The Darkest Day (19 page)

Three blocks from the cab he bought food and a soda at a taco truck unaffected by the blackout with its own generator. He ate while sheltering from the rain in a doorway with two other taco eaters. They made eye contact with him and each other but no one spoke. They communicated only with grins of contentment, enjoying their meal in silence, but for Victor it was all about the calories. He would have devoured anything with the same relish. His blood needed sugar and his muscles needed glycogen.

One guy went back to the stand for a second taco. Victor followed suit.

Once again they shared a moment’s silent camaraderie as Victor allowed himself to relax. In this brief instance he had no problems nor was in any more danger than the man next to him. A temporary respite, because it was far from over. He needed to be refuelled and ready when they next came for him.

Which they would. The only question was who would find him first: cops or killers.

On another street, he passed a homeless guy in an old, dirty army jacket and beanie hat.

Victor said, ‘I’ll give you a hundred bucks for the jacket.’

He waited while the homeless guy weighed up the offer. He saw Victor’s urgency, and with it, the strength of his own negotiating position.

‘Two hundred.’

‘Deal,’ Victor said. ‘But for that I want the hat too.’

A minute later, he stank of urine, but the green army jacket and hat transformed his appearance. Anyone who looked at him was quick to look away. Everyone noticed him, but no one wanted to. He was as visible and invisible as he had ever been as he set off north towards the Bronx.

The street looked the same as it had earlier. The blackout had made no difference. It had been as dirty and rundown and neglected under a bright afternoon sun as it was in unlit twilight. He saw no government vehicles or midnight-blue panel vans or white minivans or any other vehicle he had seen before. If any of his enemies were nearby, he couldn’t see them. Dressed like a tramp, he hoped they wouldn’t see him either.

It was nearing six p.m. Raven had said to be here in two hours just over two hours ago. Victor hadn’t wanted to be on time or early for once. He didn’t want to wait any longer than he had to. He hadn’t wanted to come back here at all even before he was a fugitive.

He used the alleyway behind the building to break in. The interior was dark and gloomy. He made it to Raven’s front door without seeing another person.

He waited, listening. He could hear no one moving around on the other side. He stood to one side of the door and used the back of his hand to push it open hard enough to surprise someone on the other side, but not hard enough so it would bang against the wall.

No gunshots, so no one had been waiting in the dark to shoot at whoever came through.

Inside, he had walked forward, gun in hand, with slow, careful steps along the hallway before he heard someone further inside the apartment. Maybe Raven. Maybe Guerrero or Wallinger. Maybe cops or residents or Halleck’s people or anyone else.

He kept Raven’s gun low and pointed at the floor because it was dark, and if it wasn’t an enemy waiting for him, he didn’t want someone else to see the gun raised. He didn’t want to get killed by a trigger-happy resident investigating a break-in or the like.

Ahead, the lounge area was better lit than the hallway because someone had opened the blackout blinds and what remained of the sunlight illuminated the open space. He stepped into it to see a man in a suit, wearing a tan raincoat. He was trying to get his cell phone to work.

Wallinger.

‘Hands where I can see them,’ Victor said.

Wallinger turned to face him, surprised at the sound of Victor’s voice, but not shocked; not scared. Wallinger’s gaze fell to the gun in Victor’s hands.

‘Why does a credit enforcement agent need a piece?’

Victor said, ‘It’s a jungle out there.’

‘A jungle gone dark,’ Wallinger replied. He held up his phone. ‘Cell towers must be down too or the networks are overloaded.’

‘Everyone’s calling home or trying to find out how to get home.’

Wallinger nodded. He dropped the phone into a pocket of his raincoat. ‘Why don’t you put that gun away?’

He gestured with an outstretched hand while the other hovered near his waistband, fingers making small movements as if playing the keys of an invisible piano.

Victor looked from the moving fingers to the coat that hung open centimetres away.

‘What?’ Wallinger asked.

‘What’s under your jacket?’

‘Nothing,’ he was quick to answer. Too quick.

‘Move your hand away from your gun.’

Wallinger looked down and seemed surprised to find the hand hovering at his waistband. The fingers stopped moving, the hand clenching into a fist that remained in place. His gaze rose to meet Victor’s.

‘Why?’ Wallinger said.

‘You know why.’

The man said nothing.

‘You have two choices,’ Victor said. ‘We don’t need to go into details, but it’s in your best interests to pick the second one. So do it.’

‘You can’t tell me what to do. I’m a federal agent. I think you’re forgetting your place here.’

