by Camilla Monk
Alex’s hand sneaked around my waist, pulling me backward and against him. I fidgeted a bit at his sudden closeness. March’s eyes were locked on the car. He started rotating the ring again slowly, commanding the front wheels. The car moved a few inches.
I felt the explosion as much as I heard it—a deafening boom thundering through my rib cage at the same instant Alex gathered me in his arms and shielded my head with his hand. The Lexus was propelled in the air by the force of the blast, before being swallowed by a cloud of flames and smoke, debris flying all the way in our direction as the charred carcass crashed back on the ground.
The seconds after were a blur. My ears were buzzing, making March’s and Alex’s voices sound muted, distant. There were burning fragments of plastic and metal everywhere, and I could see both men had pulled out their guns. I registered a sort of hum coming from our right, getting closer. I know it’s stupid, but the first thing I connected it with was a chain saw, and my legs nearly gave way. How angry do you have to be to blow up someone’s car and go after them with a chain saw right afterward?
I was wrong. The hum morphed into a roar, and two bikes tore through the acrid smoke, their riders’ faces concealed by dark helmets. Oh God, I knew where this was headed. Alex dragged me behind one of the thick concrete columns flanking the building’s entrance; March imitated him and took cover behind the other. Blood rushed and pounded fast in my temples. One of the bikers drifted to a stop and raised something that looked bigger than a gun in our direction. A machine pistol. He fired at us, sending a round of bullets smashing against the walls and pavement with earsplitting cracks. Alex squeezed me against his body so hard it hurt, while around us chunks of concrete exploded under the force of each impact. Somewhere nearby I heard screaming; the passersby I had noticed were running away toward a building to shield themselves.
A beat of silence followed the last shot. Could be that the gun’s magazine was empty. There was no second round, though. Before our attacker had the time to see him through the thick cloud of dust enveloping us, March stepped out. There was something surreal, I now realized, about the calm fluidity of his movements. Always so precise, so focused amidst the chaos surrounding him. One shot. All he needed. I saw our assailant collapse, his helmet visor shattered by the star-shaped impact.
I think March and I had the same idea; he spun around, gun still firmly in hand, looking for the second biker. There was a roar coming from the left; Alex shoved me to the ground when the guy raced toward us. March shot twice in the bike’s rear wheel, causing it to somersault. Alex finished the job, firing four bullets at the unfortunate biker without hesitation as he tumbled forward.
My fingers were still gripping Alex’s leather jacket; I felt his free hand stroke my back. I stared at the two dead men at our feet. The one Alex had killed was bleeding on the pavement, a thin layer of dust absorbing the growing red stain like a blotter. I took a deep breath to block the nausea churning in my stomach and let go of Alex, stepping closer to March. He seemed nearly unruffled, when I knew I must have looked haggard.
I wasn’t given time to think about it any further. “We need to move,” March said as he grabbed my hand and signaled for Alex to follow with a jerk of his chin. Next thing I knew, the three of us were running fast down Main Street toward the Queensboro Bridge, and my feet were barely touching the ground. My mind was spinning, fueled by adrenaline. Between two choked intakes of air, I blurted out the first coherent thought I could hold on to. “March! Y-Your leaflet talked about nonlethal methods!”
“There’s some fine print on the last page.”
“I knew it,” Alex snapped.
We kept running, even as on the bridge police cars could be seen approaching, sirens blaring. We were almost at the tram station. I gathered March intended for us to seek refuge under its massive triangular hangar. Screams echoed from the station’s entrance, and a group of panicked people hurried down the ramp leading to the cars—random explosions and gunshots tend to do that.
I had already been picturing myself safely inside the hangar, but my relief was short-lived. Above us, a new detonation tore through the air. I screamed, certain for a split second that I had been shot. I was still alive, but near us, Alex had stumbled and fallen to the ground. On his left shoulder, something had torn his jacket, and a dark, wet stain was rapidly forming on the worn leather. I freed myself from March’s grip to lunge toward him. “Alex! March, Alex is—”
“Superficial,” Alex groaned as he struggled to get up.
