Silent Night (Sam Archer 4) (11 page)

The four men moved forward through the menswear section, Hicks pulling his mask back into place. The reading kept rising.

Following it, the ESU officers turned a corner and headed into the changing room area.

72.

75.

They went into the first cubicle on the right, then stepped back out, studying the detector. They tried the second and third.

Then they tried the fourth.

‘Whoa,’ Hicks said, his voice muffled under the gas mask. ‘We got something.’

Archer and Josh looked at their own reader.

It was at
95
.

They tore their gaze from the detector and looked at the cubicle in front of them.

It was empty, but the radiation equipment was telling a different story. Behind them they could hear the sound of running feet.
‘In here!’
Hicks called. Then he pointed at the seat in the cubicle. ‘Get that panel off.’

Hicks’ partner dropped to one knee, pulling a screwdriver from his tac vest. He started working the screws out of the four corners one by one. He removed the fourth just as two CRT specialists appeared in the changing room.

The ESU man grabbed the panel and lifted it.

All six men saw the viral bomb inside.

It was nestled beside some wiring and a small air vent. Archer and Josh recognised it immediately as a replica of the one used in
Central Park
, except that this one had a timer and no lid. Under a cylindrical vial of yellow liquid was a timer with a series of lime-green buttons.

00:31.

00:30.

00:29.

‘Back up!’
one of the CRT specialists ordered, the sound distorted by the helmet of his suit. The ESU pair and Archer and Josh were already moving out of the way, making room. Neither Archer or Josh had a gas mask, but neither of them was leaving.

The CRT team worked like quicksilver. As the specialist on the left ran his hands along the sides of the package, the man to the right laid down a thick black containment case that he had brought with him. It was empty. He clicked open a lock on each corner and pulled off the transparent glass lid. In front of them, the timer on the bomb ticked down.

00:21.

00:20.

00:19.

‘No disruptor or motion sensors,’ the specialist on the left said. He kept feeling the package. ‘I’m moving it. Box ready?’

‘Ready.’

He took hold of the bomb either side and gently lifted it off the panel.

They all held their breath.

It didn’t go off.

00:12.

00:11.

00:10.

The man lifted it out steadily and placed it carefully into the black container beside him.

00:07.

00:06.

‘Seal it!’
he said, withdrawing his hands.

The other guy grabbed the lid, sliding it into place, and together the two of them clicked the four locks, sealing the container and locking it airtight.

‘Box secure!’
the second man said.

Standing behind them, Archer and Josh saw the countdown on the timer through the glass lid.

00:03.

00:02.

00:01.

The bomb detonated.

There was a sudden puff of yellow as the cylindrical vial cracked open and released the modified tuberculosis virus, but the containment box prevented it from entering breathable air, sealed airtight in the protective case. Through the glass, the six gathered men watched the yellow gas swirl up to the lid of the box, slowly and malevolently searching for any cracks or gaps.

Kneeling beside it, the two CRT specialists took a simultaneous deep breath. Both guys were sweating. The tech on the left turned and looked at the ESU pair, then at Josh and Archer.

‘It’s secure,’ he said. ‘Just in time. Great job, fellas.’

He grabbed a radio from the ground and put in the call.

‘Device is located and is secure. I repeat, device is located and secure.’

He lowered the radio, taking in some deep breaths.

And silence fell as all six men looked at the lethal virus drifting around the box.

Across the city, another bomb was just about to be planted.

A second member of Bleeker’s trio, the guy with the tattoos, was walking down a stone path on the east side of Bryant Park, just off
42
nd
Street
and
6
th
Avenue
. He’d ducked into a coffee shop restroom moments earlier, armed his bomb and initiated the ten minute countdown. There was no disturbance switch on this bomb, just the vial and a timer. With the lid back in place and tied securely with string, the man was now approaching an ideal drop-off point for the device, a trash can on the south east of the Park, a stone’s throw from the Public Library. Leaving it anywhere else might attract attention. The place was busy and the cops weren’t dumb.

He was ten yards from the can, blending right in with the shoppers and the people watching the ice-skaters on the rink to his right. It was relatively central and would be a perfect place to plant the device, achieving maximum impact and fatalities.

He walked towards the can as casually as he could.

Five yards away, he raised the bag and prepared to drop it inside.

But suddenly, someone grabbed his arm from behind, pulling him to an immediate halt. Something was jabbed into the folds of his coat, shoved hard into the middle of his back.

‘Don’t move, asshole.’

He froze.

As the hand gripped his arm and what had to be a pistol rammed against his back, another person stepped in front of him.

It was a woman. Dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, she had a harsh face, dark features emphasised by cold reptilian eyes. Her nose looked as if it had been broken a number of times. The only trace of femininity was long hair that was half-tied back, several strands hanging over her face, but somehow it made her look even more intimidating.

She examined his face, then looked over his shoulder and nodded.

‘It’s him.’

‘Check it.’

The woman turned to the man holding the bag. ‘Pull out your wallet.’

He did so hesitantly, very aware of the gun pressed into his back. The man behind him was up close so no one nearby could see the weapon. She took the wallet and flipped it open.

‘Nathan Hansen.’

