Ghosts of War (17 page)

Gabriel had laughed, and kissed her then, full and firmly on the lips. But she had slapped him away, berating him for his dismissal and for trying to dissuade her with sentiment. She was wrong, though. That hadn't been it at all. More than anything, it had been her drive, her ambition, her unfaltering sense of loyalty, her need for adventure that had caused him to sweep her up in his arms. For all that she was a drunk, for all that she had fallen out of love with life, she lived it with exuberance, inhabiting every single second of it, embracing every experience. More than anything, then, Gabriel had wanted to take her by the hand and promise her she could come with him. But, of course, he had not, because he knew that exuberance would get her killed, and he would not be responsible for that. Not again.

So instead, now, she was hanging out of Donovan's car window, searching the skies for the oncoming raptors, keeping a dutiful eye on him.

He'd smoked the cigarette down to the butt already, and he flicked it away, watching it tumble over the side of the building until it disappeared from view. It was then that he noticed something glinting in the distance. It was too far off to make out what it was, and at first he dismissed it as a biplane, circling the city, having launched from one of the far-off rooftops on a spike of rocket flame. As he watched, however, he saw that there was no exhaust or spike of flame. He studied it intently. No, this was something else. There were more of them, occupying the same region of the sky, shining brightly in the moonlight. A flock of them. This was it. Five raptors, and they were coming his way.

Gabriel took a deep breath and tried to shake some blood into his fingertips. He could feel his chest tightening in anticipation, feel the muscles around his neck and shoulders bunching as he prepared himself for what was to come. He raised his arms, holding them out by his side, allowing the wind to buffet him once more. All the while, he kept his eyes fixed on the oncoming storm of brass.

Would they even see him? Would they care? He hoped he would look to them like easy pickings. Bait.

A quick glance down at the car told him Ginny had seen the raptors too. She was speaking frantically to Donovan, who was out of sight in the shadows, and pointing frantically up at the sky.

A moment later, Gabriel became aware of the thrum of the raptor's propellers and the incessant chitter-chatter they made as they swarmed out of the darkness toward him, their eyes glowing red, their talons extended.

They were flying in an arrowhead formation, swooping low over the rooftops, searching for prey. For a moment he thought they were simply going to ignore him, to flash swiftly overhead and dart away toward the relative seclusion of Central Park, but then he saw one of them—the one on the left at the rear of the formation—cock its head toward him. Its burning eyes fixed him with a menacing glare, and he knew then that there was no backing out. It was coming for him.

Gabriel braced himself as the raptor broke formation, baying loudly. Its long wings extended, stretching their thin skein of flesh, and the rotors of its engines roared as they churned the air.

Gabriel closed his eyes and sucked at the cold air. One way or another, he was about to discover what was really going on.

Rutherford knew all too well where Senator Isambard Banks had taken up residence since moving to Manhattan from Brooklyn twelve months earlier: the Plaza Hotel on 59th Street, perhaps the most resplendent, and decadent, of all New York hotels.

Rutherford had even visited the senator's apartment on occasion in his guise as Jerry Robertson, being wined and dined and taken into the senator's rather overbearing confidence. He'd been forced to sit for hours listening to the man pontificate on his radical policies, his opinions of the British, his dream that one day the American people could have an empire just as extensive and powerful as that of Queen Alberta. He couldn't see how ridiculous it made him sound, how much of an egomaniac he had become. America already had an empire as extensive as the British: the United States. Rutherford loved the country almost as much as his own, and it saddened him to hear such radical views expressed by someone who had the potential to wield such power.

Rutherford, of course, had long ago learned how to play the political game, and had fed the man's ego, expressing confluent views, testing the water with his own falsified opinions, egging the man on until, months later, he'd been invited back to the apartment on an almost weekly basis to discuss the senator's plans for igniting the war.

Now, Rutherford could see the silhouette of the senator moving about in the apartment through the gossamer curtains that flapped at the open window. It was icy cold outside, but the senator was not a slim man, and given the amount of pacing back and forth he was doing, Rutherford imagined he'd opened the window in order to cool down.