I offered him my arm, but March shoved my head down at the same time that two new shots were fired in our direction. Where the hell from? We were well away from Thom’s residence. There was only one brick building left behind us, and its windows all seemed closed. Everything else was just vast empty lawns, and the waterfront. I saw March look up with a snarl as he hauled a wincing Alex up. I followed the direction of his gaze.
Seriously?
Now at least I understood why those people had fled the tram station. Alone in a rapidly rising car stood a guy with a sniper rifle. The double doors that would normally prevent passengers from shooting fellow commuters were half open, and he was still aiming at us. I watched the car shake as it passed the first tower base, forcing him to postpone his killing spree.
Alex was able to cover the last yards to the hangar with March and me, but his face was ashen, and beads of sweat had formed on his temples. We hid behind one of the large steel pillars supporting the structure.
“Stay with him, and for the love of God, don’t try anything,” March ordered, tapping the tip of my nose—a habit he had taken up on our first encounter, because he seemed to believe it held the power to shut me both up and down.
Next to me, Alex managed a smirk. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”
March nodded and retreated further inside the hangar. There, a deserted control room overlooked the red doors of the tram departure ramp, on which an empty car still waited.
“What are you doing?” I hissed, seeing him climb up the metal stairs leading to the control room.
He didn’t bother with a reply and kicked the door open before lunging at the dashboard. Oh God. There were at least two things I knew for sure about March: he was not an accredited tram operator . . . and he never gave up.
I have no idea what he touched—what he broke—but after a couple of seconds, the huge cables hauling the cars started to vibrate and creak ominously above our heads. I craned my neck to see that the small wheels rolling on the track cable now seemed to be spinning backward. That asshole in the red car was being hauled back toward the island at the same time that the second car was starting to move.
I felt Alex’s amazed gasp against my ear. “Oh shit, he’s got some balls.”
March stormed out of the control room and jumped down to the first floor, not even bothering with the stairs, just in time to force the second car’s doors open and get in.
“Oh no . . . Oh nononono . . . March! Please stop this!” I yelled in vain as the car sped away and toward its evil twin.
Against me, Alex shifted a little to see what was going on. The movement caused a renewed trickle of blood to appear on his jacket, which he ignored with clenched teeth. I searched my pockets for tissues and pressed several on the wound, my stomach heaving when I saw the sticky red coating my fingers. For a moment I could no longer focus, and a long, painful shudder shook my frame. Alex was bleeding in my arms, while in the distance, March’s car was about to reach that horrible sniper guy’s car, traveling in the opposite direction. I tried to breathe through my nose, concentrated on pressing my hands to Alex’s shoulder.
In my throat, air wheezed. March was climbing on the car’s roof, his jacket flapping in a rising wind that seemed to hinder his progress. “Alex, he’s gonna kill himself!”
“Maybe. That looks like a ten-foot jump with a one-, maybe two-second window, though. His odds aren’t that bad,” Alex said, his eyes locked on the two cars and the dwindling distance
between them.
“But there’s a guy with a rifle in there!” I squeaked.
Indeed, the other car’s occupant had no intention of getting caught. He leaned precariously against the half-open doors and attempted to fire at March. The wind carried the sound of a first gunshot; I squeezed Alex’s hand harder. Thankfully, for the particular task of hanging from a tram car like a monkey and shooting people, a handgun would have been more practical than the heavy rifle that guy carried. I jumped and breathed shivering sighs of relief with every shot that missed March, who was shielding himself behind the steel arm securing his own tram car to the cable.
“He’s doing well so far. He can still survive the jump and die later,” Alex commented in a conversational tone, while we could make out March’s silhouette standing on the tram car, an ink stroke against the low clouds engulfing Manhattan’s skyline. The cars were now too close to each other for the other guy to shoot at March, who stood legs and arms slightly apart, body projecting forward. He was getting ready to jump.
