by Logan Ryles
Wolfgang threw the door open and rolled out as police sirens wailed in the distance. He tilted his head back and stared up into the interior of the tower, shielding his eyes. The tower was lit all along its frame, stretching up over one thousand feet into the Parisian sky. At odd intervals along the graceful metallic superstructure, tarpaulins blocked off the light, and scaffolding covered the tower. Stacks of barrels rose like a small mountain at the base of the tower, and the main tourist entrance was completely blocked off with yellow construction tape.
The tower was closed for maintenance. Wolfgang remembered reading about it in the travel brochure he picked up on the plane. Every seven years, the entire thing was repainted to preserve the metal from decay. The process took three years and consumed over sixty tons of iconic, bronze-colored paint.
The same paint that Spider’s shoes were stained with.
Wolfgang scanned the base of the tower and immediately saw the elevator, the entrance of which was closed off with a metal gate. Faint footprints marked the concrete leading up to the elevator, with parallel tire marks running behind them. Small tires, like you might find on a hand truck. The gate swung open without resistance, but when Wolfgang reached for the keypad, nothing was there. The entire control panel had been smashed in and obliterated. There was no way to call the car.
Wolfgang felt the tension rising in his stomach, and he ran a hand through his hair.
Think. Think!
Spider must have smashed the control panel, which meant he had in fact been here. But there must be another way.
The stairs. The brochure said there were 674 steps between ground level and the second floor of the structure. 674 steps, at one step a second. That was eleven minutes. But there was no way he could travel that fast for that long.
Screw it.
It didn’t matter. He had to go, now.
Wolfgang rushed to the nearest leg of the tower and tore aside the construction tape. He started running, clearing the first flight in seconds and turning up the next. Every step clapped beneath his feet as the expensive leather soles of his dress shoes smacked against the metal. He forced himself not to take more than one step at a time—it would be an easy win now that would cost him dearly in the long run.
Not even his daily six-mile runs, weight training, and swimming could have prepared him for the grueling reality of 674 steps as the brisk French wind tore through the open structure and blasted his face. That wind—something he may have enjoyed were it a romantic night under the stars with Megan—now filled him with dread. Spider would’ve counted on this wind, holding out, biding his time, waiting for the perfect French night when the wind was strong but there was no rain. Because that’s how dirty bombs work. They explode with a blast only as strong as whatever ordinary explosives they’re packed with—C4, or more likely, plain dynamite.
But the fallout . . . the fallout would be the real killer. Spider would’ve packed his bomb with pounds of radioactive waste—the kind of thing a man working in nuclear energy could have obtained—exhausted rods from the reactors that fueled power plants, cut into small pieces and packed inside a lead case around the explosives. That package would be so radioactive that even though Spider would’ve worn protective gear, some of it still would’ve saturated his skin. Enough to set off Wolfgang’s watch when he searched Spider’s lifeless body.
Then Spider would’ve taken that bomb to the top of the tower. It would be heavy, necessitating his use of the elevator. He wouldn’t have stopped at the first floor, or even the second. He would’ve taken the bomb all the way to the top of the tower, almost one thousand feet in the air, where the wind was the strongest.
And that’s where he’d set it off. High above a densely populated city, where the dynamite would blast outward in all directions, and the nuclear waste would be carried by the wind over thousands of city blocks, there to rain down on unsuspecting civilians and poison them with a certain death that would take days, if not weeks, to materialize.
It was enough to bring down the city. It was enough to break the French economy, which would topple the European Union’s economy and then bring down the world economy. And that would bring chaos. Anarchy. Because Spider was an anarchist, and chaos is a hell of a weapon.
Wolfgang ran, pumping out one step at a time, panting, and not pausing for a second as he reached the first floor of the tower, 187 feet off the ground. He spun to the next set of stairs and ran.
He wasn’t sure how many minutes had ticked by, but he knew the wind was growing stronger, blowing out of the west and ripping through the open superstructure of the tower. With every blast in his face, he imagined a sudden detonation high above him. He imagined the tower shuddering as metal blasted outward amid a ball of fire and a boom so loud it would shake the ground.
But then nothing. The noise would fade, and people would stand in shock and stare at the shattered top of their beautiful tower, unaware that death itself was in the wind, only seconds away.
Wolfgang leaned on the rail and heaved, his head spinning. He wasn’t sure how much farther he had to go. He hadn’t counted steps, but he knew he was at least halfway to the second floor. After that, there was only one way to the top—a final elevator.
Wolfgang pushed himself up the steps, refusing to stop. Megan was someplace in the city, unprotected, unaware. Lyle and Edric and Kevin would all certainly die if he didn’t reach the top in time.
The steps blurred, and he heard the scream of police sirens far below. He glanced down to see blue lights flashing near the Ferrari, but he didn’t care. He only cared about reaching the top in time.
Another hundred steps rocketed past in a blur. Wolfgang’s legs burned, his chest heaved, and his head swam, but he kept going.
The second floor opened around him in a flash. Wolfgang skidded and slid, grabbing a railing and heaving. He looked around the observation deck and blinked in the blast of the wind as it ripped through the tower with a vengeance. Spider had picked a good night.
