Flee (31 page)

I
took a deep, cold breath, let it out slow, then did a one-armed pull-up on the
strap, grateful I could rely on my good arm.  Setting the PC onto the platform,
I grabbed the bracket the strap was hooked over. It was freezing metal with a
sharp edge, but it would hold me. I released the strap with my other hand,
gripped the platform, and did a slow, painful chin-up.

On
the platform was a locked metal box for cleaning supplies, an automatic winch
system, and a dual rope, which I guessed was for the Bosun's chair—a pulley
system that carried workers to and from the platform.

I
let my body down again, moving carefully, and lifted my right leg up to get a
heel onto the platform.

Then
the wind hit.

A
freezing updraft, actually lifting me away from the platform. I lost my right-hand
grip, and clung to the bracket with four fingers of my left hand.

Three
fingers...

The
wind wouldn't let up.

Oh, sweet Jesus...

Two
fingers...

Then,
finally, when I couldn't hold on any longer, the wind died down—

—causing
me to swing toward the building—

—pulling
my fingers off the platform.

For
a crazy millisecond I hung in the air like a trapeze artist between partners.

A
whimper escaped my mouth, and I frantically scrambled for a handhold on
something, anything, catching the torn hole in the rucksack.

My
fist closed around the canvas, increasing the rip, making the hole larger, the
rucksack tearing down the middle. I was sure it would pull right in half, but
at a double-sewn seam, the tearing stopped.

I
dangled, one-handed, above ninety-four floors of open space, unable to catch my
breath. Then I clasped my other hand around the rucksack, and waited for
another fierce wind to assault me.

The
wind didn't come. But something dark and heavy slipped out of the hole—
oh
hell no, the smoke grenade
—and smacked me right between the eyes.

It
hit hard enough to bring out more stars than there already were. My grip
slipped, my hands burning down a length of strap to the very end. For a long
moment I twisted in one direction, and my dizzy head spun in the other. My
fingers cramped, begging for relief, and it almost seemed like a good idea just
to let go and be done with it.

Then
the impact-confusion passed, chased away by a jolt of adrenaline, reminding me
a lot like waking up suddenly when you realized you were late and had
overslept.

Hand
over hand, I inched my way up the backpack, eyeing the hole, anticipating the
moment the rucksack would totally give out and send me sailing down to the
pavement.

But
the moment never happened, and once again I gripped the platform and eased up
my right heel.

A
minute later, I was lying on my back, chest heaving, the cold air freezing the
sweat on my body. Something midway between a laugh and a sob breached my lips,
and I stared up the side of the building, up into the night sky, feeling a
deep-core sense of relief that I'd never experienced before.

Then
I set my eyes on the ropes.

Thin
rope was impossible to ascend without proper equipment, such as a Bosun's
chair. But the dual ropes might be thick enough for me to make the climb.

I
let my heart rate return to a manageable level, then I sat up and squinted into
the darkness above me. Eight meters, maybe less, to the ninety-fifth floor and the
broken window.

After
the day I'd had, piece of cake.

I
stood up on the platform, legs shaky, feeling very much like I was riding a
surfboard. The ropes were each ten millimeters thick with braided nylon
sheaths.  I stretched my sore hands up over my head and sandwiched the ropes
together, letting them hold my body weight. Then I clamped my legs around the
dual rope and began to inchworm up.

When
I reached the halfway point, I almost began to laugh at how easy this was.

Then
the wind kicked up again.

I
crossed my knees, locking them together, holding on for dear life as the gust
blew me sideways until I was on a forty-five degree angle to the ground,
staring down at the tiny traffic on the street below. I was terrified, for
sure, but the truly frightening moment happened when the wind died down.

That's
when I began to swing.

I
saw it coming before it happened, and could only watch helplessly as momentum
kicked in and I picked up speed, heading right for the Hancock building.

I
hit one of the reinforced windows so hard it felt like it knocked out my
fillings. The impact was brutal, making my entire left side go momentarily
numb. Then I began to twirl uncontrollably, faster and faster, until I couldn't
hold my position any longer. I began to slide down the rope, my hands and
thighs burning until I had to let go.

Then
I was unattached to anything, plummeting toward the ground.

I
landed on the scaffolding platform, right on my butt, an instant pain shooting
from my coccyx up to the base of my neck.

 For
a moment I just lay there and soaked in the fact that I was still alive. Waiting
for my orientation to return, I stared up at the swaying ropes.

Piece of cake, my ass.

I
carefully stood up, and before I let my brain talk me out of it, I again began
to ascend the ropes. I moved faster than before, trying to get to the broken
window before another gust blew me off the building.

Halfway
up, the wind began to challenge me once again. I kept climbing, upping my pace,
gritting my teeth as the building gale slapped me around.

A little further...

I
could see into the 95th floor, the interior restaurant caked with broken glass
and bits of exploded tables, carpet and floor boards.

Almost there... almost there...

The
wind died down again, and I began to swing toward the building. But this time,
I was heading straight for the opening.

At
least, that's what it looked like until I got close enough to realize I was
about half a meter short.

Sticking
out my feet like I was rappelling, I braced myself for impact.

Before
I hit, my body turned. First sideways, then one hundred eighty degrees.

I
was going to smack into the side of the building backward.

If I live through this, I swear I'll never set foot into a building
higher than three stories.

Once
the rope went vertical to the ground, I released it. Then I twisted my body in
the air, momentum carrying me toward the opening, stretching out as far as I
could—

—and
catching the edge of the window frame.

