The City Series (Book 3): Instauration

by Lyons Fleming, Sarah

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” she says, rolling her eyes at Kitty. “We’ve been tiptoeing around and whispering like we’re in Mission Impossible.”

  “Why?” I settle on the couch, no longer annoyed at being woken. A tiny flutter of hope beats in my chest. I can think of only one reason they’d ask me that.

  “We want out,” Sharla says. “Brother David told us about it before…” She sniffs and sits up straighter. “He didn’t say, but I know that’s why you’re here, especially since you’re pregnant. You wouldn’t be stupid enough to stay when you can walk out that gate.” I remain closemouthed, and she sizes me up with a firm nod. “I worked with teenagers. School counselor. I know when someone’s pregnant.”

  Before I can respond, Kitty says, “And I know when someone’s bullshitting, so don’t lie.”

  I can’t contain my smile. “Just you two and the kids?” I ask. “Does anyone else want to leave?”

  “Everyone,” Sharla says.

  “Everyone?” I echo in disbelief. “How…?”

  “They were scared. I told them they knew better than to believe that about Brother David. They talked to their kids, to each other, and they saw I was right.”

  Kitty clicks her dentures dismissively. “I told them they were assholes.”

  Sharla and I laugh. I want to be just like Kitty when I’m old.

  “How are we going to do this?” Sharla asks.

  We. It’s one of the shortest yet sweetest words in the English language. So often unobserved and disregarded. But, right now, it’s everything.

  “We’ll figure it out,” I say.

  109

  Eric

  “Here we go,” Farina says to Kate and me.

  We hide in a building at the other end of the High Line from the hotel. The detonator has been placed half a block away, in a cooler deep in the back of a cinderblock garage, where sound won’t carry as far. She’s wired the receiver to a capacitor with a higher voltage. When one speaks into the transmitter, it should complete the circuit with enough power to blow the detonator.

  Farina lifts the radio to her mouth. “Testing. Please blow the hell up.”

  We watch the building. Nothing, as we expected. A Parks Department truck rumbles past three blocks down. They’re all over the place, and I hope Sylvie, Paul, and Indy aren’t spotted on their way to us.

  When the coast is clear, we move quickly for the garage. I smell burnt plastic before we switch on our lights to see the cooler lid resting by the wall, and the cooler itself reduced to melted black chunks. All that remains of the detonator, receiver, and capacitor is a smattering of circuit board, plastic shards, and wire.

  “Nice,” I say.

  Kate hugs Farina. “You’re amazing.”

  “Sometimes I really am,” Farina says.

  As we exit, another truck passes on the street. We wait a few minutes and take a route through buildings and construction sites until we slip into the bottom of The Standard. Walking the High Line in plain sight is too big a risk. A large morning fire is as well, so we’ve been burning at night to make the hotel livable during the day.

  Sylvie stands in the hall outside The Box with Bird, both gazing out the window. Her body relaxes at our arrival, and she sets Bird on the floor. “I was worried. They’re everywhere.”

  I take her in my arms. “I’m sorry about Brother David.” She sniffles and nods, her face pressed to my coat. “Are you okay?”

  “I am now. I liked my message.”

  “I liked mine. You look tired.”

  She raises warm eyes whose sparkle doesn’t obscure the fatigue beneath. “You sure know how to sweet-talk a girl.”

  “Do you want to rest?”

  “There’s no time. We need to get back, but we wanted to make a plan. Everyone in StuyTown is ready to go. We just have to decide when and how.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “I didn’t. Sharla and Kitty did.”

  Jerry sticks his head into the hall. “We have a problem. Carmen’s on the radio.”

  Farina rushes through the door. By the time we follow, she stands at the table that holds the radio. Ren, sitting in a chair, writes down the message coming through in Morse code. I catch bits and pieces of the end: …two hours. Please advise.

  “Tell her we copy,” Farina instructs Ren, then faces the room. “She’s stalling them, but they’ll be here in two hours. We have to leave. Where can we go?”

  No one moves. We’re so close. All we need is a few days, but we don’t have a few hours. “That Fifth Avenue building in Midtown?” Mo asks.

  “We’ll freeze, but it’ll work for a couple of days.”

