Ghosts of War (24 page)

Rutherford nodded. “Yes. You're right. We need to finish this.” He turned to Donovan. “You say you have a car? I know where we can find Banks, and most likely the others, too, if you'll help us?”

Donovan didn't hesitate. “Of course,” he replied.

Gabriel stepped forward. “Then let's go,” he said, taking Ginny by the arm. Behind him, the burning wreckage of the Ferris wheel was still turning lazily against the skyline, dripping flames as it was slowly consumed. The husk of the monster had all but disappeared, leaving nothing but a dark stain on the concrete where it had once been. “First, though,” Gabriel continued, “there are some things I need to collect on the way.”

Donovan nodded in understanding, and together, the four of them made for the inspector's car, leaving
Goliath
to smolder on behind them.

D
onovan's car slewed to a stop before the main entrance of the Plaza Hotel, and the four of them—Donovan, Ginny, Rutherford, and Gabriel, the Ghost—climbed out onto the sidewalk. It was late, the dead of night, and a hush seemed to have settled over the city. Whether it was news of what had happened at the docks spreading, or whether it was simply the city itself, holding its breath in anticipation of what was to come, the Ghost didn't know.

They hadn't stopped for long at his apartment on Fifth Avenue, long enough only to collect the Ghost's things, for Gabriel to assume his mantle, and for Rutherford to dress his wounds and change into a borrowed suit. Gabriel had outlined everything to Donovan and Ginny as they had driven through the city streets, with the Englishman filling in the occasional gap, helping to establish the full picture.

Everything they'd imagined had been true. Banks, Montague, and seven other men had formed a cabal. They had plotted for months, if not years, to bring their plans to fruition. They were intent on instigating the downfall of the British Empire and the rise of the American Republic in its stead. They would assume control of its colonies when it could no longer govern them, they would establish the British Isles as a new state of America, and they would look to Senator Banks to lead them through the political and social upheaval that would follow.

It seemed incredible to the Ghost that nine men and a single airship could pose a threat to an entire nation. But Banks had planned to play on the political fears that already existed between the two superpowers, to take advantage of the rivalries that had given birth to the cold war in which they were now locked.

Donovan had accepted all of this with a resigned weariness. The Ghost didn't know what it meant for the police inspector, to be going after his own commissioner, but he doubted it would end well. Nevertheless, even when offered the opportunity to walk away, Donovan had thrown his lot in with them. He would do what he knew to be right, and damn the consequences. The Ghost admired Donovan for that, more than he might ever say.

The four of them, holding their weapons ready, lined up before the revolving doors of the hotel. Inside, from what he could see through the windows, the lobby appeared to be abandoned. The Ghost wondered if perhaps they were expected, that Banks was lying in wait like a spider at the center of his vast and intricate web. Had he cleared the hotel in anticipation of their arrival?

Of course he'd be expecting them, Gabriel considered, or expecting someone at least—whoever it was who had foiled his plans down by the docks, who had caused
Goliath
to end her maiden voyage in the midst of a raging inferno.

Tired, but filled with the heady rush of adrenaline and the desire to bring the matter to a close, the Ghost burst through the revolving doors, sweeping the barrel of his fléchette weapon back and forth across the hotel lobby. The Plaza was as opulent as he'd anticipated, all marble and glittering chandeliers, prints of old masters and classical statutory. There was no one at the reception desk, no porters, no guests. No one at all. Everything was silent and still.

Until, that was, he heard a familiar shrieking sound and glanced up. Two raptors came diving out of the sky, their wings extended like blades, slicing through the air as they swept down toward him.

Gunfire erupted from all around him as Rutherford and Ginny snapped out shot after shot with their handguns, puncturing the wings of the creature on the right and causing it to tumble heavily to the marble floor. The Ghost didn't have time to watch it clamber to its feet, however, before the other raptor was upon him.

He waited until it was no more than a few feet above him and then reached into his trench coat and pulled the cord that ignited his rocket canisters. He couldn't suppress a smile as he shot up and forward, his arms extended, catching the raptor around the midriff and forcing it up and backward toward the balcony above. Its legs kicked and wheeled uselessly as they slammed into the decorative railing with an enormous crash, sending debris pitching to the lobby below. The two of them—the Ghost and the mechanical beast—slid across the carpeted walkway above, driven on by the force of the Ghost's rockets.

