He found a breach in the hull. The metal was blackened, torn like aluminum foil. He stepped through into the carcass.
‘Damien!’ he whispered. ‘Damien?’
He heard a grunt from the cockpit. He moved toward it. The co-pilot was dead, coated in sticky dark liquid. But the pilot, Will the American, was very much alive. He clutched at his chest, harnessed in. Jay leaned over and carefully released the harness. Will was short of breath, but otherwise seemed fine. No bleeding. His pupils were dilated and his lips trembled. Probably concussed too.
‘It’s OK,’ Jay said. ‘Hang in there, the paramedics are almost here.’
Will nodded weakly. ‘They … they …’
‘They’re coming,’ Jay said. ‘I’ll be right back, I just need to find—’
Will shook his head. ‘Took. They.’
‘Yeah, I need to …’ Jay paused. ‘Wait. The guy I was with. Where is he? Did you see him leave?’
Will nodded slightly, then changed his mind and shook his head.
‘Don’t move your head,’ Jay said. ‘Where did he go?’
Will lifted a large hand and pointed.
Jay checked the compass attached to his G-Shock watch. About north-northeast. ‘Was he hurt?’ he asked.
‘They took him,’ Will said.
Jay’s blood ran cold. Shocktroopers already?
‘How did we crash?’ he asked.
Will swallowed. ‘Something … hit.’
Jay nodded. That was all he needed. ‘How many people took Damien? One, two, five?’
Will tried to move his fingers but they weren’t working any more. Instead, he said, ‘Four.’
‘What sort of clothes? Did they have weapons? Helmets?’
‘Hoods … with feathers,’ Will said, wincing.
‘Feathers? Are you, um, sure about that? What about torches? Were they carrying torches? Or goggles?’
‘Torch,’ he said. ‘All … had torches.’
That ruled out shocktroopers. They could see well enough without them.
The sirens were close now. Jay stepped out of the Antonov husk and searched the grass for tracks. The problem was, it was so short that it sprang back quickly once trodden on. But he did notice a feather. He plucked it from the grass and held it under the moonlight. It was blue. He slipped it into his pocket and headed north-northeast through what he now recognized as Battery Park. He was in Manhattan.
And so was Damien, somewhere.
* * *
The hood was plucked from Damien’s head. Light flooded in, bringing with it a searing ache behind his eyes and an unsettling dread of what might come next.
‘No depressions in the skull, maybe a mild concussion,’ someone said behind him.
Damien was sitting upright in a chair, his hands plasticuffed to the back and ankles to the chair legs. His watch, his pouch of items, his wallet, belt and even his shoes had been removed. They were thorough, he’d give them that. But he still had his slender sachet of emergency items hidden inside his jeans. He catalogued his injuries. His head felt like it had gone ten rounds with an ice rink, he had a loose tooth on his right side, and a searing pain in his left thigh. He looked down to see it bandaged and blotted red.
A young woman with a mane of blazing scarlet hair sat opposite him, one leg crossed and her chin propped on one hand. She looked younger than Damien, maybe early twenties. She wore white sneakers and a silver-gray jacket made of faux-crocodile skin. With two studs under her lower lip, a pierced nose and charcoal eye shadow, she looked more like an emerging fashion designer than a covert interrogator. He hoped that was the case.
‘Where am I?’ he croaked.
‘Somewhere safe,’ she said quietly.
On the edge of his vision, Damien could see a single armed man. It looked like he was being held in some sort of storage room. The dull throb of music suggested it was in close proximity to a nightclub. The door to the room was open, with stairs leading downward. He couldn’t see any further, but he could hear trains rattling in the distance. The ceiling was tiled green and white, with naked lightbulbs fringing a stained glass skylight.
The woman opened a passport — Damien’s passport — and glanced through it. ‘I’d like to know a little bit about you … Damien.’
They’d kept their first names but everything else was fabricated.
‘Shall we pencil in coffee next week?’ he said.
