The Phoenix Variant: The Fifth Column 3 (22 page)

Damien shed his tuxedo jacket. He pulled the webbing straps on the ruck, tightening them around his shoulders. According to Aviary, two operatives were as of this moment two blocks north of him and another two further away. The closer pair moved independently of each other.

Damien didn’t know where the masked Blue Berets might be, but he figured they’d be in a vehicle. Which meant he’d hear them coming sooner. It also meant they’d catch him sooner. Especially with someone riding a .50 cal.

Aviary had sent him a map of the subway stations. She’d set the tracks. All he had to do was remember which stations to pass before stopping. His destination would be Union Square. Where Sophia would meet him.

He kept his phone in his pocket, a single earbud in his ear so he could still hear Aviary. Sophia was moving to her own subway station so she’d drop out of the call until they reunited.

He stepped onto the sidewalk. The hurricane had blotted out the sky. The water was barely ankle level here, only deeper in the gutters. The rain and wind channeled through the streets, slowing him down. With the wind roaring in his ears the whole time, he’d never hear an operative coming. He wasn’t happy about that.

The thought was enough to spur him into a run, south. He reached the first corner and hesitated when he saw a green sign for Williamsburg Bridge with a picture of a bicycle. It pointed farther south. The subway station he was supposed to go to was southeast.

He considered the bridge for a moment. If there were a way to slip past the National Guard or Blue Berets or whoever might be posted there, he’d improve his odds of survival dramatically. Trapped in New York City, he was a rogue operative in a barrel.

An overhead traffic light groaned against the wind, then the traffic light itself tore from its frame and dropped to the road with a punctual splash.

Subway it is, he thought.

He took a right past Benny’s Burgers, splashing through the deeper water in the street and reaching the sidewalk on the other side. He started running west.

Aviary had assured him she’d designed the conference calls to work regardless of who dropped out when. With her watching and talking into his ear, he hoped he’d stand more of a chance.

Damien noticed public housing on the left. The parking lot was fenced off with high chain-link fences. He slowed and took a wide turn. He ran up the chain link, grasped the metal pole at the top and levered himself over, clinging with one hand to control his fall. He landed inside the lot on both feet and started running south—straight through the parking lot. So far, not too bad.

‘Damien, that operative is gaining on you,’ Aviary said.

‘Copy that,’ Damien said.

From what he remembered of the map on his phone, the next three blocks were entirely public housing or at least very spaced-out apartments, giving him plenty of room to move discreetly and stay off the streets. It might not fool the operatives but it would keep him clear of any Blue Berets.

‘Crap,’ Aviary. ‘The dots aren’t moving.’

‘Have they stopped?’ Damien said.

‘I don’t know, you’re still moving,’ Aviary said. ‘Could be the Fifth Column satellite that’s relaying their locations. Hurricane is messing it up big time.’

The parking lot hit a corner ahead and went left, out onto the avenue he’d come from. That was the last place he wanted to go, so he scaled the chain-link fence and moved deeper into residential. He ran between a public housing block and a playground, emerged out onto another street. It was a little more open than he liked but he had to keep going now. His path to the subway station was going to be far from perfect.

‘Damien!’ Aviary yelled in his ear. ‘He’s close. Take cover!’

‘What?’ Damien yelled over the wind and rain.

‘Wait! I mean, run! Run! Go left!’ she yelled. ‘Right! Go right!‘

‘Shit,’ he said, breaking into a run across the street.

He hadn’t seen any movement but an operative could be close. He crossed the road, tried to stick to the walls, kept running. He passed a hotel on his left with nondescript cream brickwork. Then he struck it lucky. A large concrete playground on his left. Perfect.

It was fenced off like everything else seemed to be around here, so he ran, climbed and hurled himself over. He landed with precision. That’s when he caught his first glimpse of the operative.

‘Fuck.’

He was already soaked from the rain but he felt a colder chill run through him, shaking his fingers. The operative—Lijana from Lithuania—sprinted down the center of the street toward him.

‘Run run run!’ Aviary said into his ear.