‘I’m not telling you what to do,’ Victor explained. ‘I’m advising you on what you should do.’

Wallinger’s jaw clenched as he thought.

‘Take your time,’ Victor said.

Wallinger raised his hands. ‘You’re making a mistake.’

Victor nodded. ‘I’ve been making a lot of those recently. Another isn’t going to make much difference. I want to see your identification.’

‘You’ve already seen it.’

Victor gestured with the gun. ‘I have short-term memory issues.’

Wallinger smirked and moved his right hand towards his chest.

‘Use your left instead.’

Wallinger frowned. ‘My badge is in my left inside pocket.’

‘I’m in no hurry.’

It took a little effort for Wallinger to work the ID out of the pocket, but he managed the awkward manoeuvre better than most would.

‘Now what?’ he asked.

‘Throw it to me,’ Victor said.

Wallinger did. Victor caught it in his left palm while his gaze remained on Wallinger.

‘Put both hands on the top of your head.’

Wallinger sighed. ‘You’ve got to be fucking joking.’

‘Do it,’ Victor ordered. ‘And watch your language.’

With obvious indignity Wallinger did as he was told. Victor flipped open the badge booklet. It was the same as before. Genuine, or a fake as good as genuine.

Victor said, ‘Where’s Guerrero?’

Wallinger didn’t answer, but Guerrero said, ‘I’m behind you. Drop the gun.’

Victor heard the soft click of a hammer being cocked behind him, so he did as he was told. When he turned round he saw why he hadn’t heard her enter. She had no shoes on her feet.

‘You’re not very smart,’ Guerrero said. ‘Are you?’

‘Try not to judge me on my recent actions. I’m usually a lot better at this.’

Wallinger said, ‘At debt collecting?’ and drew his own gun.

He didn’t cock it, Victor noted, so he knew they weren’t planning on killing him. At least, not yet.

Guerrero stepped into the lounge and gestured for Victor to back up. He did, until he was equidistant between them. He glanced around at the Spartan furnishings. There was nothing he could use as an improvised weapon or even as a distraction.

‘I’d like my badge back,’ Wallinger said.

Victor tossed it to him. He caught it in his left hand as effortlessly as Victor had.

‘Who are you?’ Guerrero asked. ‘And why do you look like shit?’

‘You know who I am,’ Victor said.

‘Sure we do.’

Wallinger said, ‘I’d like to see your ID again.’

‘I lost it.’

‘Sure you did,’ Guerrero said. ‘What happened to your clothes?’

‘I traded them.’

‘With who, a bum?’ Guerrero asked.

‘I’m a humanitarian.’

Wallinger said, ‘Quit with the bullshit, pal. You’re fooling no one.’

Victor remained silent. He didn’t know what they knew. He didn’t know who they were. He didn’t know what they wanted. Until he did, he couldn’t afford to tell them anything.

‘You want to find Angelica Margolis, yes?’

He didn’t answer.

Wallinger said, ‘We know you do. You told us so. You’re in her apartment for the second time in one day. There’s no use choosing to play dumb with us now. One way or another you’re gonna talk.’

Guerrero added, ‘We know you’re not really a debt collector. Why don’t you tell us what Miss Margolis has done to you and we can help each other out?’

He looked at both of them in turn, still not knowing whether they were who they claimed to be.

She continued: ‘Do you know that’s not her real name? Do you know she’s an enemy of state? She’s a terrorist. Do you know what that means? She’s way more dangerous than you could possibly know. You may think you’re something of a badass enforcer, but you’re punching way above your weight with this one. Whatever she’s done to you or whoever you work for, you want to back out. We can help you do that. Trust us.’

Trust
…

‘How?’ he asked.

Guerrero glanced at Wallinger. They thought they were making progress. Guerrero even lowered her gun to make herself seem less threatening; more trustworthy.

‘Do you know where she is?’ Wallinger asked.

‘No,’ Victor said.

Wallinger said, ‘But you know where she’s going to be, don’t you? She’s coming back here, isn’t she? That’s why you’re here.’

Victor nodded and pretended not to see the glimmer in Wallinger’s eye.

‘When?’ he asked.

‘Thirty minutes,’ Victor answered. ‘Give or take. Probably closer to an hour, given the blackout.’

Guerrero said, ‘And you know this how?’

‘I have my sources.’

Wallinger took out his phone and tried to make a call. He growled in frustration and looked at Guerrero. ‘We’re on our own here.’

She shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘What has Raven done?’ Victor asked.