She nodded, tucking it back in the man’s pocket. Without a word, the guy with the gun came up around him, tucking the pistol under his coat and burying it into Hansen’s armpit, the weapon hidden in the layers of clothing. Hansen looked at the man and saw he had bleach blond hair, almost white. Glancing down, he also saw that the pistol stuffed under his arm was silenced, the man’s finger tight on the trigger.

‘Move.’

Walking side by side, the three walked out of the Park and headed across the street onto 42
nd
. They stopped in front of a French patisserie. The woman pulled open the door and they moved inside.

The restaurant was straight ahead, but the toilets were behind a wooden screen to the right. The trio moved towards them. The man and woman took Hansen into the men’s restroom, then locked the door.

Once they were inside, the bleach-haired guy pulled out the pistol from his coat and stuck it in Hansen’s face, pushing him against the wall. The handgun was a Glock, a fat silencer on the end of the weapon an inch from Hansen’s nose.

‘Don’t move.’

The woman grabbed the bag from Hansen’s hand, then placed it on the ground. She gently slid out the box, untied the string securing it and carefully opened the lid.

She saw the bomb inside. It had been armed, the numbers on the timer counting down.

8:23.

8:22.

8:21.

‘Son of a bitch,’ she said.

She clicked a switch on the inside of the box and the timer shut down. Then she picked it up and placed the switched off bomb carefully against the wall by the toilet bowl. Hansen watched her do it, then turned his attention to the blond man with the gun. He went to speak but the woman rose and suddenly slapped a rear choke on him, hooking her legs around his hips and pulling him back. They hit the ground with a thump and she tightened the squeeze, the leather on her jacket creaking. Hansen gagged and clutched at her forearm desperately as it blocked his airway.

He passed out after six seconds or so. Drexler held the choke for another thirty seconds until he suffocated. Once he was gone, she released him and rose, dusting herself off. Wicks tucked his pistol into a holster under his coat then knelt down and broke Hansen’s neck, just to be sure. One grip and one sharp wrench.

Drexler crouched down and retrieved the box. She separated the vial from the bomb and rose, examining it in her hand. The toxic yellow liquid was gathered at the bottom, a small amount, seemingly innocuous yet horrifyingly dangerous.

‘Now we’re talking,’ she said.

With the dead man slumped on the ground, his head at a strange angle, Drexler unlocked the door and stepped out. Wicks flicked the lock back on as he followed then pulled the door hard behind him, sealing it shut.

Together, the two of them headed out of the patisserie and back out onto the street.

The vial containing the virus held securely in Drexler’s hand and tucked safely into her right jacket pocket.

Archer and Josh watched as the two CRT specialists carried the glass container across Macy’s third floor, stopping outside the lifts. One of them pushed the button and the doors to a cart slid open immediately. The two men moved inside, the boxed virus between them. One of them jabbed the button for the ground floor and the doors shut, the two men disappearing out of sight.

Across the level, members of the ESU team, HAZMAT and store security had gathered, talking quietly with each other. The area had been cordoned off and HAZMAT were preparing to screen it to ensure there was no toxicity or any traces of the virus in the air. It was a set procedure which had to followed, but they were fully aware that if even a tiny amount of the virus had escaped they’d have known all about it by now.

Josh pulled his cell phone out and called Shepherd as Archer stood watching the group.

‘Sir, we found the device,’ he said. ‘The son of a bitch hid it in a panel in a changing room.’

‘Defused?’

‘No, but it’s secured. The CRT team put it in a protective casing just before it detonated.’

‘But it went off?’

‘Yes. It did.’

‘Jesus.’
He paused.
‘Good job, but listen. We’re not done with this yet.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This guy isn’t working alone. Before we found him, he was with two other men inside the subway at
Times Square
. Each of them was carrying a bag which we’re certain contains a box. We think each one is a bomb. We’re working on finding the other two now.’

Josh swore, then turned to Archer.

‘There could be two more of these things.’

‘Aside from the guy in red, none of them are wearing distinctive clothing. Rach is having a hard time tracking them. They also used the subway so could have stepped off at any station. I’ll call you back.’

Josh lowered the phone as Shepherd ended the call.

‘Two more. Shit, we only just got to this one.’

Archer nodded grimly, looking around the store. ‘Something about this is weird.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You saw that bomb. It wasn’t high tech. It was homemade, same as the one in the Park. Crude as hell. It was in a shoebox for Christ’s sake.’

‘So?’

‘How the hell does someone so amateurish get hold of something so dangerous?’

‘He wasn’t exactly amateur, Arch. He was thirty seconds from succeeding.’

Archer went to answer, but Josh’s phone rang. He answered immediately.

‘Sir?’

‘Got one! He stepped off a 6 train and headed towards the
South Street
Seaport ten minutes ago. Rach is alerting the area response teams.’

Josh started running for the escalator, Archer close on his heels.

Forty three blocks uptown, completely unaware of events in Midtown, Marquez and Jorgensen walked down the fourth-floor corridor of a five-storey apartment building on the Upper West Side, on
77
th
Street
between
Amsterdam
and Broadway. They weren’t far from
Flood Microbiology
, which made sense as this was where Dr Kruger’s apartment was located. He didn’t have a police file but Rach had found his address via the DMV.