Damien tore across the concrete playground with renewed energy. The chain-link fence on the other side led him to a concrete basketball court, only that fence was twice as high. There was a shed next to it so he ran and scaled the shed, rolled to his feet and moved across the roof. The fence was only two feet away so he jumped from the shed, clung to the chain-link fence. He was already halfway up. In the rain, the chain-link was slippery and he had no grip with his dress shoes. Climbing an icicle would’ve been easier.

The chain-link bowed with every step. He had to use his upper body strength to propel him over the top. By the time he cleared the fence, Lijana was already climbing with her sneakers. He watched her leap across the playground equipment, using one of the bright orange roofs to vault the fence in one jump.

‘I’m fucked,’ he said.

‘Damien!’ Aviary screamed.

‘I know!’ he yelled, running across the basketball court.

‘No!’ Aviary yelled. ‘They’re boxing you in!’

Damien felt his stomach crumple when he saw another operative ahead of him, scaling the high fence he was planning to escape through. The operative was almost over the fence. Behind him, Lijana landed.

On his right, a few concrete steps led to a door. The door was ajar. He ran for it. Shouldered through into a corridor. He was in a state school. Lijana wasn’t far behind. She drew her pistol.

Damien weaved into a gymnasium. He ran for the other end, pulled open the double doors and continued into a second corridor. Lijana was close—he could hear her footsteps. He couldn’t give her a clear shot, even for a moment.

There was a computer lab and some classrooms on his left, a cafeteria on his right. He checked the windows but they had bars over them. The school was locked up tight.

‘On your left!’ Aviary shouted.

The lobby appeared on his left. He swerved into it, stopped.

The second operative stood in the entrance, between two large red doors. Damien recognized the operative’s face but struggled to recall his name. The operative aimed his pistol, but held his fire. It was then that Damien realized.

They couldn’t shoot him.

Denton didn’t want the meteorite damaged or prematurely fractured.

‘So that’s what you meant by on your left,’ Damien said quietly.

‘Wait, I’m pulling up the blueprint for the school now,’ Aviary said. ‘Take the stairs!’

‘Hand it over,’ the operative said to him. ‘And we can all walk away from this.’

‘Stairs are behind you, the way you came,’ Aviary said.

A booming sound echoed from the street. Damien thought it was thunder, but then he saw the operative turn and dive across the lobby floor as .50 cal rounds punched through the red doors, splintering wood, brick and glass across the lobby.

Damien turned and ran toward Lijana. She burst through the corridor in pursuit. The stairs were between them. Rounds punched through the walls, blasting brick and plaster, showering the lobby. Two rounds punched above Damien, covering him in fragments.

He reached the stairs before she did. He ran up two at a time. His lungs burned for air. Lijana was closer now, five steps behind.

‘Where!’ Damien yelled.

‘Uh,’ Aviary said. ‘Uh, one second.’

He didn’t have one second. He tried a classroom with unbarred windows. Trapped. Lijana had her knife out. Sliced.

Damien moved from the blade’s path, tried to redirect her arm. She moved fast, her blows rapid and devastating. Damien didn’t like knives. And this was an excellent reminder of why.

He scooped up a plastic chair with metal legs and pushed it into her advances. He swiveled the chair, its legs entangling her arms. Damien kicked for her knee, missed, glanced her shin. She faltered, regained her footing.

Lijana pulled the chair away, sliced his midsection. The blade tore his shirt, grazed skin. He rolled backward across a desk. She monkey vaulted over it. He rolled off another, kicked it into her. She weaved around it, came in fast.

Damien lifted the top of a desk, crushing her hand. The knife came free, skittered across to another desk. They both moved for it—counter-attacked each other. Damien brought his knee to her ribs. She snapped her fist into his neck. Both blows connected, knocking the air from him and doubling her over.

She straightened up. He opened the desk in front of her, swinging the lid. It connected with her head and broke in two. She stumbled but got her footing. He kept half the lid and used it as a rudimentary weapon, thrusting it into her. She dived clear, under another desk. He moved on her quickly.

She found the knife again.

She thrust toward him, withdrew and then slashed twice in quick succession. He used the lid piece to deflect the blows and glance them aside, then used it to strike her behind the knee.