She feigned a smile and discarded the passport to the floor. ‘Interesting. You haven’t traveled much until recently. South-East Asia, that’s all. Nowhere else.’
‘I like Asian girls,’ Damien said, deadpan.
Her smile faded and she leaned forward, just a fraction. ‘What is it that you do again? I forgot.’
‘I haven’t told you.’
Her smile returned. ‘That’s right. You haven’t told me. Let’s start with that. What do you do, Damien?’
‘I travel. I do volunteer work for the World Food Programme.’
‘Have you ever worked for the government outside of the WFP, Damien?’
‘No.’
She turned to the table behind her and picked up a black pouch with a press-stud opening. It was his. Next to it, he recognized his daypack and the unused parachute pack beside it.
‘You pack light,’ she said, inspecting the pouch, likely for the second or third time.
‘I forgot my curling iron,’ he said.
‘Parachute, penlight, lock picks.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Alcohol wipes, bandaids — in case you get a boo-boo, I presume — a hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills, no wallet, a cell with only one number and this.’ She held up the flashgun. ‘What might this be?’
‘Rocket launcher,’ he said.
She poked a hand into his daypack, her prismatic jacket glinting in the lights. ‘Nice watch,’ she said, removing his great-grandfather’s slim gold watch. ‘Is this an antique?’
‘If you break it, you’ll be an antique,’ he said.
She grinned. ‘Oh, and your radio and earpiece.’
‘Thanks, I was looking for that.’
‘I don’t have the code to access the frequency,’ she said, holding the radio. ‘So maybe you can help me out here.’ She flicked open a blade and winked. ‘Be a pal, Damien.’
‘I don’t know the code,’ he said, knowing how unbelievable that sounded. ‘But you seem to know your way around radios.’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve learnt a few tricks.’
She pulled her chair closer to him. When she sat down again, she was within striking range.
‘You’re a nice boy, aren’t you, Damien? Just the code,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘Who are you?’ he said, hoping to gather some information of his own.
‘I’m not that kind of girl. I don’t give too much away on the first date.’
‘Do you tie everyone up on a first date?’
‘Circumstances permitting,’ she said.
The nightclub music swelled. Damien breathed deeply. She wasn’t a shocktrooper, that much was clear. She didn’t seem to be working for the government, or, by extension, the Fifth Column, although he wasn’t about to rule that out. It was possible she was the Akhana, whatever remnants had survived the hurricane, or perhaps a member of some sort of underground gang or resistance. There were a lot of those in America these days.
‘Where did you find me?’ he asked.
‘Battery Park. You were lying near a burning cargo plane. Thought you were nearly dead, but you bounced back quite nicely,’ she said. ‘Thanks for the rations, by the way, we grabbed what we could.’
The plane must have crashed. He recalled nothing. His first instinct was to ask about Jay, but he had to be patient; he couldn’t give that away just yet. For all he knew, they had Jay in a separate room and were cross-examining them both.
A train rumbled close by. The light bulbs flickered excitedly.
‘Must’ve been … shot down,’ he said.
‘The media are blam
ing terrorists, resistance groups, whoever they can,’ she said. ‘Between you and me,’ she leaned in to whisper, her lips an inch from his nose, ‘pretty obvious it was the government. Not the first time they’ve pulled a stunt like that.’
At this point there were two scenarios, Damien thought. Either she had a very plausible cover to lure him into a false sense of security in an attempt to extract information from him on behalf of the Fifth Column. Or she was some sort of vigilante who placed little trust in her government. In a world like this, either was as likely. Or even both.
He played along. ‘Why would the government shoot down a plane carrying food for the people? We came here to help!’ May as well throw her a bone. ‘We’re the United Nations.’
‘Oh.’ She seemed to like that last tidbit of intel. ‘Or perhaps that’s just a cover. Perhaps you were here for other reasons.’ She nodded toward the table behind her. ‘That filter on your penlight is just because you like the color red, right?’
‘Something like that,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘Damien, I can’t give you anything if you don’t give me anything.’ She lifted her blade. ‘I don’t want to hurt you. You’re kinda cute.’
