His stare avoids Masen as if he’s a black hole and gazing his way would suck him in and destroy him.
‘Peter is going to need your help to complete the final test of DUST,’ Mooney says. ‘He’s got some reading for you all to do.’
Bradbury and Pak pay little interest. Masen thinks of his other life. Had he bombed the CIA building yet? What’s the casualty count? Would history be written that he acted alone and will he ever go back home?
Nash walks over and sits precariously on a simple metal chair, gathering his thoughts as he looks at the team, his team.
‘I imagined there was a somber mood in my lecture yesterday,’ Nash says half smiling, ‘as a colleague eulogized me before taking my class.’ Sucks in a breath. ‘But that’s in the past. I need your help to successfully complete a test so we can all go home.’ Finishes pursing lips together. But Masen isn’t buying his theatrics.
‘It sounds like you have it all worked out, Professor,’ Masen says. ‘How much of yourself have you sold?’
‘John…I’m sorry,’ Nash says. ‘The General informed me of the plan to keep Zane Black from obtaining the data.’
‘I’ll go down in history as a deranged domestic terrorist. My apartment, a shrine on some tacky nightly horror tourist walk around the seedy history of murderous Boston. People will have photos taken of themselves on the sidewalk outside the building and point saying, “That’s where he lived.” Sorry, is that all you’ve got to say?’
Mooney inhales deeply through nostrils and clasps hands together as if to tie all the room’s gloom together. ‘How about thanks you’re all alive. Come on people. I’m probably going to be shot for all of this cloak and dagger crap. We’re safely stashed away thanks to the generosity of General Chuck Morgan. Hell, he’ll be standing next to me when they pull the trigger. So lets all smarten up, we have a job to do.’
Robertson arrives back with a cardboard box bellowing with food and cans of drink.
‘Get something to eat,’ Mooney adds. ‘We’ll brief you on the last DUST test after your stomachs are full.’ Then leaves.
Masen looks at Nash. His face is the same, his thinning hairline and mannerisms are all familiar, but he looks different, he looks guilty, he looks full of regret. He’s looking directly at Masen.
28
Technology Square, Boston
Ironically, the thick metal door is designed to slam shut and keep danger out. It only succeeds to trap the white Porsche as it loses control and slams into a concrete pillar, folding the car and agents Coffey and Rodriguez around it like a napkin tied around a finger.
Yellow flashing lights, sirens and sprinklers spark to life.
Coffey wakes with a searing pain in his side, the driveshaft housing moulds his back. He tastes blood in his mouth from a broken nose and multiple facial lacerations. The force from the impact thrust him hard against the front seat. Takes a stocktake: back aches, vision blurred. ‘How long have I been out,’ he asks. Then softly projecting his voice forward: ‘James.’ And looks around the mangled wreck trying to make sense of where he is and what happened. And as the hazy vale slowly lifts, he moans running a hand over his head searching for more serious wounds.
‘We have to get out of here,’ he says worming up off the floor. Flinches touching the floor and cutting his hand on a piece of torn metal. ‘You okay?’ he asks, arms strain to get close to be heard over the noise of the engine. Rodriguez’s foot presses down on the accelerator. ‘We need to go.’ Water falls against his face and exposed hands as he uses the metal caracas as a guide to free himself.
No answer.
Coffey angles his head to see any signs of a bullet wound from the three rounds he remembers hitting the car, and nudges Rodriguez’s shoulder with an extended finger. His torso droops forward against the steering wheel.
The pulsing yellow light makes it difficult to see. Not being able to gauge the extent of his partner’s injuries, Coffey works on the assumption he is unconscious.
There is no time.
Stick to the plan.
He has to initiate the countdown; one of many contingencies they planned for in case either became incapacitated. Coffey had said, ‘You mean if one of us is dead?’ Rodriguez gave him a look then turned deadpan.
He kicks open the passenger door and drags himself out onto the ground, crawls through petrol gushing out and flinches as his arm grazes the hot exhaust pipe. Prizes open the driver’s door, reaches over to unfasten the seatbelt, and with a strong grip of his partner’s mid section, starts pulling and soon frees him.
