Code Zero (30 page)

“As well he should.”

“Agreed, Mr. Vice President.”

Collins leafed through the file, then slapped the cover shut. “Christ, I want this psycho bitch found. I want her head on a pole.”

In his private thoughts, he smirked and rephrased that as
I want her on my pole … again.

Collins was aware that his inner self was often a twenty-year-old frat boy, but he was fine with that. Kept him young.

Radley’s cell rang. He looked at it, arched an eyebrow, and excused himself as he stepped a few feet away to take the call. Collins listened to one side of the conversation.

“… I’m with the vice president,” said Radley. “No, I haven’t heard—Wait, what—? What channel?” With the phone still pressed to his ear, he suddenly crossed to the table, picked up the remote, and jabbed it toward the TV. “It’s on now. Get me everything you have on this. No … I’ll stay here with the vice president. C’mon, get your ass in gear. Get moving on this and give us regular updates.”

He lowered the phone, looking dazed and sweaty.

“Now what?” demanded Collins.

Radley swallowed. “Sir, there’s been an incident on a subway train in Brooklyn.”

They both turned to the television, which showed a grainy, jumpy, and badly lit image of what looked like a brawl. Radley turned up the volume, and the shrill sound of screams filled the office.

The voice of the commentator from the local ABC affiliate was rattling on in a tone that was partly normal shock and partly the malicious delight of a news reporter.

“If you’re just joining us, we have exclusive coverage of what appears to be a deadly riot on the C train in Brooklyn, New York. We must warn you that these images are streaming live. We have not watched them and the content may be too intense for some viewers.”

On the screen a portly Latina grabbed the arm of whoever was filming the melee with his cell. There was a flash of white teeth, a terrible scream, and then bright red blood spurted from a vicious wound. The cell fell to the floor and a moment later the signal was cut as someone stepped on it.

The news reporter was caught in a moment of shocked silence, then he dived right in, taking his own bite out of the story. The screen divided into two smaller windows as the footage was replayed while the reporter commented on it.

“Details are still sketchy but reporters are en route to the C train to bring you up-to-the-minute coverage of this unfolding situation. To recap what we know, there appears to be a deadly riot aboard a stalled train near the Euclid—”

Radley stood with a hand to his mouth. “My god … what’s happening?”

Vice President William Collins could feel the shock tightening the muscles of his own face. It was, indeed, shocking to see something like this.

It was so much more
real
and messy than he’d imagined.

Though, he mused, it was every bit as impressive as Mother Night said it would be.

His mouth said, “Dear God in heaven.”

His mind said,
Nice!

Chapter Forty-five

Pierre Hotel

East Sixty-second Street

New York City

Sunday, August 31, 1:25 p.m.

Ludo Monk’s phone rang and he sat back from his rifle with mixed emotions. Part of him was suddenly disappointed because he wanted to pull the trigger and see what kind of red splash patterns he could paint on the walls. The woman with the blond wig and the others at the conference table were just waiting for his bullets, begging for them, really.

The other part of him—the part that was responding to the pills he’d swallowed—did not want to pull the trigger. That part of him wanted to find a church and talk to a priest and see what it would take to buy a ticket back from the outer rings of hell. He had money and was willing to make significant donations to have a reasonable priest apply a fresh coat of whitewash on his immortal soul.

However, the call was from Mother Night, so he sighed, picked up his phone, and answered.

“Yes, Mother?”

“You haven’t taken that shot, have you?”

“No,” he said sulkily, “you said not to.”

“Good boy. We’re moving some pieces around on the board. The target may return to her hotel or go to another location. Possibly the Hangar. If so, I want you to use one of the fallback locations for the shot.”

“Why not now? I can do her right now.”

“The timing is wrong, Ludo. How many times have I told you, it’s not the target, it’s the timing.”

He grumbled something to himself. Not loud enough for her to hear.

“This is a tweak on the model,” said Mother, “and it’s within the operational plan we discussed, so stop bitching. You’ll get your shot. Stay ready and I’ll call back in a few minutes to give you the go order.”