Wolfgang found the elevator to the top floor surrounded by the tattered remnants of torn construction tape. The control panel was also smashed, like the first elevator. But unlike the first, this panel was built directly into the thick steel of the tower framework, and while the buttons were busted, the housing was still intact. He pressed the top button, smacking and wiggling it a few times until a dim light lit up behind it. The doors rolled open, and Wolfgang lurched inside, then hit the button for the top floor. The doors closed as distant shouts drifted up from someplace farther down the tower. The police.
A dull whine rang from the motor, and the car began moving up the final six hundred feet to the top. Wolfgang closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe evenly. The bomb could detonate at any moment, and if it did, he would certainly die. But if there were just five minutes left before the bomb went off . . .
The car rose, gaining speed. Wolfgang braced himself and suddenly wondered what he was going to do when he reached the top. He didn’t know a thing about disabling a bomb. Did he cut the red wire or the blue?
The car ground to a halt, then the doors rolled open, and a fresh blast of wind ripped straight through Wolfgang’s tux. Only a few feet ahead, the wall of the tower rose to waist-height, with a chain-link fence covering the space from the top of the wall to the tip of the tower. Observation scopes were mounted at intervals along the wall, and the observation deck encircled the top of the tower like a giant donut.
Wolfgang rushed outward, catching himself on the rail and staring straight below toward Paris. His stomach flipped, and he stumbled back, his knees feeling suddenly weak. He wasn’t usually afraid of heights, but the vast difference between himself and the ground seemed cataclysmic. He imagined the bomb going off and him being hurtled off the tower and into the dead air beyond. Falling. Falling to his death.
Wolfgang shook his head and began to circle the observation deck, one corner, and then the second. The empty deck was smudged with half-dry paint and mucky footprints. Spid
er’s footprints.
He grabbed the railing to steady himself, then turned the final corner. The bomb lay in the middle of the deck, planted like a forgotten suitcase. But it was much bigger than a suitcase—built into a 55-gallon drum, strapped to a hand truck with a lid pressed over the top.
Wolfgang rushed forward and pressed his fingers into the gap around the lid, then prized up. The lid wouldn’t move, and Wolfgang’s fingers slipped off the rim with a pop.
He searched his pockets, but the only things he had left with him were his passport and a small bundle of Euros.
Think. Quickly.
Wolfgang felt around the side of the drum until his fingers found the ratchet of the strap binding it to the hand truck. A quick tug on the ratchet, and a press of the release switch, and the strap came loose. Wolfgang pulled it free of the drum and felt down its length until he found the metal hook tied to the strap’s end. It was flat and stiff and fit perfectly into the gap around the drum’s lip.
The lid was tightly battered down like the lid of a paint can, but as Wolfgang shoved down on the hook, he felt it give. Just a little at first, then more. A small gap opened at one side, and Wolfgang dropped the hook, shoving his fingers through the gap and jerking upward. The lid flew off, and the dim lights from the spire of the tower shone down inside the barrel.
Dynamite. It was packed in the middle of the barrel with unidentifiable metal cases crammed in all around it, each of them painted in yellow with red radioactive labels on them. On top of the dynamite was a mess of multi-colored wires, a couple of circuit boards, and an LCD display counting down from six minutes.
How do I do this? Do I just rip away the wires?
No. Wolfgang had seen movies where people did that and the bomb ending up going off. Was this like the movies? Surely it wasn’t that simple.
He wiped his face, and his hands shook. The clock read under five minutes now, ticking down one second at a time. With each flash of the screen, Wolfgang felt the wind at his back and imagined the top of the tower exploding into flames.
No. Think. Think!
Another flash caught his eye, and when he glanced down at the smartwatch on his arm, his heart lurched.
The watch. Lyle can see.
Wolfgang unlocked the watch and cycled through the apps but couldn’t find a messenger or texting function. Had Lyle disabled it to make room for the other applications?
Come on . . . give me something!
Suddenly the watch’s screen went black, and Wolfgang’s stomach sank, thinking for a moment the battery had died. Then the screen flashed green and the whole watch lit up in single colors. Red. Yellow. Purple. The colors changed quickly, and Wolfgang felt the blood surge through him again. Lyle could see.
He directed the watch’s camera to the top of the barrel as the screen went black again. Slowly, he maneuvered around the edge of the barrel, providing Lyle with different angles of the bomb.
The timer counted down under three minutes.
“Come on, Lyle!”
The screen flashed yellow. Wolfgang peered into the bomb case and dug through the wires until he located a yellow wire. He started to pull it, but then the watch began to flash through the different colors again.
“What?” he shouted. “I don’t know what you want!”
The watch stopped flashing, and Wolfgang sucked in a breath. He closed his eyes and forced himself to think. He couldn’t panic. Not now.
He opened his eyes and turned the watch until the camera faced him, then he slowly mouthed, “Two blinks . . . yes.” He held up two fingers, then a thumbs-up. “Three blinks . . . no.” Three fingers, then a thumbs-down. “Understand?”
The watched blinked blue, twice.