Dragging a heavy dead weight behind a pillar, he gently places Rodriguez’s head on the ground and goes back to the car. Locates the greasy rag and bomb, his fingers ransack for the small electrical circuit. Fumbling to complete his task, he presses the button and throws it back under the accelerator pedal. ‘Ten seconds,’ he intones.
They need to get farther away. However, Rodriguez is unconscious on the floor. Coffey spots the red ‘Exit’ sign, four car spaces away. Pulls at Rodriguez and feels an arm twitch. Stumbling with a splitting headache, he looks up and sees a shaft of white light piercing through. Someone has opened the emergency exit door. Scattered lights search and start converging on the wreck. Coffey makes out a rumble of approaching voices.
‘Bomb! There’s a bomb. Get out! Get out!’ Coffey yells. ‘The driver ran to the other side of the parking lot.’
No time to make it to the exit, covers Rodriguez with his body and sees the same white lights dancing away from the Porsche in panicked procession. And counts down through four to three. By the time Coffey counts to two, he is on top of his partner pulling his body parallel to his.
Not 9 hours earlier, he was lying on his mattress looking over a Sports Illustrated. Curses the General for the order and wishes it was Bozeman who was sent instead. Cuffs ears, tucks elbows in hard against ribs and squeezes his face. Legs and torso relax. Training taught him in case of being in close proximity to an explosion, relax muscles, protect eyes and ears. ‘Tuck in those chicken wings.’ He remembers his former teacher, Amos Bozeman yelling at him. ‘And pray to whomever will listen to your sorry ass.’
Bozeman waits nervously in the third-story room across the lane, biting at a fingernail. He isn’t sure how long until the blast. Coffey and Rodriguez hadn’t divulged that part of the plan, but in his experience it’s taking too long. The timeframe between ramming the car in the parking lot, setting the timer and walking out should be measured in seconds. It has already been nearly four minutes.
They need to get out of there.
He sinks the remaining beer, screws the aluminum can like it’s made out of paper and throws it on the shag pile rug, keeping his focus on the driveway below. But he knows something has gone wrong. He is expecting a percussion wave any second. ‘Come on boys, get out…’
Security has setup temporary barricades and are encroached up and down the lane.
His right leg jerks rapidly, wondering if they trimmed those extra few ounces off. Stands up and steps on the side mirror cracking it underfoot.
‘That’s seven years more bad luck.’
29
With his head forward and arms pumping, Black sprints. Past parked cars, some drivers seated, others milling outside trying to figure out why traffic has stalled. But Black knows. He has never run so fast.
Masen.
Wind from a hovering helicopter only makes it more difficult, increasing in intensity the closer he gets to a human barrier of uniform police and CIA personnel a few hundred feet ahead extending across all lanes and both sidewalks, weapons drawn. He needs to get past. No time to think, he only knows he has to get through. The prize, minutes away. It spurs his determination and provides high-octane fuel to muscles that despite the lack of tread on his leather shoes and suit tailored to fit snug, not for expanding limbs, surprises many by his speed.
Curses for taking the scenic route.
An observer in the
helicopter above spots Black as a potential threat and broadcasts the details to the people below busy directing office workers spilling out of neighboring buildings, to leave cars and to move back.
Black spots a plain-clothed CIA agent up ahead closest to the lane entrance talking into his radio, and slows holding up both hands at the descending helicopter that hangs menacingly just behind the line; a mounted weapon pointing directly at him. The agent identifies the threat: red face, veins protruding from neck and forehead. Braces for the inevitable confrontation. The agent had rushed over from the same building that is now under lockdown because a car had rammed its way into the parking lot and reports of a bomb had circulated, prompting an immediate evacuation. It wasn’t a drill.
‘I have to get through,’ Black yells pointing beyond the agent to the lane, his voice inaudible over the noise. And pushes forward against a greater opposing and experienced hand. Black is stopped. Words are exchanged but neither hear as the helicopter swirls directly overhead. The agent holds his ground, one hand on his gun, the other keeping tension on Black’s chest.
