The Janus Reprisal (32 page)

H
ARCOURT KICKED NOLAN
in the shoulder. “Get up,” he said. Nolan moaned and rolled over. Russell shook from head to toe but did her best to keep focused and stay conscious.

“She’s bleeding,” she said.

“That’s her fault.” Harcourt kept his gun pointed at Russell. “Get up.”

Russell rose and stumbled.

“Bacteria get to you?” He smirked.

“Call the NYPD. I’ll go in with them,” she said.

“Maybe you don’t get it. You’re not going to get out of this one.”

At that moment Russell’s mind settled. She needed to get away from Harcourt, and she needed to be strong to do it. She settled her shaking limbs, but only succeeded for a second. They started up again the moment she turned her attention back to Harcourt. She moved until her back was against a wall and bent her knees. The knife that she kept in a holder was at her ankle, but it was of no use while her hands were cuffed behind her back.

Nolan moved and Harcourt kicked her again.

“Get up. Time to move some money around.”

Nolan sat. Her left eye was blackened and dried blood stained her upper lip and chin where her nose had bled.

“It will be traced to you,” she said.

“Gold bullion won’t. You’re going to get some more.”

Nolan glanced at Russell. “Is he alive?”

Russell nodded.

Relief washed over Nolan’s face. She put a hand on the wall and rose unsteadily. When she was upright, Harcourt waved to the stairs with the gun.

“Move,” he said. He turned his weapon on Russell. He was going to kill her.

Her heart began racing, and the chills that were racking her body actually stopped for a moment as the adrenaline in her system overrode everything else. She looked up and spotted a security camera high above his head and behind him.

“There’s a camera. You shoot me here and the whole world will see it.”

He glanced back at it. “Dream on. That camera’s not working. MTA’s security team is way behind schedule and overbudget. I should know. As special liaison to the NYPD, it’s my job to know where the security weaknesses are. I know a lot.”

He smirked at her and aimed at her heart. She scrambled for another excuse to stop him from shooting.

“Smith knows that I wasn’t shot. They find a bullet in me, they’ll trace it to you,” Russell said.

“Say goodnight,” he said. She heard the noise of a siren, coming fast. Or maybe it was the roaring of her own ears as the blood rushed to her head. The light dimmed and she battled against passing out. The blackness deepened, and she thought with relief that at least she wouldn’t see the bullet coming.

Harcourt shot her, point blank.

It was the second hit the vest had taken, and she could feel the punch but also heard the vest shred with the impact. She flew back and her head hit the ground. A wet liquid started at her shoulder and spread across her chest. Blood, she thought. The vest must have allowed the bullet through. She lay on the cold stone. Harcourt was hauling Nolan up the stairs when he looked back and aimed again at Russell. He’s going to finish me off, she thought.

She heard a noise on the platform behind her and looked over to see Howell, his face covered in oozing blisters and the skin around his eyes bulging. He swayed a bit as he aimed a weapon at Harcourt. He fired. Harcourt winced as bits of the wall near his face broke off and sprayed him. He turned and hustled up the stairs, dragging Nolan with him. Howell fired again, but the only visible part of Harcourt was the back of his legs. The shot didn’t land.

“Russell, are you alive? I can’t see,” Howell said. Russell nodded and then realized that Howell probably couldn’t see the motion. She tried to formulate a thank-you, but she couldn’t get her lips to move. Howell took a step nearer to her and then dropped to his knees. “Smith said it would be bad, but I’m afraid he underestimated it.”

Howell slowly slumped to the ground.

The rushing noise filled her ears and she floated in the space between full awareness and unconsciousness. She wasn’t sure how long she hovered in that state before she felt a warm, live human arm wrap itself around her shoulders and pull her to her feet. She opened her eyes again, expecting to see black, but was rewarded with a view of Smith’s face as he lifted her off the cement. He looked like hell and she wanted to tell him that and about Harcourt and Nolan, but her voice failed to function. Or maybe it did function and she just didn’t hear it, because he said, “You don’t look so good yourself.”

“You’re right. Harcourt’s the mole,” she said.

“Can you walk?”

She was too tired to respond. She started walking. Each step required her entire concentration. She leaned on Smith’s arm and kept moving.

“I’m going to get you into a car, and Agent Brand is going to get you to a hospital.”

She shook her head but couldn’t tell if he noticed, so she stopped to get his attention.

“Howell.”

Smith nodded. “I saw him. Klein’s arranging to quietly remove him from the platform and get him to a hospital. Which is where you’re going as well.”

“No hospitals. I could have contracted the mutant virus and this illness could be the flu starting all over again. I could be contagious. Take me someplace where I can be alone.”

