Nightcrawler (10 page)

He climbed into his BMW and fumbled for his keys, nearly moved to tears by the thought of Sabrina. He realized now that he had fallen in love with her, and kicked himself for not having told her before she was killed. If they had been sleeping together, he might have saved her or at least died with her. He would never know what it would have been like to have held her body close to his, to have made love to her, to have seen her eyes when he proposed to her. He would never love another woman the way he loved her, and he didn't know how long it would take him to get back to normal after this.

“Miss me?” a dark figure popped up from behind his seat.

“
Bree!
”

He leaped out of the car and yanked open the door, pulling her out as if the vehicle had caught fire. He hugged her until she could not breathe, then smothered her face with kisses until she was breathless again.

“Oh my goodness,” she managed. “I guess I should've called first.”

“I love you, Bree,” he held her face in his hands, gazing into her eyes intently. “I never got to tell you, I didn't want to scare you away. I didn't dare take a chance of losing you.”

“Well, gosh, Hoyt, I love you too,” she managed a chuckle, grabbing his hands gently so she could compose herself. “The Lord saved my life that night, He made me go tinkle so I was out of bed when that bomb went off. I thought of calling you, but then I thought if I went hiding, everyone'd think I was dead and that big dumb ox Reaper would go on about his business. Wait until I get my hands on him. First he throws me out a window, then he blows up my house.”

“No, Bree, you're out of the game,” Hoyt insisted. “I'm taking you to a hotel somewhere out of town, maybe Jersey or Pennsylvania. We can still have you play dead, but I will
never ever
let you risk your life like that again.”

“I thought you said you loved me,” she lowered her eyes.

“What?” he said incredulously, taking her face in his hands again. “I love you more than anything else in this world!”

“Well, then, don't try and stop me from finishing what I started,” she said plaintively. “Six of his people are in jail, there's just him and those two tomboys that blew up my house. Plus I caught the rat he had in my office. I found out what he's planning, and I know how to catch him. Plus I know how to beat him. He drops his right when he throws his left jab.”

“Whoa, hold on,” he shook his finger in his ear. “I'm not hearing right. Did that bomb go off near your head?”

“He's got the formula and the ingredients for Kolokol-1,” she explained. “It's a fentanyl-based morphine derivative that's aerosolized for quick dispersal. They used it at that Moscow theatre on the Chechen terrorists a few years back. It's not lethal unless it's absorbed in high doses, so the worst effect is going to be on the people directly beneath the point of detonation. If we can keep him from setting the bomb off at close range, all he's going to do is have a bunch of people walking around stoned on dope.”

“Okay, you said we,” he exhaled resignedly. “What's your plan, you crazy nut?”

“All right, I'll tell you, but you have to keep it a secret and you have to keep pretending I'm dead.”

Pastor Mitchell had been grieved by the news of Sabrina's death, and he and the congregation held an impromptu prayer meeting that evening. He stayed behind to finish up some paperwork, preparing to meet tomorrow morning with the sponsors of the women's shelter that the proceeds from the barbecue fundraiser had made possible. He felt terribly guilty about having agreed to reschedule the picnic at her home, but had no way of knowing that such a thing could have happened. Many prayers were given up that evening for the sodomites who plotted Sabrina's death, and they begged the Lord to bring light into their lives and save their souls.

He heard a noise at the front door and could not help but feel a tinge of apprehension. He hoped it was one of the women having come back for something they might have left behind. He worried that it might have been one of the gay militants, not out of fear for his safety, but over the danger of the flock being unattended at such an important time in getting the shelter and adoption program underway.

“
Bree!
”

Sabrina scampered down the aisle and ran into his arms as Hoyt stood by the entrance, smiling approvingly. They hugged each other happily before he released her, wiping a tear of gladness from his eye.

“Oh, for heaven's sake, I thought we lost you for good,” he said joyously, then did a double-take at her uniform. “Now, you're not planning on going out again, are you?”