Black slides a hand into his jacket and takes out his ID when suddenly there’s a large explosion. Legs and feet dance underneath and hands grab each other instinctively adjusting to shifting center of balance. Both men look at each other in shock. People scream and run in panic. Both men loosen their grip as glass crashes to the ground from broken overhead office windows, sirens of abandoned cars are set off, and after a few seconds smoke, bellowing in the confined space between buildings spreading out into traffic. The helicopter rocks above, the engine and blades sing off-key, the pilot temporarily losing control.
Black seizes an opportunity, pushes the agent aside and makes a run for the lane, lost in a grown and darkening cloud of smoke, leaving the agent behind coughing in the smoke.
Down the lane, another agent, this time dressed in black military cargo pants, black vest, glasses and an earpiece steps forward, ten or so feet ahead. But Black has his ID ready. He flashes it in the man’s face. ‘Assistant Director Zane Black,’ he says then coughs. ‘I’m ordering you to step aside.’
‘Get back,’ the man says ushering him away, not interested in what the piece of plastic says. ‘A bomb just went off. Lane’s closed.’
Black pushes his ID in the man’s face. ‘I don’t have time to explain. I have to get inside the building.’
The man wanting to put an end to the conversions, grabs the ID and holds it up next to Black’s face for comparison. ‘Sorry, no one enters.’ Hands back the ID with force, looks behind then back to Black. ‘Complete lockdown.’
‘I have to get inside, do you understand? I’m ordering you,’ Black yells. The man stands steadfast and unfazed, he has his orders and only the Director of the CIA can overrule.
Black looks around. The scene is mayhem. The helicopter makes a small forward motion, blades make a higher pitch sound as it banks left struggling to maintain control amidst a rising black ashen cloud. Beyond the man, security rush to the aid of people pouring out of the building to the concrete area near the guard hut. Many more are running out through an emergency exit on the other side.
Black holds his ID up with one hand. The man puzzles. Black’s other hand other takes out his gun, pushes it up hard under the black Velcro bulletproof vest, angling it up to maximize damage to internal organs. Feels tensing stomach muscles through the gun as the man reacts in shock. Too late. Eyes look in confusion as Black shoots. The guard sinks. With gun in hand, he quickly cuddles him to the ground. Grabbing his stomach with one hand, the guard lunges for Black’s feet, but anticipating the move, moves in close and shoots the man in the side of the head. The body left for gravity. Looks around for witnesses and holsters the gun in the small of his back and runs low towards the entrance, towards a tide of people running the other way.
Bozeman studies the broken mirror as if it’s the same fate awarded to Rodriguez and Coffey. Seconds later an explosion rips through the underground parking lot of the old cannery building, Technology Square, Boston. Bozeman snaps his arm across his face and closes his eyes but there is no cracking of glass up at this level, no rushing air pelting debris into his face.
The rubber gaskets in the windows absorbing just enough energy to stop the glass from breaking. Smoke billows out from the parking lot like a dragon’s fiery breath. ‘That packed some punch.’
Outside and lying on the concrete he spots the guard who managed to fire three rounds, dazed and confused, sitting up next to the driver of the car Coffey and Rodriguez crashed into. Rushes to the last window on the right, pushing over an old fashioned record player in his haste for a better view as smoke funnels up against the apartment building.
Soon his vision will be completely clouded over. However, he has to make sure he spots the agents leaving. It will be hard. His view is already hindered by the rising cloud of smoke and dust.
‘I should be down there,’ he says annoyed with himself for not challenging Mooney’s instructions and the agents who only agreed to his suggestion of providing lookout to shut him up.
‘You should be clear already.’ But no one has emerged from the parking lot emergency exit to the right of the guard’s hut, only security personnel with semi-automatic rifles and sidearms drawn, rushing out the building from the main entrance in a coordinated plan to secure the surrounding area.
Maybe the guard got lucky and a bullet hit Rodriguez.