He frowned. “You need a hospital. They can quarantine you.”

“No,” she said. “Did that already. It’s not safe.”

“Yes,” he replied. “I’ll get someone to guard you.”

“Take me where I can be alone. Or let this Brand person take me. But go after Harcourt. Now. He’s the mole and he has Nolan.” Smith’s face took on a vicious look, which was not a word she would normally have applied to him. Russell stumbled against his side and spotted a gun stuck in his waistband. “Do you have another weapon I can use? I hate being unarmed.”

“Brand may have one in the car.”

They were at the stairs, and Russell directed her attention to climbing them. As she rose, the air became fresher and she inhaled. At the top of the exit, Smith pulled her toward a large, unmarked sedan. Brand stepped out.

“This is Agent Brand of the FBI,” Smith said.

“The guitar man,” Russell said.

Brand smiled. “Yes.”

“I could be contagious,” Russell said.

Brand nodded. “I know.”

She looked at Smith. “You could be too.”

“If I find Harcourt, I’ll be sure to spit on him,” Smith said.

“He said he’s going to force her to get some gold bullion. I don’t know where or how.” Smith lowered her to the sidewalk, then turned to Brand.

“If they’re getting gold bullion, then I know where they’re headed. I’ll need a car to get there.”

Brand waved at the sedan. “Take it. I’ll help Ms. Russell.”

Russell fought the waves of nausea as she waited for the ambulance. Then the blinking lights returned and she passed out.

S
MITH KEPT THE LIGHTS
and sirens going as he barreled uptown. He used the car radio and asked for backup for a possible kidnapping at the pawn shop. The response he received heartened him.

“We already have officers at the scene.”

“You do?” Smith said. Perhaps Bilal’s security system had clocked Dattar and Harcourt, and Bilal had called for help.

“Thank you for your report,” the dispatcher said. She clicked off.

Sweat poured into his eyes and he wiped it away. His lids started to itch and he rubbed them lightly. Then his arms followed suit and he ran his nails up and down his bare skin. The gas was starting to do its work.

Ten minutes later he shut down the siren, removed the strobe from the dash and switched off the headlights. He coasted into a spot at the curb and killed the engine. Smith watched a bum stagger down the sidewalk, and cars drove by, but little else moved on the street. The lights in the predominately business block were dark and the stores’ doors were barred and locked. The pawn shop’s neon signs, though, still flashed, and a light glowed through the one window that was still glass, though it was glass block rather than a pane. Bilal’s solar panels were still working, pumping electricity, Smith thought. Bilal was taking no risks with his gold stash.

All of the other windows in the building had been replaced with metal sheets and overlaid with metal. The glass block corresponded to where Smith thought Bilal’s office had been. Smith crawled out of the car, holding his gun down where it wouldn’t be seen. He hitched up his collar and did his best to move slowly. Brand had given him some standard uniform pants and a man’s white undershirt with a dark uniform shirt to wear over it. Smith did up the buttons, hoping to blend better into the darkness. He moved closer to the building, approaching with as little noise as possible.

One lone police cruiser was parked in front, confirming what the dispatcher had said, but Smith thought it was a pathetic response in light of the potential capture of an international terrorist. He stepped into an empty doorway and called Klein.

“I’m in front of a pawn shop in Inwood. Harcourt is the mole and he’s in there with Nolan, moving around Dattar’s money. I called the police, but got one car. Can you get them to send more?”

“The report I’m getting is that the NYPD can’t find anything wrong at the 215th Street station and are heading down to 72nd Street, where a new report claims a sighting of Dattar and two others. They’ve got thirty cruisers and FBI on the scene.”

“Why would Dattar head into the subway? He’d get infected.”

“It’s an anonymous report, but it sounds promising. There’s a dead man name of Manhar who appears to be of Pakistani origin at the top of the stairs, and they received an eyewitness report that someone matching Dattar’s description and two others hustled down the stairs. Dattar was carrying a cooler.”

Smith hesitated. It all sounded correct, yet he still doubted that Dattar would be anywhere near a subway station after the bacteria were placed.

“You’re aware that we think Harcourt is a mole and he’s got a connection to the NYPD? The report could be a plant.”

“We’re aware, but it’s clear that they’ve been pumping water into the 72nd Street station for a while, and it shut down first. Add a dead man’s body and they’re duty bound to investigate.”

“I see your point. It sounds like there’s not much I can do to help down there, but the situation here is bizarre. Only one car when a possible kidnapping is called in? Once Harcourt strong-arms Nolan into handing over the money, he’s going to kill her. He needs to be stopped.”

“I agree, but who called in the report? Perhaps you should confirm that before you go in there with guns blazing.”

“I have no idea who called it in. Where’s Howell?”