“All right, buddy. Let’s get it done.” Wolfgang leaned over the barrel and fingered the yellow wire. He held the watch to where Lyle could see, and then he waited.
The watch blinked red three times. Wolfgang dropped the wire and wiped his eyes, then dug through the barrel. The watch blinked yellow again, then black.
“That’s the only yellow wire, Lyle!”
The clock on the bomb read one minute, twelve seconds. Wolfgang’s heart thumped. The watch blinked yellow, then black. Yellow, then black. Wolfgang dug through the wires as the clock flashed rhythmically.
His fingers shuffled through a red wire, then a blue, and two green, then he touched a black wire. The watch flashed frantically: yellow, black, yellow, black.
Wolfgang twisted the wire and saw a yellow stripe running up its back side. He held the camera close to the wire. “This one?”
The watch flashed green, twice.
He snatched the wire, and it broke free of the mechanism, but the clock didn’t stop ticking. Twenty seconds, now. Nineteen.
The watch flashed red. Wolfgang put his fingers on the red wire, and the watch flashed green, twice. Wolfgang snatched the wire.
Nine seconds. Eight seconds.
“Come on, Lyle!”
The watch flashed purple. Wolfgang dug frantically through the mess. Two purple wires ran into the same mechanism—neither with any stripes.
Four seconds. Three seconds.
He didn’t have time to confirm with Lyle. He grabbed both wires and snatched them free of the mechanism.
The clock froze over the two-second mark, then went black. Wolfgang stumbled back until his hips hit the wall.
The bomb didn’t go off.
He collapsed to the floor of the observation deck, nervous sweat streaming down his face despite the cold. He let out a soft sob and lowered his head into shaking hands.
I did it . . . I did it . . .
The elevator door rolled open on the other side of the tower, and footsteps rang against the deck. Two French police officers darted around the corner, guns drawn. They skidded to a halt only feet away, and Wolfgang leaned back against the wall, offering a tired smile.
“What’s up, guys?”
The lead cop eyed the barrel, then his glare turned toward Wolfgang. He sniffed in indignant disgust and lifted a lip. “You are under arrest!”
Wolfgang grinned. “Sounds great, buddy.”
12
French jail smelled just about the same as any institutional building in America—a cocktail of sweat, stale coffee, and too little ventilation, but Wolfgang didn’t care. He lay on his cot, facing the ceiling with his eyes closed, and just breathed.
He was alive. In the heat of the moments leading up to disabling the bomb, he’d never thought about himself. He’d thought about his team, he’d thought about innocent Parisians, and he’d thought about Megan. It wasn’t until the bomb was about to detonate that he really considered his own stake in the game, and even then the imminence of his death didn’t sink in until the jailer locked the door and Wolfgang had a moment to think.
He wasn’t worried about being in jail. Sure, he’d stolen a three-hundred-thousand-dollar car, scraped it up, broken several traffic laws, broken into a closed monument at night, and most auspiciously, been arrested next to a nuclear weapon. All those things would be cleared up by SPIRE, or they wouldn’t. And if they weren’t, if SPIRE disavowed him and left him in this cell . . . well, he was a man of many means. He’d get out eventually.
Right now he just wanted to lie on this bed, eyes closed, and enjoy being alive. The cot was stiff, and a stray spring jabbed into his back, but he didn’t care. He could lie there for days, his eyes closed, a single image playing over and over in his mind—the image of him and Megan dancing at the gala, moving smoothly while the music played and the world around them faded out of existence.
He’d never met somebody so special that he thought about them this way or felt the things he was feeling now. He’d never met somebody that he thought he’d like to spend a lot of time with, and really get to know, and maybe even let her get to know him.
And yet, he knew it couldn’t be. That was clear now. Sure, she’d only known him a few days, but she clearly didn’t reciprocate the attraction he felt, a
nd he thought he knew why.
Footsteps clicked against the concrete of the jail floor, and Wolfgang made a show of yawning without opening his eyes.
“Yo, Louis!” Wolfgang shouted. “When’s breakfast? I feel like I’m entitled to some French toast.”
“How about breakfast in the USA?” Megan stood just on the other side of the bars, leaned against them, staring at him with just the hint of a smile playing at her lips.
Wolfgang swung his feet onto the floor, breaking out into a grin as he walked toward her. “Finally! I thought you guys were gonna leave me here.”
Megan shrugged. “That was certainly suggested, but you’ve got Lyle’s watch. He wants it back.”
Wolfgang laughed. “No way. They can bury me with that watch.”
“Are you okay? Did they wash you off?”
Wolfgang nodded quickly, uneager to discuss the details of the French decontamination process. He appreciated being washed free of nuclear contaminants, but standing buck naked in somebody else’s country while they sprayed you with a water hose . . . well. It wasn’t a postcard moment.
More footsteps, and a cop appeared. It was the same cop who’d arrested him at the top of the tower.
The man’s eyes were dark and full of disgust. He opened the door and held it back, sticking his nose in the air. “You are free to go.”
Wolfgang grinned. “Don’t mind if I do.”
He and Megan walked back to the front desk, where he processed out. The paperwork he’d signed labeled him as Paul Listener, and he remembered the passport he’d taken to the gala.
