Infernal rj-9

by F. Paul Wilson

  Instinct and training took over as Tom dove for the floor, carrying the mother and her little girl with him. The woman cried out, and as the three of them fell, her fat, bearded husband in his long black coat and sealskin hat whirled toward them, his face a mask of shock and outrage.

  Then the shooting began and the man dove floorward along with everybody else.

  Tom heard shattering glass and a scream of pain behind him. He turned in time to see the two security guards go down, caught in a spray of bullets that shattered the glass doors behind them. The woman's legs folded under her and she hit the floor not six feet from him. A pulsating crimson fountain arced from her throat. He saw more shock than pain in her eyes. She'd never had a chance to draw her pistol.

  The shooters seemed to have made a point of taking down the guards first. More would be coming, but for the moment the killers were unopposed. They mowed down anyone trying to run, and then began a systematic slaughter of the rest.

  Tom watched in horror as the two faceless gunmen split, each taking a side of the carousel, tearing up the helpless, cowering passengers with a succession of short bursts from their stubby, odd-looking assault pistols. They worked quickly and methodically, pausing only to change magazines or cut down those who tried to flee.

  Tom's gut writhed and his bladder clenched with the realization that he was going to die here. He'd been shot in Korea, he'd survived the firefight of his life and Hurricane Elvis just a few months ago, only to be exterminated here like a roach trapped on the floor. If only he had a gun—even a .22 pistol—he could stop these arrogant murderous shits. They knew no one could fight back.

  Tom turned. The dead guard's pistol beckoned to him from its holster.

  Just then a man leaped up and tried to dive into the baggage chute, but an extended burst cut him nearly in half, leaving his body wedged in the opening.

  That long burst emptied the killer's magazine. As he switched to a fresh one, a brawny Hasid leaped to his feet and charged, roaring like the bear he resembled. The killer, caught off guard, backpedaled and slipped on the bloody floor. The Hasid was almost upon him when the other killer turned and ripped him up with a burst to the chest and abdomen that sent him spinning to the floor.

  Now! Tom thought, not giving himself time to think as he pushed himself up to a crouch and started a high-assed scramble. Now!

  He heard shooting behind him, saw pieces chip out of the floor as bullets hit it, felt something tear into his thigh. It knocked him flat, but pushed him forward as it did, putting the gun within reach. He heard the hollow clink! of an empty chamber and knew with a sudden burst of hope that the shooter's magazine had run dry. Bolts of agony shot through his leg when he tried to move it, but he'd been hurt worse than this. All that mattered was the pistol. He had a tiny window of opportunity here and had to make the most of it.

  His fingers were closing around the grip when he began to shake. Not just his hand and arms, his whole body. He tried again for the pistol but his arm seized up. He couldn't breathe. He felt his body begin to flop around like a beached fish. His pulse pounded in his ears, slowing.

  What was happening? He'd only been hit in the leg. Had he taken another slug somewhere else? What…?

  Tom's light, his air, his questions, his time… faded to nothingness.

  4

  Jack had to take a circular route to reach the pickup area, a reluctant mini-tour of the airport. La Guardia was small as major airports went, and appeared to be the victim of some weird temporal dislocation. The dingy, Quonset hut-style hangars looked to be of 1930s vintage, while the green-glassed terminal itself was strictly fifties in design. The massive, six-story, bare concrete parking garage could have been built yesterday.

  As he nosed his Crown Vic along the pickup lane outside the Central Terminal, he saw people running—not toward the doors, like late travelers, but from them. Screaming people, faces masks of terror, fleeing for their lives.

  Jack's heart double-clutched. They were pouring from the baggage area… fleeing the far section… the section where he'd left Dad.

  No… it can't…

  He gunned the engine and sped toward the far section, narrowly missing a panicked man and a screaming woman. He jerked to a halt when he saw the shattered doors and broken glass glittering on the sidewalk, the bullet holes in the still-intact panes.

  Oh, Christ… oh no-no-no!

  He jumped out and dashed across the sidewalk, almost slipping on the shards of glass, and skidded to a halt inside the baggage area.