“Off to a place where he can recuperate. He’s in bad shape, but the dispatcher told me that he should be dead. Seems the measures you took helped him.”

“Here’s hoping he’s okay. And I agree that going in with guns blazing isn’t the way here. Harcourt will only hold her hostage. Let me reconnoiter. She told me this Bilal has an entire arsenal in there. Maybe he’s already disposed of the Harcourt problem.”

“Fine. Proceed with caution. And remember, they’re going to need you to assist with the decontamination once Dattar is contained.” When Klein rang off, Smith called Marty.

“Can you track Nolan’s computer?” he said.

“It’s off. I’m sorry, Jon.”

Smith’s right wrist began to burn, and he gritted his teeth to stop groaning with the pain. His right eye itched, but he resisted the urge to rub it, since it might increase the swelling that was already occurring.

“What about her accounts? Can you see if there’s any activity?”

“I’ve been only able to access one main offshore account. I’ll pull it up. Hang tight.”

Smith remained silent, listening while Marty typed on his keyboard. The burning in his wrist progressed to his elbow and he felt the nerves on his arm begin to react. Then the vision in his right eye began to blur. The blindness was setting in. He felt the beginnings of panic, both at the idea of the pain that he knew was coming and at the thought that he might be completely blind before he could assist Nolan.

“Hurry. I’m in bad shape and getting worse. Dattar used mustard gas on me.” He heard Marty gasp.

“Where are you?”

“At the northern tip of Manhattan. Outside a building that I think has Nolan in it.”

“I’ve got it. Yes, the payments and transfer page is being accessed. Someone’s filling in an online wire transfer form.”

For a moment Smith was distracted from his injuries. “Can you access the source computer?”

“I’m tracking back the cookies now. Hold tight.”

Smith held his breath. In contrast he heard Marty’s heavy breathing through the phone.

“It’s coming from a PC located in the Inwood area of Manhattan.”

“The minute she finishes that transaction, they’ll kill her. Call this in. Get me police backup. Tell them silent approach—there’s a hostage and I don’t want Harcourt to know we’re on the way and possibly kill her, but also warn them that a member of the military is inside so they don’t shoot me.”

“I’ll…”

Smith didn’t wait for the rest. He started running toward the building, shoving the phone into his pocket. His arms burned and his eyes were blurring. He felt the skin of his lids puffing and saw the edge of the blister that was forming at the corner of his right eye. Through all the scorching heat in his arms he still shivered as a chill passed through his body. He was ten feet from the entrance when the staccato sound of gunfire came from within the building.

He hit the door and it swung open, making the same beeping noise that it had when he’d come the first time. The interior hallway was dark and the building silent. There were four doors on either side of the long hallway and at the end Bilal’s office door was open, with light pouring onto the carpeting. He ran to the first entrance and crouched behind the door. He put his eye to the crack at the doorjamb and saw a man’s figure in the hall. He paused in the room’s doorway for a moment and then continued down the hall.

Smith felt a hand wrap around his ankle. He froze and looked to his right. He saw that it was Bilal, lying on his side with a gun in his right hand. The man’s harsh breathing sounded loud in the room.

“Are you hit?” he whispered.

“Side. Miss Rebecca.” He made a slight coughing sound that Smith didn’t like at all. As a medical doctor, he’d heard it too many times right before someone died.

“Where is she?”

“Office. Go armed. They’re guarding the entrance. Cowards won’t come down the hall to fight me. They have all my gold,” Bilal said. “I can’t let them take it.”

Smith laid his gun on the carpeting and began to run his hands over Bilal. He found the wound and heard Bilal’s sharp intake of breath as he probed it.

“My gold,” Bilal said.

“Forget about the gold. I’m calling for an ambulance.” Smith pulled out his phone and prepared to text Marty.

“Those stinking sheepherders aren’t taking my gold,” Bilal said. Smith tried to send the text, but it failed. He had no service. “My phone isn’t working.” Bilal made a sound that Smith thought might have been a chuckle, if the man hadn’t been near death.

“Roof is metal. It’s safer,” Bilal rasped.

“Is there a phone in this room?”

“On the desk, but I called the police. Told them they have her as a hostage. They caught me doing it and shot me. Bastards think they’ve killed me.”

Smith began to rise and Bilal grabbed his sleeve. “Be careful. It’s a business phone, many lines. If you pick it up, they’ll see the light and know someone’s using it.” Smith lowered back down. “They sent the skinny one to pour their chemicals on my solar panels.”

Smith stilled. “Were the chemicals from a cooler?”

“Yes. Kill them. Get me my gold.” Smith wanted to tell the man that the gold would be worthless if the entire city was dying from a pandemic. He also wished he knew how often the panels kicked back electricity to the grid.