The raptor was strong, however, and it thrashed out, striking him hard in the face and causing him to reel, losing his grip. The raptor twisted out from underneath him, fluttering away over the balcony, and the Ghost, still hurtling along the carpeted walkway, was forced to break into a dangerous roll in an attempt to stop himself colliding headfirst with the oncoming wall.

Shielding his face with his arms, he crashed through the railings once again, spinning through the air, out of control. He struck one of the chandeliers, sending a glittering rain of cut glass tinkling to the marble floor below.

Donovan, he saw, was still standing by the marble doors, but a snatched glance told the Ghost that the inspector had finished assembling the weapon he had brought with him in the trunk of his car: the portable rocket launcher he had taken from Rutherford's apartment.

He swung the stocky barrel around on its tripod, tracking the progress of the downed raptor as it stalked across the lobby toward Ginny and Rutherford, who were standing shoulder to shoulder, their weapons still barking, their bullets pinging harmlessly off the raptor's brass skeleton.

The Ghost, still spinning through the air, watched as Donovan pulled the trigger. The weapon belched and juddered as it spat its payload, and a second later the raptor detonated in a shower of golden fragments and body parts.

The Ghost, finally managing to right himself, swung around in a wide circle, searching for the other raptor. Too late, he realized it was above him, and a moment later it was on his back, raking at him, trying to pry open his black suit to get at the soft flesh beneath. He dipped, twisting left and right, trying to shake it off, but it was no use—the thing had him in its viselike grip.

He heard Donovan call out, loading another round into the rocket launcher, but there was no way he could shake the raptor free.

“Donovan! The elevator doors!” he called, glancing down and grimacing in pain as the raptor tore a chunk out of his lower back. Donovan spun the barrel of the rocket launcher around on its tripod, aiming at the ornately wrought elevator doors on the other side of the lobby. He depressed the trigger, and the Ghost watched the doors implode, buckling inward with the force of the blow and tumbling away into the void beyond.

The Ghost angled his body, forcing his feet together and dipping his head so that both he and the raptor shot forward toward the still-smoldering opening. The raptor screeched in confusion as they shot into the elevator shaft, and the Ghost angled his body, climbing higher and higher and higher, thankful that the elevator car itself wasn't blocking their ascent.

As they hurtled toward the top of the shaft, the Ghost spun, slamming the raptor repeatedly against the walls of the confined space, until its grip on him had loosened and he was able to twist around in its grasp to face it.

They were nearing the top of the building now, and beneath them the elevator shaft fell away into darkness. Facing the raptor, staring into its hateful, glowing eyes and trusting it would not loosen its grip any further, he raised both arms and punched out with all his might, puncturing the fleshy panels of both wings.

The raptor screeched in fury, but the Ghost was relentless, and he knew what he needed to do. He slammed the raptor back hard against the wall of the shaft once more, forcing its head back with his hands. Then, kicking back off the wall to gain momentum, he dragged himself free of its hold.

The creature's talons gouged long furrows in his side and his chest, but a moment later he was free of its reach, and the raptor, its wings flapping uselessly in the confined space of the shaft, was unable to maintain its altitude. It plummeted, shrieking, toward the bottom of the shaft.

Moments later he heard it strike the roof of the elevator car far below. The lights of its eyes, now no more than tiny pinpricks in the darkness, faded to nothing as he hovered at the top of the shaft, watching, waiting.

Gasping for breath but nevertheless feeling triumphant, the Ghost turned and shot back down the elevator shaft to his waiting companions below.

Rutherford led the way to Banks's suite, taking the stairs now that the elevator had effectively been decommissioned. The suite comprised almost an entire floor of the hotel, a private and exclusive apartment, perfectly suited to the grandiose tastes of the overambitious senator. The Ghost couldn't imagine that the man paid for such sumptuousness himself, but rather that he subsidized his lifestyle on the taxpayer's dime.

The wooden door to the apartment was unmarked. The Ghost didn't bother to knock. Moving the others to one side, he stepped forward and slammed his booted foot into the lock, cracking the frame and sending the door bouncing back on its hinges. Clutching the trigger bulb of his fléchette gun, he strode brazenly into the room beyond.

It was just as Rutherford had described it: garish, overdressed, and filled with gaudy baubles and gauche prints. The Ghost's first impression was that Banks wasn't at home. The living space was decidedly unpopulated and eerily quiet. But that didn't chime with the fact there had been two raptors waiting for them in the lobby, nor with the lack of any serving staff.