‘I should warn you, I haven’t showered in four days,’ he said.
‘Why are you here?’ she said, knife poised above his bandaged leg.
‘I’ve already answered that,’ he said, trying to ignore the blade and keep his eyes on her.
She sank the knife into his thigh. The blade pierced the dressing and cut through what was already sensitive tissue. He bucked and screamed. Fire engulfed his leg. His wrists drew tighter on the plasticuffs, cutting the circulation off. Sweat ran down his nose. She withdrew the blade and for a moment looked genuinely concerned. He clenched his teeth and blocked out the pain. Focused. On what he needed to extract from her. What his escape options were. With his hands plasticuffed like this and his legs too, there wasn’t much of a way to escape with her watching. So he needed to create a way.
‘The cuffs are cutting off my circulation,’ he said. ‘If you take them off I’ll tell you.’
She seemed to consider it. ‘Actually, I prefer you tell me and I stop stabbing you.’
‘Because that’s working really well so far,’ he said.
She raised the knife, aiming for his other thigh.
‘I’m working against the Fourth Column,’ he said, purposely using the incorrect name.
She smiled. ‘I don’t know, Damien. I don’t think they’re real.’
‘They are. But they won’t be for long once I’m done with them.’
‘And what is it you plan on doing?’ she said, inspecting the blood on her knife.
‘I’m still working on that. But I’m open to suggestions.’
She hadn’t corrected his mistake. Either she was well-trained or she wasn’t a Fifth Column asset. He was leaning toward the latter, but that was mostly wishful thinking.
She licked her lips. ‘I can’t untie you, Damien. I don’t trust you enough yet. I hope you understand.’
‘What I’d like to understand is why I’m here,’ Damien said. He might as well get to the point. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want to make sure you’re not a threat,’ she said. ‘And also I like gossip.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Jay kept moving to stay warm. His breath fogged in front of him as he made for the edge of Chinatown. A fruit shop on the corner was still open. Outside, a wafer-thin Chinese man in a striped T-shirt and sneakers hunched on a foldable chair. Jay became aware of an NYPD squad car rolling past. With the unused parachute and MP7 stashed inside his daypack, he didn’t want to get stopped. He kept his injured arm from their view and pretended to ignore them. They continued onward, headlights shining the road ahead.
Jay checked his smartphone. Sophia’s and DC’s beacons showed them just off the coast of Miami. They hadn’t landed yet. He hoped they hadn’t crash-landed like he had. Damien’s beacon was also visible. According to the GPS receiver that Damien carried in his pocket, he was only half a mile north.
Jay found the dumpling restaurant tucked under a labyrinth of fire escapes and air-conditioning units. The doors were permanently open but it was warm inside, the heat coming from the kitchen at the back.
‘Is Kevin here?’ Jay said to the waitress. ‘I’m Jay.’
She looked puzzled at first, then disappeared into the kitchen. Jay dropped himself into a seat with a view of the entrance and the exit through the kitchen. He was the only customer.
Kevin gave a hushed gasp when he appeared and saw Jay. He didn’t say anything, just sat down, apron hugging the paunch in his stomach. He smelled strongly of ginger and Sichuan peppercorn. His hand slapped over the back of Jay’s hand twice, his version of a handshake. His skin felt like leather. Kevin was an Akhana contact, or used to be. Freeman had kindly put Jay and Damien in touch with him when they’d gone their separate ways after Desecheo Island. Jay wasn’t sure what Kevin was now, but Jay knew two things: his dumplings tasted like shit and he always had his ear to the ground. When you wanted information, you came to Kevin.
‘You’re not meant to be here,’ Kevin said, forehead creasing.
‘I know,’ Jay said.
His face split into a grin. ‘You look like complete shit!’
‘Yeah, thanks, Kevin.’
He arched a silvering eyebrow, inspecting Jay’s arm. Blood had trickled to his elbow and was starting to harden. The sliced skin had congealed under his bandage and the itching sensation suggested it was already healing. He resisted the urge to scratch it.