I struggled for air in a series of panicked pants and squeezed my eyes shut; I couldn’t look. I couldn’t.
“Island, you can open your eyes.”
Alex’s hand squeezed mine. My eyelids fluttered open. Thank you, Raptor Jesus. Owe you one. March was still alive, now kneeling on the roof of the opposite car. Several seconds passed, during which the car approached the first base tower it had passed earlier, and again it struck me how feline, how unhurried his movements were when March did his “job.” He was now closer than ever to the car’s opening, hands resting on the edge of the roof. The shooter apparently wouldn’t take the risk to come up, and had opted to retreat to the corner farthest from the door, his back to the windows. Waiting.
March chose the moment the car was passing over the first base tower. The steel structure trembled; I saw him leap forward and rotate his body around the roof’s edge, agile as a big cat. He was inside the car before I could even understand how he had done that, and if enough gym hours could teach me the same trick. Several gunshots echoed in the dark, then only silence. I couldn’t make out the inside of the car clearly. I’m pretty sure I forgot to breathe.
“March . . .” I whispered.
At my side, Alex didn’t seem convinced that “Mr. November” had survived the fight. He placed his index finger on the black Glock’s trigger, ready to welcome the shooter if need be.
The car was still moving, getting closer and closer.
A cold sweat broke on my back. “A-Alex . . . isn’t it supposed to slow down?”
“Oh shit.”
That wasn’t the answer I expected, not when I could see and hear the cables vibrate under the weight of the car racing toward us without giving any sign of stopping. Alex pulled me out of the way, dragging me with him. The metallic noises coming from the car were getting louder and louder. We rushed away from the departure ramp, desperate to escape the tram station. My heart was beating painfully fast, and I had this petrifying feeling that I was racing against the limits of my own body, that I wasn’t running fast enough, like I was struggling in quicksand.
If you think the Lexus exploding was bad, wait until you sit on the front row while a ten-ton cable car crashes at thirty miles per hour against a concrete-and-metal hangar. My last clear memory is a threatening rumble and a few seconds of weightlessness, before the car hit the ramp, destroying everything in its wake with a terrifying din. Metal bent with long howls, the wall supporting the control room collapsed, sparks and debris flew in all directions, some hitting the police cars that were coming from Main Street and surrounding the tram station. Alex and I crashed face-first into the wet patch of grass in front of the hangar; I felt the weight of his body on mine, crushing me as much as he was shielding me from flying fragments of concrete.
Praise French technology after all—the eight-cable ropeway didn’t rupture . . . entirely. I registered the low, ominous moan of the cable structure when the tram’s engines stopped and the tension became unbearable. One of them did give, snapping with a loud noise and lashing at the lampposts and trees around us like a several-inch-thick whip, before ending its course on the hood of a police car.
After it was over, thirty seconds or so passed during which I was shaking so much I couldn’t move. The rain was seeping through my clothes, cold and wet, and in contrast, Alex’s breath burned against the nape of my neck, his stubble rasping my skin. His embrace finally loosened; I rolled away in panic.
“March! March! Oh God—”
“I’m good, biscuit.”
What the . . . ?
Okay, he wasn’t good. This time March looked ruffled. Really ruffled. Like a man who had taken a twenty-foot jump off a tram car in extremis. A few yards away from us, he was trying to sit up with slow movements. There were bruises on his face, and his jacket was a mess. I scrambled to him. I got close, but I didn’t dare touch him. You always hear that people need air and space and all that stuff when they’re wounded. “Oh my God, are you sure you’re okay? Your shoulder!”
That I didn’t dare to touch either. I gathered he had landed on his side, thus sustaining the minimum possible damage, but his left shoulder looked . . . wrong. Like it was slumping. Dislocated, very likely. Behind me, policemen had gotten out of their cars and were running toward us, some asking if we were okay, another talking in his radio about a possible terrorist attack. I heard sirens. “March, there’s an ambulance coming, don’t move!”