“I think I'm gonna have to,” she said quietly, then turned towards Hoyt. “You remember my boyfriend from the picnic. He's coming with me to make sure I come back in one piece.”

“Aren't you a cop?” the Pastor asked. “Can't you report this and let the authorities handle this? Surely our entire law enforcement system can do more that this one girl.”

“She told me she told you about this whole scheme of hers,” Hoyt shook his head. “I know you've tried to talk her out of it before. You must know by now that pretty little head is filled with concrete.”

“Sir, I think this goes far beyond whether she wants to bring the authorities in on this,” Mitchell objected. “The band of killers she's after have threatened the lives of thousands of people!”

“There's a warrant out for the arrest of the Nightcrawler,” he exhaled, pulling out a business card and setting it on the table in front of the pulpit behind Mitchell. “Besides, they'd probably send her to a mental hospital. I know they'll take my badge and throw me off the force for not turning her in. You can call that number if you like, kill two birds with one stone.”

The Pastor took the card off the table after the couple left, staring at the door long after they had gone. He crumpled it in both hands, then went to his knees and began praying for the lives and safety of Sabrina Brooks and Hoyt Wexford.

New York City had one of the biggest Fourth of July extravaganzas in the country. They had scheduled an air show which featured vintage World War I aircraft, followed by a fly-by of jet fighters and transport planes from an aircraft carrier en route to the Middle East from the New York harbor. They would then have a large number of dirigibles, blimps and airships sailing across the River before the big fireworks show at nine PM.

The Octagon had rented out an offshore platform along the Hudson River not far from the Hudson Yards where they would put their plan into effect. Their blimp had a Happy Fourth of July slogan painted red, white and blue on its underside. The blimp was filled with a mixture of Kokolol-1 and helium the night before, and the air bags were inflated just before takeoff that morning. The Russian mobsters that serviced the blimp made the final ballast adjustments and it finally left the ground shortly before noon.

They reached one thousand five hundred feet, and began a slow circle around Manhattan Island to join the queue that would sail in procession over the East River near the Brooklyn Bridge at three PM. Beginning at the North Bronx, it was planned so that residents all over Manhattan would be able to see the flotilla. The show would last for three hours, giving people time to have dinner before settling back for the nine o'clock fireworks display.

The Octagon had rigged the gondola with explosives which could be detonated by a remote control device held by the Reaper. He and the others had scuba diving gear which they would put on as they came to the East River. They would dive from the gondola as the blimp descended from its original altitude, putting it at a proximity to the crowds in attendance where the explosion would do most damage. The resulting chaos would be such that no one would concern themselves with the divers as they made their getaway beneath the piers along the riverside.

“Just think, after this magnificent flight and an exciting swim across the East River, we will be on a flight to Paris this evening,” the Reaper chortled as he looked out the gondola window at the swarms of humanity lining the parks and piers along the river. “The people down there also seem to be having a wonderful time. They'll be able to tell their grandchildren about this historic event. Too bad the people at the South Street Seaport and the Brooklyn Promenade will not be as fortunate.”

“I just want this to be over,” Callen Marlowe lit a cigarette as she gazed out at the sailboats cruising down the river towards the Seaport. “They're getting too damn close. I can't believe they found out about Rick. I think there's something he's not telling us. Besides, we're sitting ducks up here in this damned balloon. We're flying right into an air zone where they've got warplanes on exhibition.”

“Just think of it as the biggest blow struck for gay rights in the history of mankind,” Sheryl Harrington managed a chuckle. “I just wish I could see the looks on the faces of those haters when this thing blows up. Talk about fireworks, this is gonna be the LGBT's version of the Big Bang.”

“Let's remained focused,” Dalibor Branko said gently but firmly. His stomach churned with revulsion over the notion that he might somehow be linked with these perverts as a gay militant in the annals of history. “Once we come within two hundred yards of the Seaport, we will put on our air tanks and prime the explosives. We will begin losing altitude about one minute before the bombs go off, and we will dive into the water ten seconds before detonation.”