  Blood… blood everywhere… lakes of red on the floor… even the carousel was red… a man's feet and legs hung out of the baggage chute… the bloody rag-doll body of a baby girl sprawled among the endlessly circling luggage.

  No other movement, no crying, no screams or wails of the wounded. Just silence. Not one of the victims so much as stirred.

  Jack stood frozen and stared, numb, paralyzed…

  Dad…?

  Where was his father? He'd left him standing right over there by the—

  There! Shit! A body, a gray-haired man in a green-and-white coat.

  No-no-no-no!

  As Jack forced himself forward a voice shouted from somewhere to his left.

  "Freeze!"

  Jack heard the word but it didn't register. Stiff and slow, he kept moving, a living zombie.

  "Freeze, goddammit, or I'll drop you where you stand!"

  Jack kept moving, forcing himself forward a few more steps until he reached the corpse. He dropped to his knees in a pool of still-warm blood, grabbed one of the shoulders, and rolled him over.

  The face—his lips were pulled back in a horrific, agonized grimace, but his glazed eyes left no doubt about it.

  Dad.

  Dead.

  Jack felt as if his chest might explode. He let out a sound that was equal parts moan and sob.

  He shook his father. It couldn't be. They'd been talking just a few minutes ago. He couldn't be dead!

  "Dad! Dad, it's me, Jack! Can you hear me?"

  The voice said, "Are you fuckin' deaf? I told you to freeze!"

  Jack looked up into the muzzle of a pistol held by a mustached security guard.

  "This… this is my father."

  "I don't give a fuck, I told you to—"

  "That will be enough!"

  An older man had come up behind the guard. He looked to be about fifty and wore a blue NYPD uniform with sergeant stripes. His nameplate read DRISCOLL.

  The guard backed off a step. "I found this guy wandering around. He could be—"

  Sergeant Driscoll's voice dripped scorn. "He wasn't wandering around. I saw him come in. He was looking for someone." His eyes dropped to Jack's father's inert form. "And he found him."

  "But—"

  "But nothing." He shoved the guard away. "Get over by the door in case anyone else tries to wander in."

  The guard moved off.

  Driscoll muttered, "Asshole," then squatted beside Jack. "Look, I'm sorry about your dad, but you've got to go outside."

  "What happened?" His own voice sounded far away. "I left him here just a few minutes ago… we were talking about going to the Empire State Build—"

  "I'm really sorry, but you're going to have to wait outside. This whole area is a crime scene and you're contaminating it, so you've got to leave."

  "But—"

  He pointed to the floor beneath Jack. "Look at what you're kneeling in. If we're gonna catch these guys, we need every scrap of evidence we can get." He slipped a hand into Jack's armpit and lifted. "Come on. If you want to help us catch the fucks who did this to your dad, wait outside."

  The cop's touch lit a flicker of rage that flashed through the dead, dumb grayness that filled Jack, but he quickly doused it. Lashing out at this man who was trying to do the decent thing would solve nothing. He could walk away or be carried away; either way, he'd be leaving his dad behind. And if he was carried away, they'd find his ankle holster and the unregistered AMT .380 it held
.

  So he let the cop help him to his feet and shuffled toward the shattered doorway where the security guard stood.

  He watched Jack's approach.

  "Hey, sorry about back there. Case like this, you don't know who's friend or foe."

  Jack nodded without making eye contact.

  Outside—chaos. EMS trucks screeching to a halt, shuttles trying to get out of the way, limos inching out from the curb, hundreds of people milling about, some weeping, some hysterical, some in slack-faced shock.

  He saw a harried-looking cop standing by the Vic, shouting, "One last time: Who owns this?"

  Jack hesitated, unsure of what he might be getting himself into, then decided that stepping forward would be less complicated, especially since his fingerprints were all over the car and it was registered in someone else's name—someone unaware of that.

  Jack waved and hurried toward the cop. "Me! It's mine!"

  "Then move it! You're blocking the—hey, you hurt?"

  "What?"

  He pointed to Jack's legs. "You're bleeding."

