Vigilante (31 page)

Nolan heard the large green metal lid drop down onto the box. His heart rate immediately went into overdrive. Even though he couldn’t see the lid being placed on top and all of the remaining light being shut out, he felt it. On the front, back, top, bottom, and both sides, he was touching the walls of this metal coffin. The walls that would never move, never open again.

Then he heard the hissing sound of a blowtorch, and he squirmed against his bonds as the lid was welded shut.

When the deed was done, he felt the box lifted unsteadily and carried to the edge of the pier.

He heard Vasko’s faint voice one last time.

“I win,” he said.

And the box was dropped into the river.

T
his isn’t happening this isn’t happening this isn’t happening.
 . . .

Nolan fought against his ropes with every ounce of strength he had. He didn’t want to die after all, especially like this. His memories of the war surged to mind as fresh as the day they began. That wretched solitary confinement chamber he was in and out of for two long years had nearly stolen his sanity from him, but if it was possible, this was worse.

God help me God help me God help me God help me!

Yuri Vasko was more wicked and twisted than Nolan had ever given him credit for, to have thought up this terrorizing demise. Not to mention what he’d done to the general . . .

Branford! Dead!

Nolan pulled and tugged at the ropes, but they were tight. The panic washed over him along with the first icy trickles of the Atlantic Ocean. Against all odds, Nolan’s metal casket was somehow buoyant enough to float, but the water was coming in steadily. Very, very slowly, but steadily.

He wondered how long he had left. Minutes? Surely it wouldn’t take more than an hour. Vasko wanted to prolong his suffering, that was obvious. Would he seriously let it go on for that long? What if someone spotted the floating green metal box in the river? Were Vasko and his people still on the pier, watching, or had they left? Or had Nolan floated downstream far enough that he was beyond their sight?

Can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe
 . . .

The water hadn’t reached his face yet. He was trapped in this small space, and it required every amount of self-discipline he possessed, and every bit of training that had been hammered into him, not to hyperventilate. It felt like there was no breathable air in this little box, just him and the walls. That wouldn’t do—he needed air!

Perhaps the fear wouldn’t be so absolute if he wasn’t blindfolded. He might even be able to peek through one of the air holes to get some idea of where he was in the river and how much longer it would be until . . .

I don’t want to die! I don’t! I’m not ready!

And yet he was so very tired. Somewhere, in the depths he’d never acknowledged, a part of him wanted to give in to the panic, to let it take control and drag him down into total blackout.

He didn’t want to drown. He knew exactly what happened to the body, clinically speaking, when water replaced oxygen in the lungs. He knew what parts of the body shut down, in what order, and he knew that the sensations would be unbearable.

It was too much, this was too much to bear. Unquestionably alone, utterly helpless, and trapped in a space the size of a barrel. This brought to mind an image of a 1920s daredevil in a barrel going over Niagara Falls. As nonsensical as such a ridiculous thought was, it calmed him, if only for a fraction of a second.

That’s good, that’s good. . . . Distract yourself. . . . Calm is better than panic. . . .

He wondered idly if Coral Lively might still be shadowing his moves. For the first time, that sounded like a very appealing thing. She would know where he was, and maybe even be able to get help, fish him out, save him at the last second.

The water splashed up around his face, and he could withstand it no longer. Nolan Gray, supposedly the world’s finest soldier, had reached his absolute limit.

He said good-bye to the world as he blacked out.

———

Light. It penetrated his eyelids, bright and soothing and warm. Its heat enveloped him.

Nolan slowly forced his eyes open. The light was blinding, and he knew that he was in heaven, in the awesome presence of God. He closed his eyes again, relishing the healing love of God’s beautiful light of Creation.

“Ilsa! I think he’s waking up!” called out a voice.

Who was Ilsa? Was that his guardian angel’s name? Was he about to be formally welcomed as he walked through the pearly gates?

“Come on, son,” said the voice, “open your eyes! You’re going to be all right.”

Nolan complied, and this time his eyes had adjusted to the daylight. He blinked hard, looking around the room. This wasn’t heaven at all; this was someone’s home.

He sat up sharply, but two leathery wrinkled hands on his shoulders pushed him back down onto the pillow.

“What—? Where—?” he tried to say, but his throat was severely parched and only raspy whispers emerged from his mouth.

A gray-haired gentleman in a cardigan sweater was at his side, tucking his bed sheets back in. “Take it easy now,” said the old man. “You’re alive, Mr. Gray.”

The man’s smiling wife appeared—Ilsa, he assumed—with a glass of water and a straw. The old man took it and put the straw up to Nolan’s lips. He took a few small sips of the water and let it wash away the sandpaper feel that coated his throat.

“Thank you,” he said, still gravelly but starting to find his voice. “Where am I? Who are you? What happened?”

“I am Rene, this is my wife, Ilsa,” said the man. “You are an honored guest here in our humble home. And we had hoped you could tell
us
what happened. What do you remember?”

Nolan searched his memory. “I was sealed inside a metal box and tossed into the river.”

“And you would have died there,” said Rene, “if we hadn’t seen those fireworks.”

Ilsa nodded. “Someone must have been celebrating the New Year early,” she said in a thick German accent.

Nolan put up a hand, hoping they might backtrack. “I don’t understand. You pulled me out of the river?”

“My husband is a fisherman,” explained Ilsa. “One of the best in the city. Owns his own fishing boat.”

“I was out with my crew, about to set sail, when those red fireworks lit up the water for just a second. That’s when I saw the green box. It was almost completely submerged, but we threw out a net and reeled it in. Took a few hours to get back to port and find something that could cut the thing open. Pretty shocking finding you inside, Mr. Gray.”