  “There’s a place nearby,” Sylvie says, grabbing hold of Leo’s hand. “Roger’s other stash house. He built a heater. You’ll be cramped, but it’s warm and there’s food.”

  She gives us an address a quarter-mile away. “Done,” Kate says. “How will we get there without being seen?”

  “Distraction,” I say. “Farina, want to try one of those for real?”

  They’re loading everyone up. The kids and Bird will go to the monastery in the boat. Food and weapons in a couple of trucks. Bombs go alone, with one or two brave drivers. The others will go on foot or bike, and everyone will make a run for it a few minutes after they hear the explosion, when it’s likely the searchers will be following the noise. Farina and I are in the Chelsea Market lab, her working quickly, and me attempting to pack what I can without moving too quickly. Too quickly can make nitro explode, or so I’m told. I don’t want to find out for myself.

  Sylvie enters wearing her coat. “Everything’s packed and waiting.”

  “Leave the room,” I say, more harshly than I intended.

  She scowls at me, arms crossed. I set down the bottle I hold and pull her out to the offices, where I place a hand on her stomach. There’s a roundness that wasn’t there before. “You’re pregnant and standing in a room full of explosives,” I say in a softer voice. “Maybe that’s not the best idea?”

  “It’s not in the pregnancy book,” she says. “But you’re probably right.”

  “Go away. Pretty please? We’re almost done here. Tell them they can come and take out the rest.”

  “Be careful. I don’t want to be a single mother.”

  “Promise. Now, skedaddle.”

  She kisses me, and I pinch her butt on her way out. “Jerk,” she mutters.

  “Love you, too,” I call after her, and hear back faintly, “Love you, jerk.”

  In the kitchen, Farina has finished wiring. She tosses all her equipment into a milk crate. “Put that on top of what they’re taking. We need it.”

  We leave the kitchen as Jorge, Guillermo, and Kearney arrive. “Take as much as you can,” I say. “Most important stuff is toward the front.”

  “See you there,” Jorge says.

  Farina and I leave Chelsea Market by the rear street entrance. I carry the gelatin in my pack. We checked it all yesterday, and some seems to have gone bad, as Kate says it can. Bubbles in the jelly are good; no bubbles is not as good. Red color in the liquid is bad; yellowish-to-clear is A-OK.

  Kate whistles before she races up to where we wait in the shadows. “You don’t think I’m going to let you blow up my nitro without me? Where are we headed?”

  “As far as we can get in five to ten minutes,” I say.

  “Maybe the twenties and east a little?” Kate asks. We agree, and she walks faster.

  “Where are you guys?” Farina whispers into her radio.

  “Still packing up nitro,” Sylvie says. “Far away from me, Eric will be happy to note.” You can hear the eye roll in her voice, though it barely covers the tremor.

  “Have I ever told you I love that girl?” Kate whispers. “Probably because she reminds me of myself.”

  I rally an amused snort. The cold wind mixes with my sweat and whisks away my body heat, though anxiety has overheated me enough that it feels good. I’m wearing a bomb on my back, Central Park is coming to kill
us, and almost everyone I care about, born and unborn, sits where they’re headed.

  “Hey.” Kate pinches my cheek. “It’ll be all right.”

  I nod, though I’m not sure it will be. I’m beginning to think we won’t pull this off. There are too many moving parts. We’ve lost our base of operations. Though we need to distract them from their hunt, a bomb will make them certain of our existence.

  A soft whistle comes from down the street. A figure steps from the recessed area of a store and motions us forward before it disappears again. Charlie. We move to his doorway, where Mischa sits cleaning her face by the store window.

  “I was on my way to you,” Charlie says. He points in the direction of Sixth Avenue. “There’s a truck down there. Heard them talking about looking for you guys.”

  “Did they say where they were going?”

  He shakes his head. “Waiting on directions. You might want to hear what they say. You need any help?”

  “We have it,” Kate says. “But thanks, Charlie. Stay safe. Maybe lie low for a while?”

  “All right, will do.” He snaps his fingers. Mischa claws her way up his layers and into his arms.