“It’s all right, biscuit. I just need—”
“Allow me.”
I looked up to see Alex’s frame hovering over us. His own shoulder had stopped bleeding. A faint smirk twisted his lips as he looked at March. “I’m probably in no condition to do this, but it’s gonna be my pleasure entirely.”
The muscles in March’s jaw tightened. “I’m certain it will.”
I stared at the two of them in confusion. Alex had knelt by March’s side; he circled him with his arms as if he was going to hug him, positioned one hand on his shoulder, the other under his armpit, and pulled, eliciting a low groan from his nemesis. It was over in a second, and afterward March massaged the area, his eyes closed under a creased brow. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”
I dusted grass and gravel from March’s hair gingerly. “Let’s get you both to the hospital.”
“All right,” he said, a tender expression softening his previous grimace.
Above us, Alex sounded almost amused. “Mr. November, you destroyed the Roosevelt Tram. I’m afraid I’m gonna have to report this.”
March’s features hardened into a poker smile. “Make sure Mr. Erwin enjoys every single detail, Mr. Morgan.”
I froze. This was something I knew already, but hearing March pronounce the Caterpillar’s name suddenly gave me a new perspective. This job, me, Alex . . . The Ruby case was a battlefield for these two, a clash between the Caterpillar’s intention to retain control over his precious “South African” and March’s equally strong will to turn that page for good.
Except I stood in the middle, and given my unfortunate family tree, I feared I was a pawn the Caterpillar wouldn’t let go of so easily.
Before I could further my descent into such gloomy thoughts, March fished a small object from inside his jacket. Alex knelt again, and I scooted closer to look as well. It looked like a bloodstained medal in the shape of a shield, depicting a parachute with a sword in its center and some details I couldn’t make out in the dark. There was also something engraved.
“Numquam Retro,” Alex read out loud.
I translated with a frown. “Never retreat? What is it? Was it on that guy?”
“Yes. You might want to translate it as ‘Niemals Züruck,’ in German,” March explained.
“You know German?” I asked, still trying to figure out where he was going with this.
His eyes narrowed at the bloody medal. “Not that well, but I know the Jagdkommando—the Austrian special forces.”
Alex took it from his hands to examin
e it. “Austria . . . interesting. A stone’s throw from German-speaking Switzerland—”
“And Zürich,” I concluded, pulling out from my pocket the micro SD card we had found hidden in Thom’s apartment. “Whoever manipulated Thom was ready to kill anyone for this, so let’s go find Ruby and discover what that code does to it.”
SIXTEEN
The PJs
“There’s only one treatment I can inject you with, Peyton: love!”
—Izzie Shepherd, The Cardiologist’s Christmas Surprise
I’ve never been a fan of hospitals. The medicinal smell, doors slamming, hushed voices—it reminds me of my mom’s accident, of that split second when I woke up in a foreign bed with tubes lodged in my throat, and my dad was smiling at me while I thought I was dying.
For ten years after that, it was the only memory I had of the day of her death, until Rislow tried to extract my kneecaps on an operating table in an abandoned French hospital. There, suffocated by the most intense terror I had ever experienced, I remembered her murder. I saw it all over again: her body going limp in front of the wheel after a single bullet had traversed her skull, her long auburn curls matted with crimson blood against the white of her blouse. I heard my own screams, in that car that wouldn’t stop.
I remembered the crash, how everything had become loud and white.
Then tearing through the mist, through the flames rising from the hood and the panicked shrieks of onlookers, had been March, the little black knife he had used to cut the seat belt, his arms around me for the first time. The scent of the mints.
Him, in the shadows. Since that day, and for all those years.
And even now, ever present in my thoughts.
I was sitting on a bed in a room at Bellevue Hospital, facing Murrell and that older blond agent I had seen with Colin the day prior. March and Alex had been taken to different rooms to be examined, and my own doctor had left ten minutes ago with a statement that I was fine, save for a few bruises and the promise of some degree of PTSD.