‘It looks worse than it is,’ he said. ‘Someone’s taken Damien. I need to know who they are.’
Kevin gave a noiseless whistle. ‘You should not have let him be captured.’
‘They were wearing hoods, no helmets, no weapons. Just torches.’
Kevin snorted. ‘That could be anyone.’
Jay slid the blue feather across the table.
‘This?’ Kevin inspected it between two thick fingers. ‘This kids’ game. Mystical warriors. Jaguar knight.’
Jay plucked the feather from Kevin and replaced it with a handful of bills. ‘Where can I find them?’
Kevin rubbed the notes between his fingers and tucked them under the table. ‘You think these guys take Damien?’
Jay waved his smartphone. ‘I have his location. I just need to know what I’m dealing with.’
Kevin regarded him curiously. ‘This unlike you. Why no guns blazing, shoot first, ask question later?’
‘This is my brother,’ Jay said. ‘He could be injured, he could be unconscious. If they find out who he is, they might try to sell him to the Fifth Column. And that never ends well.’
Kevin studied Jay for a moment. He drew a long breath into his nostrils and pried chewing gum from his mouth. ‘Underground. Try subway. This all I know.’
Jay was already out of his seat and walking, daypack in one hand. He stopped. ‘Do you have a jacket?’ he said.
Kevin shrugged.
Jay pulled his unused parachute pack from the daypack. With an exaggerated sigh, Kevin moved stiffly behind the counter and located a puffy black jacket for Jay. It looked somewhat waterproof. He threw it over to him, much to the surprise of the waitress.
Jay shrugged it on, careful not to bend his wounded arm. He felt like a fucking eskimo, but at least it concealed his bandage. He gave the parachute to Kevin, pulled his daypack on over both shoulders and left the restaurant.
The walk uptown was a little more comfortable with the jacket. It was fairly similar to what others were wearing so it helped Jay blend in. He had his daypack and its contents, which fortunately included his MP7 and one full mag. Other than that, he carried one of Sophia’s Interceptors, three access cards, some first-aid supplies, stationery items, lockpicks, his watch and compass, double-edged knife, a hundred in US notes, his false passport and lingering jetlag.
A UN 4WD rattled past — hard to miss w
ith its gleaming white body and blue lettering. Jay turned right onto Delancey. His arm burned and he could still taste blood in the back of his throat. He checked his smartphone again. The battery was already half gone. He had the US charger in his daypack and a backup battery; hopefully he wouldn’t need it. He looked for Damien’s beacon. It was gone. He turned the phone off and on again, toggled GPS and waited. The beacon didn’t appear. He checked on Sophia’s and DC’s location. They were on the coast of Miami now, their beacons still alive and well. Damien’s was nowhere to be seen.
Jay was standing right where he’d seen the beacon last. He looked down at the pavement. There were only two ways the beacon could disappear: Damien’s receiver was switched off or destroyed, or he was underground where the receiver would struggle to get a fix on satellites. Kevin was right: Damien was underground.
Jay’s stomach groaned and he realized he hadn’t eaten since the packet of beef jerky he’d inhaled during the flight, however many hours ago that was. There was a diner across the road that looked especially inviting. He reasoned he could sit at the window and maintain surveillance while stuffing his face with food and thinking through his plan of action. He wasn’t going to have much luck finding Damien without the right fuel.
He picked out a window-facing seat near the door, then started analyzing the passers-by for visual identifiers and behavioral patterns, anything out of baseline. Nothing had jumped out at him by the time his bacon, eggs over medium and bottomless coffee arrived. He shoved the bacon into his mouth with one hand and kept an eye on the street. The television above him, muted with teletext, covered the crashed Antonov, shot down by terrorists apparently. No mention of survivors recovered except the pilot. So far, this wasn’t going so well. They’d crash-landed, he’d lost Damien and his radio, and here he was wandering around Manhattan in a daze, looking for blue fucking feathers in place of GPS coordinates.
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