The apartment itself was a sumptuous affair, almost as grotesque to Rutherford's tastes as the senator himself. He supposed it was a reflection of the senator's personality that he needed to be surrounded by gilded things, most of which, Rutherford had realized upon closer inspection, were in fact cheap decorative copies, glamorized and disguised as priceless objets d'art. That, in itself, told Rutherford much about the senator's personality and his outlook on life: he was more concerned with outward appearances than he was with substance and depth. His policies, Rutherford knew, were only as well-thought-out and robust as his collection of art, there only to empower him and his cronies, to make him feel important, to offer him the illusion of grandeur. It was this that he craved above all else: fame, and a place in the history books. He saw the means to achieve this goal in his plans to lead the country to glory through a war with the British. It was his intention to be the man remembered for bringing a new golden age to the glorious empire of America.

Rutherford shivered. His fingers were growing numb now with the cold, clutching the steering wheel of the stolen car. He'd taken it earlier from a side street, cracking the lock and hotwiring the engine. He'd been reluctant to steal, of course, but he'd needed transport, especially if he was going to successfully tail the senator. His breath was fogging the windows, and he rubbed at the glass ineffectually with his sleeve and then leaned over and rolled down the passenger window, allowing the frigid air to swirl in. He'd been there for hours, and he was freezing cold, but it wasn't as if he had anywhere else to go.

Rutherford could barely believe that all those months of undercover work, of living as someone else in the company of all those rich and powerful statesmen, had come to this. It wasn't that he feared acting against those people, or even putting his own life at risk for the greater good of his country, but more that this was not at all how he had planned for the endgame to play out.

All those months spent winning Banks's confidence, getting the man to trust him, becoming his confidant, and working his way into the inner circle, had allowed him to build a picture of what was going on, an understanding of what this cabal of men were planning.

They were secretly building a superweapon that they planned to unleash on London. He didn't know exactly what it was, or where it was being built—other than the fact the engineer responsible had designed it to be housed inside a huge transatlantic airship—but he knew from the conversations he'd overheard that it was incredibly dangerous, without parallel in modern warfare. They were worried about being able to control it once it was fully activated.

The only member of the cabal of politicians and businessmen behind the scheme who knew where to find the device was Senator Banks, their unelected leader. Banks was the driving force behind the entire project. He was the key to all of this. His radical politics, his sheer force of will, had won over those other men. Weak-willed and hungry for power, they had flocked like magpies to his cause and his extraordinary promises of the bright new future to come, the bright new future in which they would all play significant roles on the world stage.

It went right to the top, too. Governors, bankers—even the police commissioner was involved, all easing the way, all smoothing things so that Banks's policies and plans could be put into practice. For a while, Rutherford—posing as Jerry Robertson—had been a part of that, and he had seen firsthand how easy it must have been for those others to get swept up in Banks's world. The man was a trickster, a showman: charismatic, charming, and strong-willed. He was a natural leader, and a very dangerous man indeed. And Rutherford knew that at some point in the coming hours, he was going to have to kill him.

The thought did not sit well with the British spy. He'd killed too many people already in his short life. He'd always acted in the line of duty, of course—during the war, and more recently as a means of self-preservation. Assassinations never sat easily with him, though. There was something too cold and calculated about them. Killing someone during a fight, or to protect himself—well, he'd had to learn to live with that, and at least the victim typically brought it upon themselves. This, however, would be nothing but cold, hard murder.

There was no question, of course. He'd have to do it. If he didn't, tens of thousands, perhaps more, of his countrymen would die. He wouldn't feel sorry for Banks—the man deserved to die—but more for himself, for the little bit of him that died alongside every person he'd had to murder in this way. It was as if Rutherford himself became a little less human with every violent act he was forced to commit.

First, though, he needed Banks to lead him to the weapon. Simply taking out Banks was not enough. He could do that here, now—and had been sorely tempted to do just that, to slow everything in its tracks and buy some time. But it was risky. It left the possibility that the others could continue Banks's work. He knew Banks was a meticulous man, never doing anything without careful planning. While he'd been careful to keep the exact details and location of the weapon to himself, Rutherford was sure that he would also have organized a fail-safe.

Banks was obsessed with his pursuit of power and fame, and he wasn't about to let a little thing like death get in the way of his place in the history books. He would have doubtless found a way to ensure it. Someone else would be ready to step in and act in his name.

The silhouette by the window had gone and the lights in Banks's rooms had blinked off. Rutherford clutched at the steering wheel and forced himself to breathe. His heart was hammering in his chest. This was it; this was his chance. Wherever Banks went now, Rutherford had to follow. He had to stay on the man's tail until, eventually, Banks gave himself away. Only then could Rutherford make his move.

