The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (140 page)

And so they did.
 
They went to the bar, looked up—and saw all of it.
  

Hanging from the ropes were Carra Wolfhagen, Ira Lasker and Jennifer Barnes.
 
Their faces were turning blue, the fight to live was leaving them and as Marty watched them swing and twist before he sprang into action, he knew all of them were mainlining toward death.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

12:31 a.m.

Marty scrambled behind the bar, leaped onto it, put an arm around Jennifer’s waist and lifted her up so the pressure was off her throat.
 

“Stay with me,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a jackknife.
 
He clenched it between his teeth and with his free hand, he pulled out the blade.
 
“Stay with me.
 
Don’t leave me.
 
Stay with me.”

Her hands were tugging sluggishly at the rope around her neck.
 
Saliva was running out of her mouth and down her chin.
 
Her eyes were boulders bulging under the pressure. Her body trembled against him in spasms.
 
She was trying to breathe, but it was almost impossible.
 
And then, with a quick sawing motion, the rope snapped, but it didn’t go down as Marty had hoped.
 
Instead of her falling back into his arms, she fell so heavily against him, they each went over the bar and toppled to the floor below.

Stunned, they lay there.
 
Jennifer was on top of him.
 
The noose was tight around her neck.
 
She wasn’t moving.

Maggie came around the corner and took the blade out of Marty’s hands.
 
He watched her sprint to the top of the bar and quickly cut the ropes that bound Lasker and Carra, who now were hanging lifelessly.
 

She wrapped her arm around their waists and eased each body to the floor.
 
She jumped down and loosened the rope around Carra’s neck, patted her face firmly, then turned and did the same to Lasker, whose eyes were open and staring up blindly at her.

Carra groaned behind her.
 
Maggie turned to look at her and saw her eyes fluttering.
 
She’d live.
 
She put her ear to Lasker’s chest and listened.
 
She licked the back of her hand and held it over his mouth.
 
And then, as Marty lifted Jennifer off him and shook her until her own eyes flickered open, Marty watched Maggie slam her fists down hard on Lasker’s chest.
 
She did it again while Carra Wolfhagen turned onto her side and loosened the noose just enough to pull it over her head.
 

On the floor above them, they could hear footsteps coming their way.
 
At first, they started off slowly at the front of the room, near the building’s entrance, but now they were picking up speed as they raced to the back of the room, where they were.

And then Mark Andrews’ voice, loud and clear, rang throughout the room.
 
“He’s upstairs,” he called.
 
“He’s armed.
 
Be careful.”

And the footsteps stopped.
 
Quietly, they started to retreat.
 
And Marty knew—if whoever was upstairs didn’t hear movement soon, they’d know they’d been tricked.
 

He held Jennifer’s face in her hands.
 
“Are you alright?”

She nodded.
 

He kissed her on the forehead.
 
“Stay here.
 
Don’t move.
 
Don’t you dare move.”
 
He gave her his cell.
 
“Call 911.
 
That’s all I want you to do.
 
I know you’re in pain, but try.
 
Tell them where we are.
 
Tell them this is linked to the explosions across the Park.
 
Tell them to hurry.”

He looked at Maggie, who had been administering CPR and now was feeling for a pulse in Lasker’s neck.
 
There was none.
 
“He’s dead,” she said.

Above them, a creaking.
 
Someone listening.

“We need to get up those stairs.”
 
He looked at Carra Wolfhagen, who had sagged against the bar and was rubbing her hand over her throat.
 
What the hell was she wearing?
 
Not the little black dress Jennifer told him about earlier.
 
“Who’s up there?” he asked.

“Max,” she said, in a voice low enough so Mark couldn’t hear.
 
“He did all of this.
 
He lured us here.
 
He tried to kill us just like he’s killing all those people who took the stand against him.
 
He admitted it to us.
 
He said we were next.”

“It’s just him upstairs?”

“Yes,” she said.
 

He cocked his head at her.
 
“And he strung all of you up by himself?”

“No,” Jennifer said.
 
Her voice was barely audible.
 
There was a faint wheezing sound when she spoke.
 
“There were two others.”

“He had help, but they ran,” Carra said cautiously.
 
She looked down at Lasker and then crouched to press her hand against his cheek.
 
“They killed him.
 
They helped Max do this and they ran when they put those nooses around our necks and hoisted us up.”
 
She motioned toward Jennifer.
 