  Jack looked down and saw the wet red splotches on his knees. For a few seconds, he didn't understand. Then—

  "No…" His voice caught. "No, that's my father's."

  "Jesus. He all right?"

  Jack wanted to tell him what a stupid fucking question that was but bit it back. He simply shook his head.

  "Listen, I'm sorry." The cop pointed to the Vic. "But ya still gotta move it. Just drive it into the garage. Then you can come back and wait with the rest."

  "Wait for what?" Dad was dead.

  The cop shrugged. "I dunno. News about survivors, I guess. Not like you gotta choice. Airport's locked down. Nobody out, nobody in."

  Jack said nothing as he slipped behind the wheel and pulled away.

  5

  Dad… gone…

  The words registered but his mind couldn't get a grip on it, the… finality.

  He'd returned to the garage, found a spot on the perimeter of an upper level, and parked facing west. The falling December sun gleamed through the crystalline sky and stabbed his eyes. The sky had no right being so bright. It should be dark, with wind and hail and lightning.

  Numb, he lowered the visor and… just… sat.

  Gone… one minute alive and full of plans and enthusiasm, the next a cooling lump of meat in a pool of blood. Part of Jack insisted it was all a bad dream, but the rest of him knew he wouldn't wake up from this.

  Knowing nothing made it worse. Who? Why? Some al-Qaeda strike? Or maybe al-Qaeda wannabes massacring a crowd of Orthodox Jews? Was that what this was all about? Made a sick sort of sense. But what made no sense was why, with all the flights from Miami to New York, his father had to wind up on that one.

  Jack had a blood-red urge to gun up and shoot down every Arab he could find. He knew that insanity would pass, but he reveled in the fantasy until it reminded him of the backup piece strapped to his ankle.

  He glanced around, saw no one about, so he reached down and pulled the little AMT .380 from its holster. When the FBI and CIA and NYPD and Homeland Security and whoever else would be involved began allowing people to leave the airport, he'd bet the ranch they'd be searching every person, every car. He wasn't sure his tried-and-true John Tyleski ID would hold up—Ernie was painstakingly thorough when he created an identity, but no fake was perfect.

  And even if it did pass, he couldn't risk carrying. Had to dump the pistol.

  He turned the little backup over in his hands. He'd bought it from Abe six months ago after his trusty old Semmerling had been connected to the subway massacre. Hadn't had to pull it once since. Now he was going to have to toss it away unused.

  Unused… he wondered if it could have made a difference in there. The shooter—probably more than one—must have used an automatic, machine pistol, most likely. He couldn't have killed so many in so little time with a single-shot weapon.

  I should've been there, goddamn it.

  He didn't know what use his little six-shot .380 would have been against Mac-lOs or HK-5s. Not much, probably, but you never knew.

  Another fantasy… taking down a single shooter with a couple of .380s into his face… or, if there'd been two or three, taking one down, tossing his AMT to Dad, then grabbing the downed shooter's weapon and the two of them taking on the others… just as they'd taken on Semelee's clan in the Everglades.

  More likely he'd now be lying dead beside his dad.

  At least they'd have put up a fight, kept whoever it was from getting clean away.

  And maybe being dead wouldn't be as bad as dealing with this blistering guilt for not being there when his father needed him most.

  Jack forced himself out of the fantasy to deal with the reality of the moment: The gun had to go.

  He popped out the magazine, removed the chambered cartridge, then pulled out the old, oil-stained rag he kept in the glove compartment. He emptied the magazine, wiped it down, then did the same with each casing.

  He removed the leather ankle holster and wiped that down. Then he removed the slide assembly from the pistol frame and wiped each part.

  He opened the car door. A look around showed no one in sight, so he got out and leaned over the edge of the parapet. No one below. He dropped the slide onto the pavement six stories down.

  He began walking the perimeter of the level, tossing a cartridge every hundred feet or so, then finally the frame and the holster.

  When he returned to his car he moved it to a more centrally located slot.