Nolan only then realized that he wasn’t wearing his graphene-woven fatigues or the hood attached to the flak jacket. “You know who I am, then.”

“Of course,” replied Ilsa. “Everyone does.”

“It was that man Vasko, wasn’t it?” asked Rene. “He did this to you.”

Nolan lay back on his pillow and nodded, still astounded at the knowledge that he was alive. Then something else occurred to him, and his eyes popped open.

“How long have I been here?”

“Three days,” replied Ilsa. “My husband brought you home after he found you, against the protests of his crew. They wanted to take you to the hospital, or the police. But Rene wouldn’t have it. He knew who you were.”

Nolan looked over at the old man. He wondered if Rene might be the same age that Branford had been . . . before . . .

“Thank you. Both of you,” he said sincerely.

“You need a few more days of rest,” said Ilsa. “It was quite a while before your skin—particularly your hands—got their color back. But you seem to be on the mend now.”

“I’d be dead at the bottom of the river if you hadn’t found me. . . .”

“It was the least we could do,” replied Rene. “Our daughter owes you her life. I know she’ll want to meet you. You saved her from the South Street Viaduct.”

T
he sun was no longer shining outside the large two-paned window to the left of Nolan’s bed. Morning had come, but the sun was hidden behind dark gray clouds that were dumping snow all over Manhattan.

“Mr. Gray,” said Rene, after gently knocking on the bedroom door and opening it by a crack. “How are you feeling this morning?”

Nolan felt numb. Maybe even in some physiological form of shock. In every conceivable way, he felt like he was dead. His ordeal in the metal box had destroyed him. The terror of dying from solitary confinement in that tiny little coffin. The freezing cold water that soaked his clothes and his body before he was pulled out of the river. The circulation being so brutally cut off to his hands. Watching his friend die in a gruesome fashion. Knowing that the general was dead because he had chosen to help Nolan. Just like Alice.

Nolan knew he should have died in the river, and he’d begun to wish that he had.

It started with the nightmares. After Rene and Ilsa had left him alone to sleep last night, he had passed out quickly but awoken screaming less than an hour later. His two hosts had rushed to his side as he cried some gibberish about not doing it again, and they later told him it took almost ten minutes for them to get him to snap out of it. He fell asleep again and was screaming again soon after. The cycle repeated again and again, all through the night.

After the sun rose and the clouds cleared inside his head, he realized that the nightmares had been about his captivity during the war. His experience in the river had brought back all the horrors he had worked years to suppress and get past. He was again that same broken, defeated, emaciated shell of a man that had escaped all those years ago.

He feared he might never sleep through the night again.

So when Rene entered his room, asking how he was doing this morning, his thoughts were lost deep within memories of that dark, terrible place—memories he hadn’t let himself dwell on in years. He felt like he was back there right now, surviving minute by minute without truly feeling alive.

“Better,” he lied, forcing himself to pull back from those memories, at least for a moment. “I think I’m better today.”

Rene smiled. “Good. Because I have a special surprise for you: a visitor.”

The old man obviously expected this to be good news, news that would lift Nolan’s spirits somehow. Really, he just wanted to be alone, but he nodded appreciatively, not wanting to be ungracious.

“Come in, dear,” he called out.

A woman much younger than Rene or his wife entered the room. She couldn’t have been more than thirty, diminutive in size, had dark brown hair that fell back behind her shoulders, and incessantly wrung her hands together.

Rene put his arms around the younger woman’s shoulders and smiled. “This is Elise, my daughter.”

Nolan didn’t react immediately, because he was so lost in thought. Then it hit him: Rene had mentioned last night that his daughter had been saved by The Hand in the South Street Viaduct.

Nolan couldn’t bring himself to smile. The grief and sorrow in his heart blocked out any other emotions just now. But he nodded as warmly as he could in her direction. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Elise smiled and returned the nod, her hands still writhing. “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to thank you for saving my life,” she was saying. “That was . . . an amazing thing you did that day.”

Nolan barely heard her, but somehow good manners emerged from him on autopilot, and he mumbled, “You’re very welcome.”

An awkward silence followed, which Rene quickly sensed and jumped in to fill. “Elise here has something she wishes to tell you in private. She’s so quiet, you know. It’s hard for her mother and I to read her sometimes. . . . I’m sorry, now I’ve embarrassed her. I’ll just stop talking and leave you two alone.”

He made a hasty exit and Elise shut the door behind him. There was a second smaller click, like a lock.

When she turned to face him, there were tears running down her face and she held a Colt Anaconda revolver tight with both of her quivering hands.

Nolan blinked. His reverie came to a crashing halt at the sight of this thin, mousy woman holding a big silver six-shooter, rounds in all six chambers.

He opened his mouth to say something, but she whispered, “Shut up,” as more tears streamed down her blotchy red cheeks. She let go of the revolver with one hand and produced a pair of handcuffs. She tossed them and they landed in his lap.

“Cuff yourself to the headboard,” she said softly. “Both hands.”

Nolan considered attempting to disarm her, but she was a good six feet away, well outside his grasp, and the way her hands were shaking, she could easily fire off a round accidentally any second,
without
him making it worse by startling her. So he picked up the handcuffs and did as he was told; when he was done, his hands were behind his head.

“What are you doing?” asked Nolan. “What is this?”

Elise swallowed as she gripped the gun again with both hands, tight enough that it might have been the very lifeline that was keeping her alive. When she spoke, her words were still unnervingly quiet. “That day. In the tunnel. You pulled me out of a burning pickup truck. It was white. Do you remember?”