The car was shuddering gently around him, the engine idling, smoke coiling from the exhaust funnels. He hoped he'd parked far enough from the building so that when Banks emerged, Rutherford wouldn't draw his attention. He knew he was playing a dangerous game. Banks knew Rutherford for what he was, now—no longer the political activist from Boston, but the spy from across the Atlantic. If the senator caught even a glimpse of him, the game would be up.

Moments later, the revolving door of the hotel turned, and Banks appeared on the sidewalk. He was wrapped up against the chill in a gray woolen overcoat, a porkpie hat perched on his head. But Rutherford knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it was him.

Seconds later a sleek black car appeared at the intersection up ahead, pulled into the street, and purred to a stop in front of the hotel. Another man, a driver, climbed out and circled around the back of the vehicle to hold the passenger door open for the senator, who slipped quietly inside. The driver then returned to his seat, and the car slid silently away.

Rutherford fixed its taillights in his sights, released the handbrake of his own, stolen vehicle, and moved away in pursuit.

D
onovan watched in horror as the raptor at the rear of the formation broke away from the rest of its flock and swept down to snatch Gabriel off the rooftop. It shrieked loudly in what Donovan could only assume was glee.

Ginny had produced Gabriel's twin pistols from her belt and was now brandishing them out of the window, one in each fist. For a moment Donovan thought she was going to open fire, but she held her nerve, keeping the barrels of the weapons trained on the mechanical beast as it plucked Gabriel from his perch. The raptor spiraled higher again, fanning its wings as it climbed, while the rest of its flock chattered off into the frozen night, baying for further victims.

Donovan had to admire Gabriel for what he was doing, as crazy as it was. His plan had worked; the raptors had taken his bait, and now this was their best chance yet of finding their lair and getting to the bottom of what was going on. Assuming, of course, Gabriel didn't go and get himself killed in the process.

Now, in the grip of the mechanical monster, Gabriel looked to Donovan like a tiny rag doll clutched in the hand of a child, limp and lifeless. The raptor circled once, issued another of its strangled cries, and then darted off across the rooftops, heading in the opposite direction to its brethren.

Donovan realized that Ginny was shouting something, barking commands. He grabbed for the steering wheel and slammed his foot on the accelerator.

“South! It's heading south,” she called, leaning out of the passenger window, her guns still trained on the sky.

Donovan swore loudly and grappled with the machine. He spun the wheel, slewing the vehicle around into the road and half mounting the sidewalk in the process. A quick glance up at the sky told him that the raptor was barely encumbered at all by its new payload, and for all Gabriel's plans to attempt to slow it, he still appeared to be hanging limp and unconscious from its claws.

“Move, Donovan!” Ginny bellowed, and Donovan jammed his foot to the floor in response. Tires screeched against the frost-covered asphalt, and the engine groaned in protest as he pushed it for all it was worth. The intersection ahead meant he had to make a left and then cross two blocks before he could turn about and get them onto an avenue heading in the right direction.

“Keep your eyes on it!” he shouted across to Ginny as he spun the wheel, twisting the car around in a tight circle, ignoring the oncoming traffic and careening out dangerously into the road. The vehicle tilted to the right, two of its wheels lifting momentarily from the tarmac, before Donovan managed to get it under control once more and they were away again.

“We're heading in the wrong direction!” Ginny exclaimed, and Donovan glanced over at her, fearful that she would tumble out of the window if she leaned out any farther.

“I know! I know! Stay with it!” he called back. The car shot across the two blocks, around the next corner, and out onto the next avenue, this time heading downtown. Donovan could still see the mechanical beast, a tiny speck on the skyline, glinting in the moonlight. They were still on its tail. Now, he just had to keep it in his sights.

His mouth felt dry and he could hardly breathe. The consequences of getting this wrong, of losing sight of the raptor—well, he'd tried to warn Gabriel what might happen. But Donovan was in it, now, up to his eyeballs, and all he could think about was how much he was looking forward to a cigarette when all of this was over.

“It's getting away,” Ginny called in exasperation. “We're too slow!”

There was little Donovan could do. He was pushing the vehicle as much as he dared, his foot pressed to the floor. The traffic here was heavy, and he found himself having to swerve and slow down in order to avoid a collision. It wouldn't do any of them any good—Gabriel included—if he managed to wrap his car around another vehicle in the process.