“Okey-dokey.”

A sigh on the other end of the line. “Ludo … don’t say okey-dokey.”

“Sure.”

The line went dead.

Ludo lowered the phone. The room was awash in brown shadows intercut with bars of light that sliced through the gaps in the blinds. The rifle waited on its tripod. Calling to him. Flirting with him. Daring him to touch it. Wanting him to.

Across the street heads waited for bullets.

Wanting them, he was sure of it.

“Okey-dokey,” he said to the empty room.

Chapter Forty-six

Fulton Street Line

Near Euclid Avenue Station

Brooklyn, New York

Sunday, August 31, 1:27 p.m.

It was a burst of squelch that saved the lives of Officers Faustino and Dawes.

A static rasp and then a voice.

“…
your location
…”

“Sonny,” cried Faustino. “Don’t. We got the radio.”

Dawes stopped with his leg raised to climb onto the back of the car. A few feet above him, darkened figures moved behind the cracked glass. Dawes looked from his partner to the milling shapes, and he lowered his leg and stepped back.

Faustino plucked her radio from her shoulder and keyed the mike to call dispatch. The connection was bad and polluted by static, but she reported the situation and asked for orders. The delay in response was so long that Faustino was worried that the connection had been lost. Inside the train, the pounding was getting louder, more urgent.

Dawes stared up at the shapes like a man transfixed.

“How come nobody’s saying nothing?” he said.

Faustino held the radio to her ear to hear what the dispatcher was trying to say.

“…
ordered to return … station
…”

“How come none of them people are saying nothing?” demanded Dawes.

“Dispatch,” growled Faustino, “you’re breaking up. Repeat message.”

The reply was almost totally garbled. Faustino was able to pick only four words out of the mess, but those words were enough to chill the blood in her veins even more than the sound of that awful moaning.

“…
biohazard … do not approach
…”

“
Dawes!
” she shrieked as she holstered her gun, grabbed her partner by the arm, and dragged him backward.

“What the fuck—?” he barked, surprised by the violence of her grab.

“Sonny, they told us to get back.”

“There are
people
in there.”

“
They said it’s a biohazard situation
.”

That shut him up and he allowed himself to be dragged back to the midpoint of the tunnel’s curve.

Suddenly he was backpedaling, scrambling as fast as he could to get away from the train. “Oh God oh God oh God!” he said in one long continuous breath.

They retreated all the way around the bend and then another hundred yards, both of them panting like dogs, running forward and then backward, too scared to really think.

“What … what is it?” gasped Dawes as they slowed to a trembling stop.

She shook her head and once more the radio was filled with useless static. “I don’t know, I don’t know. Some kind of toxic thing. They didn’t say what it was. The connection’s fucked.”

He gripped her sleeve. “Christ, you think it’s a terrorist thing? Anthrax or some shit?”

Faustino shook her head. Not in denial, but in fear that he might be right. Now it all seemed to make sense; a brutal and broken kind of sense. The moans, the lack of verbal communication.

Then they froze as they heard new sounds. Not from the train. Behind them. They whirled, guns up and out.

These sounds were different. Loud, insistent. Boots crunching on the ground, splashing through water. The creak of leather, the rattle of metal, the whisk-whisk of clothing.

And shouts.

Human voices.

The a dozen figures came pelting out of the darkness. A full SWAT team in Kevlar and body armor, helmets and guns, lights and shouting voices. They spotted Dawes and Faustino. One of them—a man with sergeant’s stripes—stopped and pointed his rifle at them.

“Holster your weapons,” he shouted. “Do it now.”

Numbly, Faustino and Dawes slipped their Glocks into the holsters at their hips. They identified themselves and stood with their hands well away from their guns.

The SWAT team surged past, running at full speed down the tunnel toward the train, which was still hidden by darkness farther along the track.

“Officer Dawes,” said the sergeant, “Officer Faustino, did you approach the train?”

“What?” said Faustino. “No, we—”

“Did you go inside the train?”