Guerrero’s head couldn’t twist his way fast enough. Wallinger didn’t blink.

‘How do you know that code name?’ Guerrero asked.

‘
Code
name?’ Victor said with eyebrows raised. ‘I thought it was merely a
nick
name.’

Guerrero relaxed. ‘You don’t need to know the full details. She’s a very bad person. That’s all you need to remember. Be grateful you haven’t actually found her yet.’

Victor glanced at Wallinger. He hadn’t moved a muscle since Victor had said the word
Raven
.

Tension in Wallinger’s forehead pushed his eyebrows close together and created two creases that followed the vertical lines of his nose, making it appear longer and sharper. His skin was thin and seemed older than the thirty-four years his ID stated he’d been alive. Fine lines spread out from the eyes and corners of the mouth. Veins in his temples were prominent beneath the skin.

Wallinger said, ‘Who are you, really? Agency, right?’

Victor remained silent.

Wallinger said, ‘You’d better not be. You know you CIA guys aren’t allowed to operate on US soil. That’s our job.’

‘I didn’t say I was CIA.’

‘Freelance operator then. Same thing.’

Victor ignored him and said to Guerrero, ‘Mind if I clean up?’

‘Forget it,’ Wallinger said. ‘You’re coming with us.’

‘Happy to,’ Victor replied. ‘But let me clean up first. Unless you want your car to stink like me for a week.’

The two agents looked at one another, communicating without words, then Guerrero said, ‘Fine, go de-stink.’

‘But you’re still coming with us as soon as you have,’ Wallinger answered. ‘We have a lot of questions for you.’

‘Which I’ll be more than happy to answer.’

Guerrero pursed her lips, then said, ‘You know there’s no fire escape in reach of the bathroom window, don’t you?’

Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t worry, Agent Guerrero. I’m scared of heights.’

Victor stepped inside the bathroom and closed the door behind him. The hinges made a quiet squeal of resistance. Twilight filtered through the blinds covering a small window on the wall to his right, perpendicular to the door, and illuminated a space just long enough to fit a bath along the wall opposite the window, and a pedestal washbasin and toilet opposite the light switch. A bare bulb coated with dust hung from the ceiling was useless in the blackout. The walls were about the same size as each other, but were not at exact right angles, creating a skewed cube twice as tall as it was wide. The wall tiles were white, but dulled with neglect. Black mould had sprung up along the silicone sealant where the bath met the wall. Dusty cobwebs hung above the window, their creators long since departed or deceased. A faded circular mat lay in the approximate centre of the room. Maybe it had once been white. The air felt moist and smelled unpleasant – stagnant water and mould.

On the wall across from Victor, a mirror smeared with water marks hung above the sink. Victor’s reflection looked back at him, his features hardened by the twilight and deep shadows.

He turned a brass catch to lock the door. He gripped it hard and turned it harder. The noise it made was loud and distinctive.
Clunk
.

A cheap plastic shower curtain was suspended above the bathtub by plastic hooks. The curtain’s swirling pattern was obscured in places by mildew. The hooks rattled as Victor drew the curtain back; a long, flexible stainless-steel pipe was attached to the back of the taps and the showerhead supported high above it.

He turned the shower dial, rotating it all the way to the hottest setting. The pelting of water on the cast-iron bathtub was loud enough so that when Victor eased the catch to unlock the door the
clunk
sound was almost inaudible.

He raised the closed toilet lid, then removed the homeless guy’s jacket and hat and dropped them across the toilet bowl. He stood with his back against the wall to the side of the door next to the handle, thinking. Waiting.

The water coming out of the shower was hot because the boiler had heated it before the blackout had cut the electricity supply. The air inside the bathroom grew warm and humid. Steam began to darken the mirror above the small sink. Victor watched his reflection fade away.

Forty seconds, he decided. Maybe fifty. If he was wrong he lost nothing. If he was right…

He raised his left forearm so it was horizontal before his face, palm facing inwards. When his count reached forty-seven, bullets punched through the door.

Wood splinters, paint flakes and dust burst out into the air. The steaming mirror above the taps cracked. Glass shards rained down into the sink. Wall tiles shattered, exploding fragments of ceramic around the bathroom. Victor’s forearm shielded his eyes from the storm cloud of debris.

Bullet holes appeared in the wall either side of the destroyed mirror as the shooter on the other side of the bathroom door spread out the rounds, then walked them to Victor’s left, aiming at the shower. Bullets sliced through the plastic shower curtain. He heard tiles shattering and the curtain rippled and swayed as it was peppered by shrapnel.