“When she came to the door, they knocked her unconscious and dragged her in here.
 
I saw it happen.”

Marty turned to her.
 
“Is that true?”

She nodded.

Again, Mark Andrews:
 
“I’m fine,” he said with an irritated voice.
 
“Get your hands off me and go upstairs.
 
He’s there.
 
The staircase is just behind the bar.
 
Move!”

Above them, a retreating.

Marty looked at Maggie.
 
“You ready?”

The determination in her voice was as clear as the gun now clutched in her hand.
 
“I’m ready.”

“Then let’s do this.”

*
  
*
  
*

Wolfhagen stood in the center of the sprawling second floor, where most of the walls had been knocked down, likely by Carra and Lasker, to provide for a more open, free-flowing space.
 
Essentially, this was a replica of the main floor.
 
A second bar was here and in a broad nod at the old Bull Pen, painted above it in money-green was a giant bull with a ring through its snout.

He could hear them down below.
 
The police.
  
He’d heard Andrews shout orders at them twice, warning them that he was up here and waiting for them.
 
And the cripple was right.
 
He was waiting for them and he would kill them.
 
They wouldn’t take him again.
 
Wolfhagen was either walking out of here or he’d die here.
 

In this dim hollow of dark fetishes, Wolfhagen found exactly what he’d use on them when they took the stairs.
 
He went to it, grabbed the bottle of 150 proof vodka he found at the bar, and started dousing the object until it was sheeted with liquid.
 
And then he retrieved a second bottle of vodka and soaked it again until the liquid leached inside the cavity and dripped from every corner.

Like Carra, Lasker and the reporter, Wolfhagen also had been strung up.
 
But he managed to break free and take the gun Carra’s assassins placed on the bar before they left.
 
They put the gun there and said that freedom was just below should anyone want it.
 
What they really meant is that whoever broke free first could have the gun, kill the rest and escape before they were found out.

Wolfhagen was that person.
 
He was taller than the rest and found enough footing on the bar to lift himself up, remove the noose, topple to the ground and grab the gun.
 
He came up here to find a grislier way to kill them all when he heard a commotion, the sound of bodies dropping, and then Andrews directing the police.

Carra was wrong.
 
He wasn’t afraid of death.
 
If it came, it came.
 
What frightened Wolfhagen more than anything was not leaving a mark.
 

Since he had transformed himself at Yale, it’s what he always feared—the idea that he might slip back and become that nobody freak everyone loathed when he was growing up.
 
Now, if he could pull this off correctly, he had a chance to not only take out the police, but also everyone else in the room below.

After that, he faced the challenge of getting out alive, but if he could manage it, all Wolfhagen needed to do was get to the front door.
 
Run out into the night.
 
Disappear forever into the world.

*
  
*
  
*

Marty and Maggie moved around the bar and came to the grand staircase that led to the second floor, which was in darkness.
 
Maggie ran her hand along the wall to the left searching for a light switch while Marty darted across the staircase and did the same on the right wall.

The switch was on the left.

They stepped back into the first floor’s main room, tucked their bodies against the wall and looked at each other, their guns poised and ready.
 

Maggie tapped his thigh.

Gingerly, Marty reached out and snapped on the lights.
 
He jerked his hand away and listened.
 
Light was now fanning down the stairwell toward them.
 
They listened and, at first, could hear nothing.
 
There were no footsteps.
 
There was no movement.
 
And they wondered.
 
Was Wolfhagen waiting at the top of the stairs for them?
 
Was he waiting for one of them to peer around so he could blow a hole through their head?

Quietly, Marty dropped to the ground and got on his stomach.
 
He positioned his gun in such a way that it was pointing up the stairs.
 
Maggie inched forward and leveled her gun in front of her.
 
The barrel was about an inch from the end of the wall.
 
If Wolfhagen shot at Marty, she’d swing around and take him out.

He looked up at her, saw that she was ready and eased his head so he could look up the staircase.

Nothing.
 

He motioned for her to look.
 
And when she did, nothing changed to something.
 

The floor started to creak.
 
They could hear the distinct sound of something rolling.
 
It was coming quickly, so quickly, in fact, that Marty got to his feet and looked up at the staircase with Maggie.
 
And when they did, there was the sound of something igniting, a fresh blast of heat rolled down the staircase, and then a large bloom of fire mushroomed toward the second-floor ceiling as it came into view.