I extracted myself from the wreck. Pain in my chest spread slowly through the rest of my body. Each breath that passed through my lungs brought with it excruciating agony.
Looking around, I got my bearings. Then I began hobbling in the direction of Diane’s apartment.
The powerful rain brought me more misery and after just a few steps, I was already sick of it. Picking up my pace, I started jogging. Soon, I was half-running, half-limping.
At half-speed of course.
I don’t know how long I ran. But by the time I stumbled around the corner of Diane’s street, I could barely move. My body ached and my right leg felt like it might fall off at any second.
But all that was forgotten the moment I glimpsed the light in her apartment. It drifted down to the street, blazing a path through the darkness.
I’d made it.
And then I saw the Land Rover.
It was parked just outside her building, smoke rising from the exhaust.
Abruptly, Diane emerged. Two large figures propelled her out of the apartment building and onto the sidewalk. After shoving her into the Land Rover’s backseat, they climbed in after her.
As the vehicle zoomed toward me, I felt the sudden urge to grab hold of my pistol and start firing away. But I couldn’t risk hurting her.
I ducked into the shadows. As the car sped past me, I caught a glimpse inside the rear window. Diane sat inside, flanked by the two men. The image of her livid, yet alarmed visage seared itself onto my brain.
A moment later, the vehicle hurtled around the corner and she was gone, swallowed up into the night.
Chapter 38
Why’d you drive so carelessly?
Why didn’t you run faster?
Why, why, why?
Twenty minutes later, I stumbled down the street. Twenty minutes since I’d left 78th Street and 2nd Avenue. Twenty minutes since Chase’s men kidnapped Diane.
Ordinarily, I would’ve covered the distance to 116th Street and Frederick Douglass Boulevard in forty-five minutes. Thirty-five minutes tops. But despite the pounding rain and my aching body, wave after wave of furious thoughts spurred me on.
At the corner of West 116th, I turned and walked past a few empty storefronts and a fried chicken restaurant. Stopping in front of the 116th Street station, I took a few seconds to stretch my rubbery, tired legs.
The station served the IND 8th Avenue Line and thus wasn’t directly connected to the layup yard or Hartek’s laboratory. I could still access those areas via maintenance tunnels and other shortcuts. Still, I found myself wishing I’d chosen a different place to re-enter the tunnels. Preferably, somewhere I could accidentally run into Chase’s guys.
And beat the crap out of them.
A hand gripped my shoulder. I wheeled around, fists cocked.
“Whoa, boy,” Beverly said with a grin. “No need for violence.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“What happened to your forehead? It looks like someone beat you with a cheese grater.”
“That’s good to hear. It feels a lot worse than that.”
“I take it Jack didn’t appreciate your visit.”
“Oh, he appreciated it all right. In fact, he appreciated it so much he decided to return the favor with a little visit of his own…to an old friend of mine.”
“Who?”
“Diane Blair. We used to be close.”
“Is she…?”
“She’s alive, at least for now.”
Beverly led me down a small set of stairs into the 116th Street Station. As she fumbled with the gate, my anger resurged. Diane didn’t deserve this. She just happened to know the wrong person at the wrong time.
Why does everyone I care about end up getting hurt? What am I? The human equivalent of a broken mirror?
Beverly opened the gate and let me through. Then she closed it and walked down the stairs, joining me in the station’s interior. “Sorry about your friend. I should’ve suspected that Jack would go after someone you knew.”
“Not your fault. You didn’t kidnap her.”
“Well, how do we get her back?”
I thought for a second. “Chase wants Hartek’s journal. That’s the whole reason he kidnapped her in the first place. He’s hoping to pressure me into handing it over.”
“We’re not trading. Even if the book were useless, I still wouldn’t trade it to him. The instant he gets his hands on it, he doesn’t need us anymore. We become liabilities.”
“Agreed. Anyways, I’m not letting him get his hands on the Bell. Hartek didn’t exactly build a giant coffee maker in that lab of his. He built a machine that could generate a fuel called Red Mercury.”
“A fuel for what?”
“Hydrogen bombs,” I replied. “Chase wants to recreate Hartek’s research and sell Red Mercury across the globe.”
She gasped. “Are you serious?”
“It gets worse.” I gritted my teeth. “In order to prove that Red Mercury works, he’s going to detonate a hydrogen bomb in the middle of Manhattan.”
She stared at me.
“What can I say?” I held out my hands, palms up. “He’s got a shitload of anger left over from the Hiroshima bombing…and the scars to prove it.”
“We have to stop him.”
“First, we need to rescue Diane.”
She shook her head. “Chase has the numbers and the firepower to beat back any attack we could manage. And besides, we don’t even know where he’s keeping her.”
I frowned. “We can’t trade for her and we can’t rescue her. We can’t trust the police and I’m betting the same goes for the military. So, what the hell can we do?”
“I wish I knew.”
I thought for a second. “Where’s Hartek’s journal?”
She shrugged off her bag and groped around inside of it. “Here you go.” She handed me the book. “What are you going to do with it?”
I set the journal on the ground and opened it to a random page. Then I removed a chunk of flint from my satchel and extracted my machete from its sheath.
“You’re going to burn it? Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
I nodded. “We don’t need it. And I’m not willing to let Chase get his hands on Hartek’s research.”
As I placed the back of the blade against the rock, I felt a hint of trepidation. Throughout history, people had destroyed artifacts for the greater good. When Bishop Diego de Landa staged his Inquisition of the Yucatán Mayans in 1562, he thought he was saving their souls. But centuries later, archaeologists cursed his name for burning forty irreplaceable codices as well as the rest of that civilization’s rich history.
What made me different than the Bishop? Would future archaeologists curse my name? After all, Hartek’s journal could shed new light on the Nazi’s atomic weapons program.
But the treasure hunter in me disagreed.
Strongly.
The journal was no ordinary artifact. Its very existence could enable the creation of the Bell and Red Mercury. It could be used to destroy lives.
It could be used to set the world aflame.
My mind wrestled itself for a minute or two. But I was unable to fully reconcile the differences between my archaeologist and treasure hunter sides. They were both part of me, even as they stood in stark opposition to each other. Like it or not, eternal inner conflict was my fate.
I looked at Beverly. Her solemn expression told me that something was on her mind. “Last chance,” I said. “Any reason we should keep it around?”
She furrowed her brow. “Maybe.”