He considered firing up the siren but decided not to risk it, in case it alerted the raptor to their pursuit; he and Gabriel had discussed it earlier and dismissed the idea, hopeful that it wouldn't prove necessary. If the raptor was panicked, it might drop Gabriel in order to get away more swiftly.

“Hold on!” Donovan shouted as he leaned heavily to the left, throwing the car out wide and weaving around a large, black lorry, the driver of which was forced to slam on his brakes to avoid colliding with a taxicab. The man blared his horn loudly in annoyance, but Donovan had already shot past, leaving the near miss and a wave of incensed drivers far behind.

Donovan continued to dip in and out of the traffic, ignoring the risks to not only himself and Ginny but the other drivers. All that mattered at that moment was the fact that Gabriel was up there. That's all he could think about right now. Gabriel was in the clutches of one of those horrifying, mechanical beasts, and it was Donovan's job to ensure the thing didn't rip him to pieces.

He caught sight of it then, dipping low above the skeletal frame of girders and scaffolds that marked a new hotel that was being constructed here. For a moment he thought it was going to drop inside this half-finished shell, and he wondered if this was where the things had established their nest, but then it banked sharply to the left and continued on, making its way toward Lower Manhattan.

Up ahead he could see a stoplight had turned red. Private cars and taxi cars alike had pulled up in a long line. Ginny was bellowing at them from the window, demanding that they get out of the way, and Donovan realized that if he stopped here now, that would be it. They would lose sight of their quarry, and with it, they would lose Gabriel. He couldn't allow that to happen. There was only one option.

Donovan yanked the steering wheel hard to the left and the car banked. “What are you doi—” Ginny wailed, but her question became a warbling scream as the car bounced violently up onto the sidewalk at speed, its undercarriage scraping against the curb. Pedestrians scattered in every conceivable direction as Donovan fought to maintain control of the vehicle, swinging first left, then right as he tried to avoid a hotdog stand and then the awning of a women's clothes store. He could hear people cursing and shouting behind them as he left a wave of minor injuries and terrified civilians in their wake.

A little farther along the sidewalk a congregation was spilling out of a church, and Donovan barely had time to throw the car back onto the road before mowing them all down. Coal spilled from the hopper at the back of the vehicle as it rocked dramatically from side to side.

Keeping the raptor and its burden fixed squarely in his eye-line, Donovan managed to pull the car back on course.

They were nearing the docks. In the distance, Donovan could see the bright lights of the fairground, the Ferris wheel slowly revolving against the nighttime sky.

“Quickly, Donovan!” Ginny screeched, and Donovan looked up in horror to see the raptor swing around and dip beneath the roofline of the nearby buildings, disappearing from view. He pressed on, maintaining his course, hopeful it would reappear again a moment later.

“Where did it go?” he called to Ginny as he tugged the car around another bend, heading straight toward the spot where they had last seen the creature.

“I don't know!” she gasped in frustration, and Donovan felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Head toward the fairground. It seemed to be heading in that direction. Maybe we can pick up the trail there. Hurry!”

He did as she suggested, fighting down the sense of panic and the bucking steering wheel, but he already knew it was no good. They'd been too slow. They'd lost it. They were in the right neighborhood. That much was sure. They'd tracked it as far as the fairground, and there, somewhere, the raptors must have established their lair. But Donovan hadn't been quick enough to see where it was.

His hands were shaking as he pulled the car around the corner and brought it slowly to a stop on the fringes of the fairground. The crowds here were huge, a heady mix of people of all ages, from all walks of life. They wandered aimlessly between the brightly colored stalls and rides, with children carrying bags of cotton candy, soft toys dangling from their little fingers. Uniformed policemen guided the traffic and kept a watchful eye on the citizens, on the lookout for pickpockets and other petty criminals. But none of them were looking up at the sky. None of these people could have seen the raptor flitting by, the limp form of Gabriel Cross clutched in its talons, so intent were they on the boisterous activities surrounding them.

There was nowhere left to drive. The street ahead was closed, and beyond that, the dark waters of the Hudson River. He had no idea where to even start. They could be anywhere in the Battery: miles away, or within a few feet.

“Shit!” Donovan cursed, slamming the heels of his hands down hard against the steering wheel. “Shit!”

Ginny turned to him, her eyes wide with panic. “What are we going to do? Gabriel…?” She was still clutching the two pistols in her fists.