At once they heard the sound of approaching helicopter blades, and they were startled as it grew loud enough to seem as if colliding with the blimp. They rushed to the windows of the gondola and realized that the chopper must have flown right over the blimp to have made such a noise.

“That idiot must have just got his license,” Callen snapped angrily. “If he would've hit this thing with those helicopter blades, we would've had a tragedy here.”

“Perhaps not so much for the people of New York as for us,” the Reaper chuckled. He had been well known for standing unfazed on the battlefields of Serbia in the face of artillery bombardments.

The three mercenaries stared out at the bustling city below, each immersed in their own thoughts. The Reaper's mind was running in a different direction than his confederates'. Now that six of their number was in prison, they would be dividing the $100 million three ways. If he could figure out a way to eliminate these two transsexuals, he would be depositing a surreal amount of money into his own Swiss bank account.

Callen had already invested in a Spanish
hacienda
and had thought of going her own way once they reached Europe. At first her sex change operation had left her unfulfilled, and she even wondered whether she had made the right move. Yet there were many who told her she might be able to capitalize on having the best of both worlds. She had always been a strong, athletic man, but now enjoyed the look of a sexy, well-built woman. She had been approached by Arab nationals asking if she might be interested in working as an undercover operative, and she found the notion most intriguing. Though she eventually learned it was for an Al-Qaeda connected group, the figures they presented were too hard to turn down. She was introduced to the Reaper, and the meeting changed her life.

Dressed in her rubber scuba suit as were they all, she puffed reflectively on her cigarette as she wandered away from the control panel where the Reaper and the Scorpion stared expectantly at the south end of Manhattan about two miles away. All that was left was to make this dive and swim over to the Fulton Fish Market where their Russian connection was waiting with a bogus emergency truck. He would navigate through the chaos through the Wall Street area to the Staten Island Ferry terminal, where they would cross over and make a second connection. It would take them to JFK Airport, and quite possibly, out of the USA forever.

She heard an impact on the side of the gondola, and stared in amazement as a figure lowered itself from above and deftly climbed through an opened rear window. She remembered the figure from the incident in Garrison, the person who the Reaper had thrown out a second-story window. She remembered the face, the same face of the woman who they had assassinated with a bomb at her home just a couple of days ago. She could not believe that it was Sabrina Brooks, standing before her without her balaclava.

“You!” Callen managed as the Reaper and the Scorpion came up on either side of her.

“I suppose you have decided to leave your veil at home so it will be easier for the authorities to identify your body,” the Reaper called out to her. The gondola was thirty feet in length, with plenty of space for passengers to move around in enjoying the unique experience.

“Well, at least you'll know for sure who it was that kicked your butt,” Sabrina retorted, holding her gas gun in firing position.

“She can't get you both,” the Reaper told his partners. “When I throw her out the window this time, I can assure you she will never be heard from again.”

The Reaper had insisted that they not use handguns on their missions because it would be far easier for their lawyers to get them off the hook without them in case of arrest. Both the Tarantula and the Scorpion came up on either side of Sabrina, crouching as they prepared to rush at her. She feinted towards Callen, then turned and fired at Sheryl as the Scorpion charged at her. Sheryl choked and gagged, dropping backwards in a heap as she fought to catch her breath. Callen rushed Sabrina and was cracked across the jaw by the gas gun. Sabrina then dropped the weapon as she grabbed Callen's collar, slinging her over her outstretched leg. Callen tripped and was slung headfirst through an opened window and went flying out into the skies over Greenwich Village.

“Okay mister, game's over. Give me the detonator.”

“Come on then, Miss Brooks. Why don't you take it off me?”

“With pleasure.”

Sabrina moved towards him in a boxing stance, while the Reaper casually cocked his right fist while waving his left hand side to side towards her.

“You know, it's such a shame that we did not have the opportunity to join forces. That homosexual manager of yours, Rick Alfonso, gave us everything we wanted to know about your Company. That included your father's classified formulas for the WMD research. He's quite a wealthy man now, that pervert. We've paid him enough so that he should be able to start his own company about the size of your own.”