“I told you, we didn’t—”

“Did you encounter anyone else down here?”

“What’s going on?”

The man pointed his rifle at her head. “Did you encounter anyone down here? Anyone at all?”

“Get that rifle out of my fucking face.”

The sergeant’s hands were rock steady, the black eye of the gun barrel relentless in its stare. “I won’t ask again, officer,” he said.

Faustino and Dawes exchanged a look.

“Don’t look at your partner, officer,” warned the sergeant. “Look at me, and tell me if you encountered anyone or spoke to anyone since you came down here.”

“No,” said Dawes hastily. “No one, man. Just us. And this is as far as we got.”

The gun barrel moved from Faustino to Dawes. “Be sure, officer.”

Faustino swallowed a lump in her throat that felt as big and rough as a pinecone.

“What’s happening?”

The sergeant studied her for a moment, then lowered his gun. “Listen to me,” he said in a more human tone, “we received a call saying that a biological agent had been released on that train. It’s happening.”

“What’s happening?”

The SWAT sergeant shook his head. “We’ve been hit again.”

Neither Faustino nor Dawes had to ask what that meant. This was New York. It would take a lot of years before the events of 9/11 had to be explained.

The sergeant pointed a finger at the two cops. “Get the fuck out of here now. Get back to Euclid Avenue Station. Make sure nobody comes down here. Do you understand me?
Nobody
.”

He did not wait for their answer, did not flinch or respond to their outraged protest. Instead he ran into the tunnel, and a few moments later they heard another gun open up.

Faustino drew her pistol.

So did Dawes.

And for a moment they stood facing the direction of the gunfire.

“What the hell’s happening?” asked Dawes. He sounded absolutely terrified.

All Faustino could do was shake her head.

Together, guns raised and pointing, they began backing away. Soon they turned and ran for the lights of Euclid Avenue Station.

They hadn’t gone two hundred feet before a new sound tore through the chatter of gunfire and the dreadful moans. These sounds were sharper, higher. Far more horrible.

It was the sound of men in great fear and great pain … screaming.

Chapter Forty-seven

The Hangar

Floyd Bennett Field

Brooklyn, New York

Sunday, August 31, 1:28 p.m.

Rudy Sanchez came running into the Tactical Operations Center just as all hell was breaking loose. He spotted Aunt Sallie and Mr. Church, who were each speaking hurriedly into telephones. He rushed over to them, and as Church disconnected a call, Rudy touched his arm.

“
Dios mio
, is it true?” cried Rudy. “Is it true?”

Church gave him one moment of a hard, flat stare.

“I pray that it is not, doctor.”

“But—?”

“But I fear that it is.”

Church turned away to make another call. And another.

Rudy, helpless and impotent, could only stand and stare.

And pray.

Chapter Forty-eight

Surf Shop 24-Hour Cyber Café

Corner of Fifth Avenue and Garfield Street

Park Slope, Brooklyn

Sunday, August 31, 1:28 p.m.

I stood in the street, watching the police and paramedics do their job. I was shirtless, and the left leg of my trousers had been slit from ankle to hip. Bloody bandages were wrapped and taped in place. I felt sore, angry, and older than my thirty-odd years. Someone had brushed the glass out of Ghost’s fur and wrapped some gauze around his legs and chest to staunch the flow of blood from a dozen shallow cuts.

A dozen yards away, Bunny sat in the open back of an ambulance while a nervous EMT picked glass and wood splinters out of his back. Top stood watching, his face an unreadable stone. The EMTs had argued with them both, wanting to transport them to the local E.R. instead of doing much on site, but we flashed the right ID and pulled rank and they stopped arguing. Apparently, calls had been made to hospital administrators, the fire commissioner, and the police commissioner. Resistance crumbled, wheels were greased, but no one was happy about it.

I’d recovered my cell phone, but there were no new messages from “A.” Nothing from Junie either. I kept fighting down the urge to scream.

I wanted to grab my woman and hit the ground running. Take off for some tropical spot that was ten thousand miles away from gunfire and explosions and senseless death.