He counted eleven shots from a single shooter by the time the firing ceased. The 9mm SIGs carried by Wallinger and Guerrero held fifteen rounds in the magazine.

Victor waited a second and then stretched out a foot to toe the toilet lid and seat. They fell together, banging shut against the toilet bowl. Nothing like the sound of a dead or dying man falling over, but muted and made more organic by the homeless guy’s jacket enough to convince the shooter to kick the door open and charge into the bathroom.

The door flew open with a bang, crashing into the wall on the other side from where Victor stood, and the shooter stumbled forward, off balance. Stumbling because the door had been kicked hard enough to break the lock that they heard engaged but not disengaged.

The remaining glass of the small mirror was steamed over, preventing the agent from seeing Victor’s reflection, and reacting he slammed a forearm against the extended right wrist to knock the suppressed SIG from the agent’s grasp. It clattered on the floor and was knocked into a corner as the agent twisted round to respond.

It was Guerrero, not Wallinger as Victor had expected.

There was no time to consider how he’d been wrong, because the bathroom was small. There was nowhere to move to; no room to dodge; no space to manoeuvre; no opportunity to create range or openings. Tactics meant nothing here. Ferocity meant everything.

Guerrero was small but knew how to fight. She parried Victor’s next attack and they exchanged blows – short punches and elbow strikes. Some were blocked. Others scored glancing hits. One elbow caught him on the jaw and he tasted blood. He was a lot bigger and stronger, but she was quicker and her shorter arms were better suited to the close confines. She hammered his ribs with hooks and elbows he wasn’t fast enough to defend.

He feinted a similar body blow to lower her defences and struck Guerrero with a palm heel to the side of the face. She collapsed into the sink then rebounded away and to the floor as Victor swept out her load-bearing leg.

She knocked the door shut again as she went down, before scrambling for the gun in the corner, but Victor kicked her in the ribs and she let out a gasp of ejected air. He went to kick again – this time to the face – but she grabbed the mat he was standing on and tugged it out from under him.

With only one foot planted for balance, Victor fell backwards into the bath, tearing the shower curtain from the hooks as he did and passing through the shower spray.

The middle of his back took the force of the impact on the curved shelf of the bath, but spared his skull smacking against the wall tiles. Hot shower water rained down on to him.

He blinked to clear his eyes and struggled to shrug away the shower curtain that fell over him and gain purchase enough to stand, while Guerrero grabbed her disarmed SIG from the corner and stood.

Victor snatched the flexible shower pipe in his left hand, and with a hard pull, wrenched the shower head free from its perch. It fell and he caught it in the same hand, then launched it as she turned to shoot.

The showerhead struck Guerrero in the chest and sent her reeling backwards, slipping and losing balance on the now-slick floor tiles. The unsecured showerhead fell and hung over the side of the bath, pipe snaking back and forth, and spraying water throughout the small room.

Victor ripped the shower curtain aside and threw himself up and into Guerrero as she recovered her balance.

They collided into the closest wall, Guerrero taking the brunt of the impact against her face, dropping the gun once more, and not having the strength to stop Victor grabbing her jacket and pulling her away from the wall and throwing her down to the floor.

She hit the wet tiles with force, but on her hands and knees. She tried to push herself upright, but Victor grabbed the showerhead and looped the flexible metal pipe around her neck. Water sprayed everywhere.

As soon as the metal touched the skin of her throat Guerrero went wild, reacting fast, and flipping over on to her back to face Victor before he could get a secure hold.

She wedged four fingers between the cord and her neck before the noose was complete, preventing Victor from strangling her, but sacrificing one of her hands in the process.

Victor grabbed Guerrero’s free wrist in his own free hand as she went to strike, rendering her defenceless.

But Victor still had one hand to employ, holding the showerhead.

He used it as a club to batter against the side of Guerrero’s head as she turned to protect her face. Two hits was enough to stun her but also half-wreck the showerhead so Victor pressed it against Guerrero’s face, pinning her head against the side of the bath and sending the pressurised spray of water into her mouth and up her nose. She gurgled and thrashed as the showerhead forced hot water down her throat faster than she could gag it away, until her stomach filled with water, and then when her stomach was full the water entered her lungs. She tried to fight with her free hand but Victor had his arm locked out so no matter how fierce her attempts, her strength was negated.

She coughed and retched and vomited but Victor kept the showerhead in place until Guerrero had stopped moving and the bathroom floor was flooded under an inch of water, pink with swirling blood and dark with an oil-slick of spreading vomit.