  We move toward Sixth Avenue, where a small parking lot takes up the corner. Farina is first, and she moves in a crouch between the parked cars and trucks. I pull my pistol and follow. Just past the parking lot, on Sixth Avenue, two guys stand outside a black SUV. One speaks into his radio. “…our area. Nothing. Where do you want us?”

  “Why don’t you head to the tracks?” a voice comes in return. “We’ll be there in thirty.”

  His words set my chest tingling. The tracks can only mean one thing. I rise as the man hooks his radio on his belt. Kate drags me down by my shirt, and I hit the cracked asphalt on my ass, my elbow bouncing off a tire.

  “You’ll get yourself killed,” Kate hisses, then whips her head side to side when I shrug. “Don’t be a hero.”

  Sylvie once teased me about playing the hero, though that’s not what I’m doing now. I’d rather Sylvie be a single mother than dead, and I’ll die for her and my kid before I’ll let those men near.

  Another SUV arrives, and a tall man steps from the new truck. I recognize him from Central Park. “What’s up?” he calls.

  “Give me your pack,” Kate whispers as they continue talking. I let it slip from my shoulders.

  Two other people exit the vehicle. I don’t have a good shot on three of the five, which means we’ll end up in a firefight we likely won’t win. Kate unzips my pack and pulls out the bomb. It’s in a brown cardboard gift box about the size of a wine bottle. She opens the flap and turns on the radio receiver.

  “Toss it?” I ask.

  Kate shakes her head, whispering, “Might break the detonator connections.” She looks to the radio Farina holds and wiggles her fingers like gimme. “Set the frequency.”

  Farina does and hands it to Kate, who scuttles to the rear of the parked sedan closest to the men. She waves us back, and we retreat the length of one car. Kate moves again, hitting the sidewalk and staying low, then pauses to crouch behind one of the last payphone booths in New York. It doesn’t hide her fully, but none of the men looks back or down, which is the only way they’d see her.

  She turns to wink at us. I’ve often thought Kate is bananas, but this is all the proof anyone needs. She leaves the curb for the street and begins a silent squat-walk to the rear of one truck. Farina and I crawl forward to keep her in view. Her plan must be to plant the bomb and run like hell while she uses the transmitter.

  The guy from Central Park points to a group of five Lexers rambling down the avenue and bangs twice on his truck’s roof. “Let’s go.” The men break apart, open their doors, and hop in their vehicles.

  “Shit,” Farina says.

  I jump up, pistol in hand, while they pull away. Kate gets to her feet and chases them down the center of Sixth Avenue. “Kate!” I yell.

  Farina and I reach the corner as the SUVs squeal to a stop down the block. Two men exit one truck, guns drawn. Kate jogs near, her voice distraught like she needs assistance. The transmitter is in her hand.

  “Oh, God,” Farina whispers. “She’s not…”

  My ability to speak is allied with my breath, which has deserted me. Throw it, I think. Please, Kate. Throw it and take your chances it doesn’t affect the detonator.

  “Stop right there!” one of the men shouts.

  Kate slows a step and then continues at the same pace, her voice plaintive. Both men raise their weapons at her approach. At the last moment, she veers to disappear between the two trucks, and the men rush around the front of their vehicle to intercept her. Now she’ll drop the package and run for us.

  Run, Kate. Run. I’m not sure if I whisper or think it.

  Just when I think she’ll reappear, a gunshot rings out. We stand frozen for one second, two seconds. I start forward, then duck when a blinding orange fireball lights up the center of the street. The explosion wallops my chest and head, banging my teeth together, and rushes past to echo off miles of cement and steel.

  I push Farina behind the phone booth while debris flies, and I huddle with her under the metal until it stops. The sound has faded, though my ears ring. Through the haze, I see the shockwave turned one SUV on its side, and both trucks, or what’s left of them, are engulfed in flames. Smoke climbs into the air, carrying fuel and oil skyward.

  Though there’s nothing but fiery metal and blackened bits of debris, somehow I expect Kate to come toward us. Limping, maybe. Sooty, for sure. Definitely grinning. But she’s funneling up to the clouds with the rest of the explosion. She’s gone.

