran, ping through the flames onto the helipad. He hit the ground rolling, his right pant leg aflame. Desperately he rolled over the leg, drowning the flames. The helicopter neared the building, whipping the flames with its rotors. Macklin, his pants smoldering, stood up and waved his arms madly in an effort to attract the pilot's attention. The helicopter searchlight pinpointed Macklin amidst the flames and bathed him in white light. An explosion ripped though the center of the building, knocking him over and rocking the structure as if it were jetsam in a stormy sea. A wisp of flame shot out of the rooftop hole at the helicopter. The pilot pulled the copter up as if riding a wave, then dropped it back down again over Macklin.
Macklin stood unsteadily, the building swaying under him. The helicopte
r hovered low over Macklin. He was able to read the familiar call letters.
It was his helicopter.
A rope ladder tumbled out of the helicopter and landed in front of him. He stared at it, wondering how the hell to climb up the thing with his hands handcuffed. He grabbed the side of the ladder, pulling himself up and letting the rope fall between his legs. Macklin then rested his heel on the nearest rung and brought his other heel up onto the next, higher rung.
The helicopter veered away from the building, swinging Macklin over the flames and off the roof over the city. Macklin grasped the rope tightly, his arms pulsing with pain. He began to inch his way up the rope ladder, using his legs to grasp the rungs and his hands for support. The rope swayed over the city.
Macklin pulled himself into the chopper, glancing over his shoulder at the blazing building. He saw the flames wrapping around the silver Tabernacle like vines.
"Are you okay?" Mort yelled over the loud whine of the whirring blades. Turning away from the blaze, Macklin moved to the seat beside Mort and closed his eyes. Much of the pain that had been dulled by the anger and fear was returning now. "I've had better days," Macklin murmured. "I'm just glad you showed up when you did."
"So am I." Mort looked at Macklin with obvious concern. "I just wrapped up shooting downtown with the Bloodmaster crew when I saw the Silver Tabernacle blow." His questions spilled out in a rush. "What the hell were you doing there? Why are you handcuffed? What the fuck is going on?"
"Mort, I can't explain it all now. We have to get to Ronny. He's in danger."
Mort sighed. "Then your job isn't finished yet."
"Not yet."
Mort motioned to the back of the copter. "You'll find your gun in the utility box. You left it in my car. I brought it up here with me so I could keep my eye on it."
Macklin leaned back in his chair. He hoped he wasn't too late to save Shaw. Losing his closest friend to a bullet would be too much. Simon and Breen had already taken too much from him.