Behind the Ghost, the others had paused on the threshold, their weapons ready, waiting to see what he would do. He cocked his head at the sound of movement from behind a set of double folding doors and then grinned when he heard the senator's ubiquitous cackle echoing out around the apartment.

Yes, they were clearly expected.

The Ghost crossed to the folding doors and swung them open with both hands. The room beyond was every bit as garishly decorated as the rest of the apartment, but this time, it was full of people.

Nine men sat around a large oval table, most of them still wearing their gray suits and lounging around nonchalantly in their chairs swilling bourbon. Banks was there at the head of the table, and beside him, Commissioner Montague, who looked up at the Ghost as he stood on the threshold, taking in the scene. At the rear of the room, behind Banks, two more of Abraham's raptors hovered threateningly in the far corners, hissing and chattering like insane pets.

The Ghost felt the presence of his three companions as they joined him in the wide doorway.

Banks was still cackling with apparent glee. The Ghost wanted to reach right over the table and throttle the arrogant bastard where he sat, and he hoped he might yet get the chance.

“Ah, what a motley assortment of vagabonds we have here,” said Banks, grinning apishly. “A criminal, a police inspector, a foreign spy, and…a girl.” He banged the table with the flat of his hand as if enjoying some private joke, causing the ice cubes in his glass to rattle. But as Gabriel watched, the man's demeanor changed. The lines on his face became harder, the smile disappearing. His palm became a fist, which he banged once more on the table, this time more determinedly, as if declaring his intent. He glowered at each of them in turn, as if sizing them up. “I take it you're responsible for that little show down on the docks this evening?”

The Ghost shook his head. “No, Senator. I understand that pleasure is entirely yours.”

Banks's eyes narrowed in consternation, but it was the commissioner who spoke next, addressing Donovan. “I see, Donovan, that you've finally managed to locate our missing spy.” The sarcasm practically dripped from his tongue. “I think it best that you leave us now.” He glared at Donovan pointedly. “If you walk away now, I can make this very easy on you. We wouldn't want Flora hearing about all this nonsense, would we?”

The Ghost sensed Donovan tense beside him. “No,” he said sternly, quietly, and the power of the statement was enough to make the commissioner sit back in his chair. Donovan raised his handgun, and his eyes flickered toward Banks. “I'm placing you all under arrest. I'm taking you in. I'm offering you the chance to come quietly, with respect.”

Banks guffawed loudly at this, easing back in his chair arrogantly and slowly clapping his hands. “Oh, so I'm under arrest, Commissioner.” He glanced at the man beside him, who smiled quietly to himself. “On what charges, may I ask?”

The Ghost took in the others' faces around the table, one at a time. To him they all looked the same—bland, blank-faced businessmen, all here for the money and power alone, having sold their ideals along with their souls a long, long time ago. All of them were grinning as they watched the events unfold around them, all confident that the senator would smooth away any trouble, that they were safe beneath the protective umbrella of his corruption.

When Donovan didn't respond, the senator shrugged and continued. “The airship crash, well—that was a terrible accident, wasn't it? A disaster of a magnitude rarely seen in the city. But no one is to blame, surely? The mechanical malfunction that caused the vessel to drop out of the sky could never have been predicted. It happens all the time, all over the world.” He paused, collecting his glass from the table and taking a long draft. “And that creature that people reported seeing at the fair. Well, I understand there's no evidence that it actually ever existed. Surely the reports are exaggerated? Perhaps it was simply a freak occurrence, an alligator that came out of the river? Or perhaps the result of some grotesque eugenic experiment by the madman who'd been abducting people and experimenting on them in his warehouse by the docks? Whatever the case, the only people who died were the ones crushed by the falling aircraft, as tragic as that is.”

Banks nodded to himself, satisfied. “I believe I'm right, aren't I, Commissioner?”

“Oh, absolutely, Senator,” Montague responded slyly. “That's precisely my understanding of what went on.”

The Ghost could see Donovan's finger twitching on the trigger of his gun. He urged the man to do what was necessary, to end it. But even now, even faced with this terrible truth, Donovan was struggling to take the man's life. The Ghost knew that every sinew of the inspector believed in the absolute infallibility of the justice system, believed that these men should be taken back to the precinct and locked away to await judgment by a jury of their peers. But the Ghost saw things differently. He saw what needed to be done if the stink of the senator's corruption was ever going to be excised from the city.