  Smoke drifts past, acrid and pungent, but that’s not why my eyes burn and my throat aches. Kate sacrificed herself, and she did it without a goodbye, without anything but the simple, pure desire to protect us all. I have no doubt she did it so that I couldn’t, so that I wouldn’t leave Sylvie a single mother.

  Farina tugs my arm until I turn away. Those five Lexers have continued past us toward the fire, and humans will be here soon enough.

  110

  Sylvie

  I hug Leo and set him down on the pier where the boat waits for the trip to the monastery. Paul stands beside me, jaw trembling. He hasn’t spoken since he told Leo he loved him, and it’s obvious he’ll cry if he tries to say more.

  “We don’t want to leave you, squirt,” I say. “But we have to, so we can all be safe.”

  “I know,” Leo whispers, and blinks back tears of his own. “I’ll make sure Bird’s okay.”

  We’ve already tucked Bird’s box in the boat. Like Leo, our poor cat has been shuttled around too many times. Though I know Leo will be well taken care of in Brooklyn, I pray this is the last time and that at least one of us is able to return for him. My eyes dampen at the thought of Leo an orphan in every sense of the word, with not only no parents, but also with no one who knows how to make him laugh when he’s sad, or tie his shoes not too loose or too tight, or love him as wholly as we do.

  Indy sets a hand on his cheek. “You’ll be drinking milk in Central Park before you know it.”

  “Emily and I want chocolate milk. Do they have that?”

  Susan, watching the street close by, comes to kneel before him. “I promise I will make you and Emily the biggest glass of chocolate milk you’ve ever seen. Thank you for being such a good friend to her.”

  “She misses you,” he says. “She’ll be happy.”

  Susan squeezes his shoulders. “I’ll be happier. Now stay safe, okay?”

  Leo swallows, though his nod is resolute. I pick him up to hug him one last time and then hand him to Paul. “Okay, Buddy,” Paul croaks. “See you soon. Love you.”

  He lowers Leo into Jerry’s raised arms. Jerry sets Leo in a seat and bends to buckle him in. “You’re an old hand at this,” Jerry says once Leo’s belt is tight. “Maybe you can tell the other kids about where we’re going. They’re nervous.”

  Leo regards the four kids around him, all o
f whom sit stiff and terrified. The two moms who make the trip aren’t any less anxious. They’re leaving behind spouses and their home, not knowing if either will be here in a week’s time.

  “Love you, Daddy.” Leo smiles at Paul, his lips wobbly, then turns to the kids. “The monastery is nice. They have a really big yard with…”

  The boat engine drowns out his words as it pulls away. Paul chokes and spins for The Standard, and Indy moves ahead to take his hand while I follow, fighting tears of my own. By the time we reach the hotel lobby, Paul has shut down his crying, though he waits for our cue to leave with strained muscles.

  “He’s in the safest place,” I say. Paul produces an equally strained nod.

  “He’ll be okay,” Indy says. “But I might not be. I can’t fight with broken fingers.”

  Paul answers with a blank expression. She raises his hand to her lips, in which her fingers are crushed into something resembling a five-tentacled squid, and Paul loosens his grip. “Sorry, babe.”

  “Babe?” she asks.

  “No good?”

  Indy squints as she considers the question, and then her lips bend into a sweet smile as dazzling as her toothpaste-commercial one. More so, because it’s genuine. “Good.”

  “It was either that or—”

  I thought the explosion would be a distant pop, but its echoing thunder makes all three of us jump. Jorge comes and puts his arm around me. “Couple minutes, we leave.”

  He motions at the two trucks and a van by the curb outside. A Lexer stumbles past on the sidewalk across the street, though it heads toward the source of the bomb. I hope Eric, Farina, and Kate aren’t trapped by the Lexers or people who’ll head their way.

  The last of Mo’s group enters the lobby. They wear packs on their backs, stoic expressions on their faces, and good shoes on their feet. They’re nothing if not mobile. At least some of them could have gone to Central Park or StuyTown in the past year, and it says a lot about Mo and Farina that they didn’t.

  The bomb van pulls to the curb. Guillermo steps out, shiny with perspiration, then comes to the door. “We’re driving over first, and we’ll radio if we see anything. I must’ve been out of my mind when I said I’d do this.”