Donovan didn't know what to tell her. “We get out and look. They have to be around here somewhere. We leave the car here and comb this place until we find them. You start with the fairground. I'll see if I can't get those uniformed men to help.” He leaned over and put his hand gently on her shoulder. He hoped she couldn't see in his eyes that he was as panicked as she was. “We'll find him, Ginny. Mark my words. We won't let him down.”

He reached over and popped the car door open. His heart was slamming against his rib cage in panic. He only hoped when they did find Gabriel, it wouldn't already be too late.

The pain in his shoulder was almost too much to bear.

The raptor had skewered him with its razorsharp claws, burying the tips of its talons in his upper arm. Gabriel could feel warm blood flowing from the puncture wounds, trickling down his arm, soaking his shirt.

He swooned and everything went black, but the pain brought him round again a moment later and he fought to hold on to consciousness. He focused on the stinging rush of cold air as they swept across the rooftops, on the two immense eyes he could see, watching over him in the distance. He focused on the thought of Donovan and Ginny in a car somewhere far below, powering through the streets in pursuit. He focused on the thought of what he would do to the raptor when they finally arrived back at its nest.

Gabriel scanned the rooftops beneath him. He was used to identifying the city from above; he knew it best from up here. They were close to the docks. Down below, he could see the bright, gaudy lights of the fairground, close to the water. The Ferris wheel turned languorously, creating a stuttering vortex of flashing lights.

The raptor swept low, dipping beneath the roofline of the nearby buildings. For a moment, Gabriel thought it was heading toward the fairground itself, but then it veered sharply to the right, keeping to the shadows to avoid being spotted by the press of people below.

Gabriel fought a wave of disorientation, shaking his head, trying to maintain his bearings. His safety might depend on it later. He wouldn't allow himself to lapse into unconsciousness now. He couldn't.

Close by, the dark water of the river lapped at the shore of the island, and the lights of the crossing ferries twinkled in the middle distance. Wherever was the raptor taking him? He had a sudden, shocking thought that they might not actually be based on the island at all, but somewhere offshore. He felt a wave of panic rising in his chest. If the raptor took him off Manhattan Island, he was as good as dead—there'd be no hope then of Donovan and Ginny ever being able to trace his whereabouts. He'd be on his own, with only a handful of the Ghost's weapons to protect him. He began to wonder if Donovan hadn't been right all along, if this wasn't just some foolish venture he'd talked himself into as a way of proving himself—or worse, that he'd been wrong, and he really did have a death wish. The pain in his shoulder prevented him from dwelling on the thought for too long, however. Now was not the time for philosophizing. Now was the time to make sure he survived.

Presently, it became clear that it was not the raptor's intention to leave the island, and Gabriel allowed himself a short sigh of relief. They were heading toward two enormous hangars that sat squat and fat among the other warehouses and storage facilities down by the docks. They were a recent development, erected with a skin of corrugated iron plates over a shell of girders. The raptor made for the one on the left, its engines stuttering to a stop, its wings unfurling to their fullest extent, so that the two of them could glide slowly toward an opening that became apparent in the roof.

Elegantly, the raptor twisted and angled its brass frame toward the hatchway, pulled Gabriel in close, and dropped fluidly into the dimly lit warehouse below.

Gabriel barely had a chance to get an impression of the large space before he was dropped heavily to the ground. He landed awkwardly, tumbling over and bashing his head on the concrete. He cried out in pain and tried to stifle it immediately. He had the sense of being surrounded by others, and he could smell the tang of spilled blood.

Gabriel rolled onto his back, peeling open his eyes. His shoulder felt like it was on fire, and now that the raptor had released its grip on him he could feel more blood streaming from the wounds. High above, among the rafters and exposed girders, four or five of the raptors chattered and hissed, leaping from one beam to another, screeching in their shrill, inhuman fashion, like carrion birds awaiting the opportunity to swoop in. Their red eyes watched him threateningly from above, as if warning him that if he took his eyes off them for even a moment they might set upon him, tearing him apart with their vicious claws.

Gabriel pushed himself up into a sitting position, taking in his new surroundings. The far end of the hangar had been fitted out like a workshop, a larger version of the workroom he kept at his apartment on Fifth Avenue. This one was filled with a similar array of assorted components and tools, valves and weapons. Only this workshop appeared to be as much that of a butcher as an engineer.