‘This is fucked!’ he says kicking the chair into the kitchen table and cupping both hands against the glass. Peering down, he notices a scuffle between a security detail and a snake eye to the right in the middle of the lane. The blades of a helicopter rising chaotically blowing a vortex of wind and making it hard to see any great detail. Plus, he had been focused on the ram-raid and for the expected emergence of the agents to see the full exchange. But as he frantically tries to keep the foray in focus by rapidly navigating through the engulfing mess outside, he makes out a move by the man in a suit holding up what looks like an ID. The other hand looks like it goes for a weapon.
‘Shit!’
Bozeman is blind until the smoke dissipates. He kicks the chair on his way to grab another beer from the fridge. Cracking the lid open he walks to the door and places an ear to it, listening to the commotion of panicked people outside in the hallway making their way for the exits.
Waiting for the smoke to clear, his thoughts turn to Masen and Sparks in Japan. This doesn’t make sense.
The darkness starts to lift as wind allows a little light to seep through softening smoke. Bobs his head to see where the scuffle had taken place and can just makes out a man slumped on the ground. He should have thought of binoculars. The snake eye is gone. And still no sign of Rodriguez and Coffey.
Following the boundary where smoke reveals the destruction of the blast, he starts to make out legs on the sidewalk. And as smoke retreats further, makes out the dark clothed man lying motionless on the concrete. Blood pools around his head and mid-section tells him snake eye got up real close, real personal hit this one, almost like he enjoyed the kill.
He throws the half full can across the room, smashing it into a large flat TV. He isn’t going to stand by and let the agents fight it out alone.
‘I’m not sitting around. They employ paper-pushers for that shit.’
30
The explosion lifts both men four inches off the ground and pushes them back slightly. A burst water pipe above rains a steady flow of water. The lights go out.
Rodriguez’s body connected with a wheel nut blown off its threads—the wheel changed yesterday. The driver in his haste to get to work hadn’t done that extra quarter turn to properly secure the nut, which would have kept it on its threads—striking Rodriguez’s hard on the temple as his body apexed. Never to regain consciousness. Death was instant.
Coffey phases in and out of consciousness. Eyes filter confused flashes that present as scattered, disconnected images, only erupting into aw
areness as a hoarse cough punishes his chest. His tongue rakes across lips, and he swallows only to spit out dirt and turns to face Rodriguez. A light from a small trickling fire highlights a stoic face that stares back.
‘James,’ Coffey groans but doesn’t hear his own voice. ‘Come on man, wake up. We gotta go.’ His face scrunches as waves of searing pain surge through him. An unbearable buzzing sound erupts in his ears. And after a few seconds he remembers he needs to get out. Hands push hard on the ground and struggle for traction through sticky blood and rubble as he tries to get up. Scrambles to his haunches before exhaustion arrests any progress.
‘Out of my way.’ Bozeman pushes his way through the crowd, past anxious and scared people in the stairwell, stunned to silence by the unknown. And finally after seven floors out through the door, and out into gritty and pungent air.
He only just manages to limp the last four steps to the sidewalk, white-knuckling the metal balustrade and coughing into his shirt collar. His leg throbs with pain; the makeshift tourniquet tightens into the swelling mess. Hands shake on his knees leaning his back into the curled metal balustrade that gives a little taking his full weight. A nondescript piece of paper rolls like tumble-weed over his shoes. ‘I can do this,’ he intones, and pushes up.
Thirty yards to the right he sees the dead CIA agent on the ground. He seizes the opportunity, and approaches making out a uniform policeman crouched over the body, gun drawn, surveying the immediate area, radioing it in. Must have been discovered when I was Rambo-ing down the stairs, Bozeman thinks.
Passing an abandoned car in the lane, announces his arrival with his detective badge held prominently in front and other hand submissively in the air. ‘Detective Bozeman,’ he says and slows his pace as the policeman squares him. ‘What have we got here…’ Notices the stripes on the man’s shoulders, ‘Sergeant?’
Iris Rising Page 17