.50 cal rounds shattered the classroom. Panes of glass exploded, showered over them. Damien shut his eyes, deflected the knife. Lijana dropped to one knee.

The sound of the rounds made his ears ring. Lijana swiveled into a crouch, slashed her knife across him. The blade cut his forearm, cut across his chest and shoulder. He dropped into a seated position and deflected the knife with both legs.

Scrambling between desks, Damien couldn’t help but shut his eyes as more rounds smashed through the second level of the state school. Classrooms shook and windows disintegrated. The rounds tore through wall after wall, carving large holes in their wake.

Damien pinned Lijana’s knife arm with one leg and knocked her to the ground with the other. She landed on her hip and released the knife, grasped for his leg. He tried to roll away, knowing she’d break his leg if she had the chance.

Lijana moved around his leg, reaching his chest.

During their early training in Project GATE, he remembered swapping his orange juice with Lijana’s pineapple. He didn’t like orange and it was her favorite. And now she wanted to kill him.

Lijana pinned his chest with her knee. Her hands came fast around his face, one below his chin, the other around the top of his skull. His hand closed over the knife. He pulled his chin in to the side, but she wrenched it back. Pushed him farther.

She forced him onto his stomach. He lost touch with the knife. He lay on his stomach, head to one side. He tried to move but both her hands pressed down on the side of his jaws and skull, pushing hard into his skull with her body weight. The pressure blossomed into pain and he was suddenly immobile.

His hands-free earbud dug into her palm. She shifted her hand. That shift gave him just a moment to move. His fingers reached out across the classroom floor and found the knife. Backhanded grip. He slid his head away from her weighted hands. She clamped her hands over his head again, pushing down hard. His skull felt like it was about to fracture into a hundred pieces.

He brought the knife over his back, turned with it. Rolled into an upright position. He wasn’t sure if he’d hit an artery but then he saw Lijana kick and squirm on the floor. Blood dribbled and squirted from the side of her neck.

Knife in hand, Damien shuffled back until his back hit the edge of a desk. She reached out, touched his leg, wrapped her fingers around his ankle. It wasn’t a move to break his ankle. She just held on, looking at him with ice green eyes. For a moment it was Grace. He wanted to apologize but the words never came. Then it was Lijana again. Her grip relaxed.

Damien sat there for a moment, remembering to breathe. The .50 cal rounds had stopped tearing apart the school. And that meant one thing.

The masked Blue Berets were in the building.

He didn’t know where that other operative was. He got to his feet as more gunfire erupted downstairs.

‘Damien?’ Aviary said.

He ignored her, moved across the classroom, into the corridor.

‘Second level,’ he asked. ‘Where do I go?’

He could barely speak, catching his breath and using what little energy he had left. He was dehydrated, weak with hunger. He realized the last thing he ate was finger food at the function in the Waldorf Astoria hotel and that was who knew how many hours back.

Knife in hand, he moved through the corridor, unsure of where to go. All the windows were barred up. He could hear movement coming for the central stairs.

‘Keep going,’ Aviary said. ‘West end. West end.’

‘West,’ he whispered, more to himself than her.

He reached the end and found a much smaller staircase near the student restrooms. As he moved down the stairs he realized there was blood across both of his arms. Pouring from various slices across limbs, shoulders, chest. His white tuxedo shirt was now a crisscross of crimson.

‘Down the stairs,’ Aviary said. ‘If you can get down, there’s a parking lot on the west side.’

He reached the first level and could hear boots squeaking on polished floors. The exit was right there. Next to him.

‘Thanks,’ he said softly.

‘Buy me a drink after,’ Aviary said. ‘If you … you know, survive. I mean, of course you will but, um, you know.’

Damien pushed the door open and stepped into the parking lot. It was tiny and once again had super high fences. He didn’t know if he had the strength to climb the chain links, but the lot was still half-full of vehicles. He had nowhere to really keep an unsheathed knife so he used it to tear an arm off his shirt, then discarded the knife. He ran toward a compact silver 4x4, leaping onto the bonnet. With the shirt’s blood-stained sleeve in his mouth, he jumped from the roof of the 4x4 and grabbed the top of the fence with both hands, then pulled himself over.