 Buoyed
by the amazement of surviving, I quickly chinned up, threw a heel over, and
pulled myself onto the 95th floor.

Hammett
and Victor were gone.

And
so was Fleming.

I
set my chin and headed for the fire exit, knowing what I had to do.

It
was time to visit my parents.

"There's a time to mourn," The Instructor said, "and
a time to fight."

I
stopped at gas station near the Indiana border and bought a bottle of Advil,
some caffeine pills, and a black t-shirt to replace the torn top I had on. I
also had a rip in my jeans—Hammett's jeans—but bottoms were harder to come by.

When
I arrived at my destination, I parked the Humvee in the empty visitor's lot. As
expected, the cemetery was closed. But the wrought iron fence was easy to
climb, especially compared to everything else I'd been through tonight. My
individual pains had all conspired to combine, and my entire body throbbed. But
I knew it was going to get worse.

I
let my feet carry me along the path I'd taken many times. The tombstones were
hard to read in the darkness, but I didn't need to see the names. I remembered
the location. The names were probably fake anyway, if what The Instructor told
me about my early upbringing was factual. Hard to tell. It seemed nothing I had
learned to count on in my life was true.

Well,
almost nothing.

I
wound through large family monuments and small, humble benches, the feeble glow
from the backside of the neighboring strip mall my only light. A cornfield
stretched on the other side of the rural cemetery, dried stalks rattling in the
wind, the blades of a wind turbine turning eerily slow against the dark, lonely
sky.

I
found the gray marble stone I was searching for. For a moment, I could only
stand and stare, my chest aching, experiencing a pain deeper than the agony
caused by anything else that had happened today. I'd relied on a handful of
people in my life, and I had none left. Not my dear Kaufmann, not that psycho
prick, Cody, not my sister, Fleming. I imagined what Hammett and Victor were
doing to her, if she was even still alive. I also imagined what Hammett would
do with a damn cell phone that could blow up the world.

How
could everything have gone to hell so quickly?

When
I was a girl, I was happy. Whatever doubts I harbored about my assigned parents'
real names, I couldn't doubt that they'd loved me. I'd felt it every day. Now
standing at their grave, I longed to be close to them once again. I longed to lie
down on the leaf-strewn grass beneath their headstone and cry myself to sleep.

"Hi,
Mom. Hey, Dad. I know I don't visit you guys too often. But I think of you, a
lot. I learned... I just learned... that you aren't my real parents. That's
okay, though. You'll always be my parents to me."

A
coyote howled in the distance. Mournful. Lonely. Thunder rumbled, a storm
moving in. I reached over and brushed a stray leaf from the tombstone.

"I
screwed up. Big time. People have died. And more people are going to, before
this is over." I stared up into the dark, black night, eyes glassy, trying
to find the words.

"Part
of me just wants to give up. I hurt... I hurt so bad right now. But I need to
make this right. It's stupid, but do you remember when you were teaching me how
to ride a bike? I was seven years old, and I kept falling off, and I skinned my
knee and was crying and wanted to quit and Mom, you kept telling me, 'As long
as you keep trying, honey, you won't fail.' And Dad, you smiled and put a
bandage on me and said, 'Stiff upper lip, soldier. Failure is not an option.'"

The
tears were coming freely now, and I didn’t brush them away.

"So
I'm gonna keep trying, Mom. Dad. I'm gonna try my damnedest."

I
turned and started for the cemetery garage only a few gravesites away. It held
a garden tractor for mowing the grass, a backhoe, and garden tools for trimming
and digging. The door was locked, but the simple side-hung windows easily
lifted from their tracks. I grabbed the top frame and swung myself in feet
first, gritting my teeth at the pain seizing my... well, every part of my whole
damn body.

The
tiny structure smelled of dried grass, dead flowers and gasoline. I located the
tool rack, selected a shovel and let myself out the door. Once back beside my
parents' grave, I finally swiped at tears winding down my cheeks.
Then I
shoved the blade into the earth. Sweat slicked my skin as I cut through sod and
scooped out shovelful after shovelful of black dirt. The sharp stab of pain in
my chest grew into an all-encompassing ache, a pain I couldn't escape, and I no
longer even tried.

Three
feet down, my shovel hit something hard. I kept working, uncovering the large
fiberglass box, digging out the edges to expose the whole thing, then stepping
down into the hole. I lifted off the lid.

The
red fabric was still inside, untouched from when I'd buried it originally. I
pulled it all out, and then lifted the small, Evinrude boat motor free.

My
upper lip was stiff. Failure was not an option.

"I've done my best to train you," The Instructor said.
"The rest is on your shoulders. You can either sink or swim."

Fleming
didn’t have to open her eyes to know she was on some kind of boat. Either that,
or death felt like the rolling toss of waves, accompanied by a lilting sickness
in her belly.

The
anchor she was handcuffed to was another clue, as was the distinctive smell of
a large body of fresh water, she’d guess Lake Michigan.

A boat, then. Death will have to wait.

She
managed to force her lids open, only to be rewarded with claustrophobic
darkness. Fleming felt around with her free hand, the one the Russian had
mangled. Each bump made her gasp. The pain was bad, but she'd had worse. She
kept probing.

It
turned out she was in a small enclosure, probably a pantry or closet. The
anchor was a modern one, maybe half a meter high. Fleming gave it a shove with
her shoulder, figured it weighed about forty pounds.