“How many?” Smith asked.

“Four.” Bilal made a choking sound. “One is Dattar. I know of him from the old country. The skinny one is on the roof. There’s an Uzi in the cabinet here. Back right shelf. And a flamethrower in the safe across the hall. The one on the right. The gold is there as well, but not enough to satisfy them. I emptied the rest three days ago and moved it to another location. There’s fifty thousand dollars’ worth left here. Combination six–twenty-five–six for the weapons safe. Burn the building down. The gold will melt, but it will survive.”

“What about Rebecca? Is she alive?”

“They have her. They beat her,” the man choked, “bad. So bad. Her face is…” He closed his eyes and shook his head. He grabbed at Smith’s arm. “The large picture near the safe swings open. There’s a two-way mirror. You can see into the office. My bodyguards would watch while I made transactions.”

“Are the bodyguards here?”

“No,” he said.

“How did the skinny one reach the roof?”

“Drop-down stairs. In the safe room.” The man inhaled. “My son is Malik. You give him the gold. You tell him I love him.” Bilal’s head lolled and the rattling sound came from his throat. Smith watched the man die.

Smith swallowed and immediately regretted it. His throat flared in pain as he did, and his arms continued to burn as if heated. His eyes blurred and watered. He glanced across the room, and the cabinet that Bilal had pointed to swam in his vision. He looked to the rug to find his gun and was horrified to realize that he was unable to see it. He ran his hand along the industrial carpet till the cold metal hit his knuckles.

The cabinet sat on the opposite wall. Smith’s vision readjusted again. It was as if his eyes were warring with the effects of the gas. He grasped the gun and headed across the room. Once he reached the cabinet, his vision again blurred. As the mustard gas symptoms progressed, they would cause blisters to erupt on his corneas. He presumed that they were forming now and that his eyes were reacting.

He opened the panels and ran his hands along the cool wooden shelf. Encountering a mesh strap, he followed it to the Uzi’s handle, collecting the gun and feeling for a magazine. An elongated one, already loaded, jutted from the handle.

He moved back to the doorway, peered down the hall toward the front door, and froze. Khalil stood there, with the door slightly cracked open, watching outside.

The burning on Smith’s arms spread to his torso, and he felt as though he were a walking torch. If this is what burn victims experienced, he couldn’t understand how they could bear the pain. His skin started to crawl and for a brief moment he thought he heard it crackle as though cooking to a crisp. His eyes kept up their crazy wavering, first focusing, then failing.

The safe room was opposite the one he was in, directly across the hall. The floor was carpeted and Smith gauged how quickly he could cross the distance. Khalil stayed where he was, staring out. Smith took a breath and stepped across to the next room, immediately moving against the wall near the doorway, and waited. No sound came from the hall.

There were two five-foot-tall metal safes on the opposite wall. Next to them, drop-down stairs led to the roof. Smith wrapped the Uzi’s strap over his shoulder and headed toward it. An electronic keypad glowed on the front panel. He punched in the combination and was rewarded with a clicking noise as the door disengaged. It swung open on well-oiled hinges.

In the safe was an arsenal. Several pistols, two AK-47s, a rocket-propelled grenade launcher and three shelves of ammunition, several grenades designed both for the launcher and to be thrown, along with two small canisters of fuel attached to a flamethrower. Straps allowed the canisters to be carried on one’s back. Smith once again put his weapons on the floor while he ran his arms through the flamethrower’s straps. The flamethrower hose and nozzle were attached to the canister’s side with a clip. Smith left it there. He wanted his hands free to use the Uzi and the pistol first. He left the safe door open.

Loud thuds came from the back office. Smith heard a woman’s voice cry out. Above his head he heard someone walking on the roof. From the office came the unmistakable sound of a fist against flesh, and Nolan cried out. Smith fought the urge to leap in there with the Uzi firing full bore. His duty was clear; first he needed to stop the man on the roof from spreading the bacteria. The solar panels would feed it directly to the main grid and from there into every home in the northeast region. He needed to get to it quickly before it colonized and while the heat from the flamethrower could still kill it.

He lowered to a crouch and nearly groaned as the burnt skin on his legs stretched. His vision was fluctuating in an erratic pattern, and he could feel his index finger sweating around the gun’s trigger. Through it all he felt the beginnings of a fever, but he couldn’t tell if it was a reaction from being gassed or if he had contracted the virus. A large landscape painting with a frame that was easily three feet square hung on the wall near the safe. Smith pulled on the frame’s edge. It swung away, revealing the two-way mirror into the office. Bilal’s paranoia had paid off. Smith was watching the participants in the office.