  Then he crossed the skyway back toward the terminal. At the end he turned the corner and found himself in the middle of a crowd. Security personnel were blocking the escalators down to the ticketing and baggage levels.

  Jack tapped a heavyset woman on her arm.

  "What's going on?"

  She looked at him—bloodshot eyes, blotchy face, tear-smeared mascara.

  "They won't let us down! My daughter was due in! I—I don't know if she's alive or dead!"

  At least you still have hope, Jack thought.

  6

  He'd been standing on the glass-walled skyway for two hours. Dark now—the sun had set around four thirty. He'd called Gia to tell her he was okay. She said she'd heard the news and had been worried sick. When he told her about his father she broke down. Listening to her sob, he'd almost lost it himself.

  Two hours with the crowd of mourners and stranded passengers watching a seemingly endless parade of stretchers wheeled back and forth from the terminal to the ambulances below. All carried bagged bodies. He saw no wounded and wondered why.

  No matter. Dad wouldn't be among them. It ate at Jack that he hadn't known which bag contained his father.

  And finally the stretchers stopped rolling, and the last of the ambulances pulled away.

  "Where are the survivors?" said a forty-something woman nearby. "Aren't there any survivors?"

  "Maybe they were taken out another way."

  "No way," she said with an emphatic shake of her head. "I know this airport, everything at this end has to funnel through directly below us. I've watched the ambulances coming and going, and right down there was the only spot they stopped."

  "There have to be some survivors," said a man in a herringbone overcoat. "I mean, they couldn't have killed everybody."

  Seemed logical, but Jack couldn't remember seeing anyone stirring amid the bloodbath.

  He kept that to himself, however. He was concerned with where they'd taken his father… and how he was going to claim the body when he didn't own a single piece of ID under his real name.

  He wandered back to the escalators. Still blocked, but he spotted a familiar-looking cop—the older one from inside—giving instructions to the security men.

  "Sergeant?" he called. "Hey, sergeant?"

  The cop didn't turn.

  What was his name? He'd seen the nameplate but had been in shock—wait. Driscoll. Yeah.

  "Sergeant Driscoll?"

  When he turne
d Jack waved to him. He looked as if he couldn't place Jack's face.

  "We met inside. Where can I claim my father's body?"

  As Jack's question was echoed by other voices, Driscoll stepped closer.

  "Call the one-one-five—"

  "Precinct?" someone said.

  "Right. They'll have a procedure in place."

  "What about the wounded?" a woman asked. "What hospital were—?"

  Driscoll shook his head. His grim expression became grimmer.

  "We have no wounded."

  "No wounded!" the woman cried, her voice edging into a wail. "They can't all be dead!"

  "We have survivors who saw what happened, and they're being debriefed, but we have no wounded."

  "How can that 6e?"

  "We're working on that, ma'am."

  "What happened?" someone else said as horrified cries rose all around. "Who did this? Who's responsible?"

  He shook his head. "I can't answer that. The mayor and the commissioner will be holding a press conference at City Hall soon. You'll have to wait till then."

  "But—"

  He held up his hand. "I've told you all I can."

  "When can we leave?" someone shouted as he turned.

  "The checkpoints are in place now. You can start to head out."

  And then his back was to them and he was walking away. If he heard any of the questions called out after him, he gave no sign.

  Jack too barely heard them. The word "checkpoints" was blaring though his mind.

  His earlier misgivings about his Tyleski ID withstanding full-bore scrutiny had became full-blown doubt. But even if it did pass muster, his car was another story. A check of the registration would raise a horde of questions. Like why was he driving a car registered to someone else? And to Vinny "the Donut" Donato, of all people? If someone checked with the owner they'd learn that the black Crown Vic in question was sitting in his garage in Brooklyn.

  Then even more shit would hit the fan.

  Bad enough to be bagged for false ID, but to be suspected of being connected to the terrorists who'd killed his own father… a father he couldn't officially claim as his own…

  Had to find another way out.

  7

  Jack fought the numbness his mind yearned to yield to and forced it to focus. He shuttled between the garage and the skyway, getting the lay of the land and not finding much in the way of potential escape routes.