My shoes struck gravel and I jolted. Tucking my head, I rolled across the hard surface. Then I jumped up and waved at Graham. He jumped the gap as well and rolled awkwardly to his feet.
“Not bad,” I remarked.
He grinned. “Just call me the bionic man.”
He wasn’t kidding. Graham had destroyed his previous prosthetic leg during the Columbus Project incident. Afterward, he’d hunkered down and built himself a new one, aided by a couple of brilliant bionics experts. The result, a powerful, thought-controlled device, had reinvigorated his declining physical condition.
We made our way across two more rooftops and eventually reached the last building on the block.
“We made it,” Graham said. “Madison and 75th.”
I nodded. “Now, we just have to figure out which building is 1199. Hopefully, we’re standing on it.”
My shoes crunched against white gravel as I hiked to the edge of the roof. Far below, I saw burning cars, broken glass, and spilt garbage. Lots of spilt garbage. North of E. 75th, NYPD officers continued to hold off the rioters with the aid of those heat rays. The officers to the south were gathered in clumps up and down the street. They wore riot helmets and carried thick shields.
I watched as solo Berserkers threw objects at those officers, trying to draw them out, to separate them from their peers. Other Berserkers, working in tandem, adopted a more systematic approach. They attacked the various officer groups one at a time. Emboldened, solo Berserkers would join in and before long, the officers were lying on the pavement, stripped of their gear. A few rioters would stay behind, viciously beating the fallen officers. The others moved on to the next group.
“It’s like whack-a-mole,” Graham said. “Only with, you know, cops.”
Shifting my gaze, I studied the buildings surrounding the intersection. “See the numbers?” I pointed at an ornate building, twenty stories tall, on the diagonal corner. A colorful awning over the entranceway read, The Falcon. “That’s 1199 Madison Avenue.”
A small group of rioters ran up to the building. They attacked the ungated door and unbarred windows with crowbars and tire irons. Failing to gain access, they moved on to the next target.
“Looks like a popular spot,” Graham remarked.
My satphone buzzed. Pulling it out of my pocket, I saw a message from Malware.
You have 12 minutes, I read. Or she dies.
Graham glanced over my shoulder, read the message. “Guess we’d better get to the street.” Turning around, he stared at a nearby access door encased in concrete. “Think it’s locked?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Reaching out, I grabbed hold of an old-fashioned fire escape. “We’re not going that way.”
Chapter 13
My patent leather shoes, well-scuffed now, pounded against metal as I landed on a rickety platform. Gripping a railing, I twisted in a half-circle and raced toward the next set of steps.
As I descended the fire escape, Graham on my heels, I lost sight of the bigger picture. I still saw the Berserkers, still smelled the acrid smoke, still heard the screams. But everything felt smaller, more localized.
I ran to the lowest platform and peeked over the edge. Directly beneath me, I saw Berserkers. They were grouped around Captain Nemo, a nautical-themed restaurant that offered heaping plates of food, none of it good. An exterior metal grille, secured with a large padlock, blocked its entranceway. A couple of Berserkers attacked the padlock with hammers and wrenches. Others waited impatiently, stomping their feet and grinding their teeth.
Graham stepped onto the platform, causing it to wobble just a bit. I darted to the opposite end and unlatched the access ladder. With a loud shriek, it slid to the ground, nearly grazing one of the Berserkers — a cute blonde with enough eye glitter to light up Times Square — in the back. She darted out of the way and then looked up.
I gave her my most winning smile.
She screamed and flipped me the bird. Heads spun in my direction.
“Was it something I said?” I asked.
“Maybe you just aren’t her type,” Graham replied.
“Thank God for that.”
Just then, the padlock snapped. Berserkers grabbed the grille and pushed it upward. A small commotion broke out as rioters surged into the restaurant. One of them jostled the girl and she fell to the ground. Others tripped over her. Nobody cared though and in less than a second, Berserkers were clambering over each other in a mad race to loot Captain Nemo for all it was worth.
Graham frowned as he watched the stampede unfold. “You’d think they were ransacking a bank. What do they think they’re going to find in there anyway?”
“Food poisoning?” I guessed.
Grabbing the ladder, I descended into the madness. The first few steps were uneventful. Then the rungs started to tremble. Looking down, I saw two guys shaking the ladder. The blonde, newly escaped from the pile, stood nearby. Her face was bruised, her glitter was smeared, and her clothes were ripped. She was pointing at me, shouting obscenities, telling the guys to rip me apart. And they were actually listening to her.
Some people will do anything to get laid.
The guys shook harder. Rust screeched and metal groaned. Sharp snapping noises rang out. Glancing up, I saw the ladder break loose from its anchor. Then it shifted.
And I started to fall.
Graham reached down, gripped my hand. I slammed to a halt. For a moment, I dangled above the blonde and her minions. Then one of them grabbed a bottle from the sidewalk. He threw it and the bottle crashed into my knee. It exploded upon impact, sending ripe beer all over my tuxedo pants.
I sure hope tuxedo shops don’t have black lists.
Knee throbbing, I reached up. Grabbed Graham’s other hand. With a loud grunt, he lifted me a few inches and I was able to prop my elbow onto the grated platform. Then I pulled myself up the rest of the way.
More bottles soared toward us. They shattered against the platform and the protective railing, showering us with beer and bits of glass.
Graham ducked down. “Why are they helping her?”
“Because she’s got better legs than me.”
We were fifteen feet off the ground. Even if we survived the jump unscathed, which was no sure thing, the blonde’s minions still presented a problem.
Shifting my gaze, I stared at the still unbreached-doorway to 1199 Madison Avenue. It stood there, mocking me. So close, yet so unreachable.
A small crowd of masked Berserkers appeared in the middle of the intersection. They stopped and looked around, checking their surroundings.
“Don’t look now,” I said. “But Saul and his buddies are back.”
“You know, I was just starting to miss them.”
The tallest one — Saul — turned in a slow circle. Then he stopped, cocked his head. And peered in my direction.
Yells and shouts rang out. Bottles ceased flying toward us. Glancing down, I saw a curved line of police officers. They strode west on E. 75th Street, clearing the way for yet another armored vehicle.
The vehicle — a truck — was huge, easily twice the length of the armored cars I’d seen earlier. It was painted a blazing white and rode on six oversized tires. Bright blue letters on its side read, NYPD.
The blonde’s minions, armed with half-broken bottles and enough liquid courage to feed a gang of pirates, went after the officers. A couple of batons, swung with jaw-cracking force, send them scurrying back to the sidewalk.
“Keep moving,” one of the officers shouted. “And stick together.”
Saul and his gang backed up. Other Berserkers began to gather in the middle of Madison Avenue. The officers, adorned in full riot gear, marched past my position and stopped in front of them. The two sides stared at each other, unblinking.