Frank hung up and gingerly started for the door.
He nearly stumbled over the stunned attacker and stepped over him. Seeing his hat on the floor, he dropped the phone to pick it up. After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled the knitted cap off the man’s head — damn it, he was bald, as well, — and ran to the door.
He should have taken the back exit, but Frank had no time left to go looking for it. A blond, cold-eyed man was mounting the steps to the front door. He wore the same gear as the false security agents who now lay on the post office floor. Amazement flashed in the blond man’s eyes. Just for a split second, he slowed down — and immediately reached under his jacket.
Frank shouldered him off the steps and onto the sidewalk. He wanted to dash across the street when he noticed yet another black-clad, bald-headed goon appearing out of a Jeep parked on the opposite side of the street. A second Jeep had just pulled up behind the first one. Seeing the reinforcements arrive, Frank dashed along the sidewalk to the nearest intersection. He ran into a passerby, very nearly falling and dropping the package, lunged forward to regain his balance and stumbled on, stomping his way through the puddles. As he reached the corner of the building, he slipped on the wet tarmac, turning to face his pursuers.
The blond man and the bald-headed goon were following him. Tires screeching, the second Jeep pulled out. The first one was already snaking onto the road, honking for other drivers to let him into the right lane.
Police sirens wailed. Frank turned the corner hoping that his pursuers wouldn’t use their guns on the street busy again now that the rain was over. Mistake. A police car swung out into the intersection. More tire screeching. Shots rang out.
It took Frank some time to realize they didn’t target him. He looked back. The blond man and his partner stood on the corner emptying their guns into the arriving patrol car. They simultaneously snapped their clips, removing them, inserted new ones and continued firing.
Most passersby panicked and sought cover by the building walls. One froze in his tracks, lost. Somebody screamed. A Jeep shot out into the intersection. It rammed the patrol car throwing it toward an edifice on the opposite side of the street, and stopped. A door opened, letting out yet another masked goon. On his shoulder he carried a thick green tube.
The screech of brakes forced Frank to recoil back to the wall. Another patrol car approached the intersection, blocking the street in front of him.
Frank glanced at the goon with the tube. The man lowered himself onto one knee, and Frank bolted in the opposite direction. A deafening clap resounded behind his back, followed by a whizz; then an explosion. The blast wave knocked him off his feet. The hot wind burned the back of his head and blew away his hat. Frank’s knees and elbows hit the sidewalk; he grazed his chin but didn’t let go of the package.
His head rang, his ears rumbled with the impact. The street was quickly submerging in thick smoke coming out of the burning car.
Frank scrambled onto his feet and staggered along the wall, reaching for his hat on the way, when still more shots rang out behind.
Bullets hit stones overhead, showering him with splinters. Fear and danger made Frank disregard pain. He ducked between two parked cars. On the other side of the street was a subway entrance where passersby now took cover from the bullets.
If he could just make it! Frank craned his neck to peer through the car windows at the junction covered in smoke. Two vague figures were sneaking toward him along the building wall. A cop jumped out onto the road. He, rather stupidly, called out to them and raised his gun. They turned on him and shot almost simultaneously.
He couldn’t wait much longer. Frank dashed across the street to the subway entrance. He ran down the stairs into the tunnel and bumped into another cop who tried to stop him. Both fell onto the mosaic floor. Frank dropped the package and landed on top of the cop as his radio squalled. The speaker crunched, hissed, then squalled again. The duty officer’s voice came through the white noise, ordering all squads to detain Frank Shelby and giving his new description. He ended the message saying that a group of terrorists under Shelby’s command had opened fire on civilians in the city center.
Frank got up on all fours, grabbed the parcel and met the cop’s glare. Still flat on his back, the man reached for him. Frank smashed him on his chin, blocked his hand and pressed his knee down on the man’s stomach in order to get up. But the cop’s other hand grabbed his trousers and pulled him down.
Frank swung and kicked him in the head. The man weakened his grasp. Frank finally rose and ran to the ticket gate. They were busy as the crowd tried to take cover inside, shouting and screaming. A woman was wailing.
Frank pushed a man aside, hit another in the ribs, made his way to the gate, jumped over its steel bars and ran down the stairs to the platform.
He glimpsed the crooked face of a woman whose cheek had been struck by a bullet. Her blood squirted onto Frank’s clothes, making him recoil. He looked back just in time to notice a shooter behind the nearest column and bolted after a departing train.
He managed to catch up with it. He pushed himself off the edge of the platform and launched himself onto the footplate of the last carriage right under the windscreen. His feet slid off the narrow plate. Frank yelped and grabbed at a wiper, barely holding on to it. His sweaty palm kept slipping. The wiper started bending. If he wanted to use the other hand, he would have to drop the parcel first.
At the risk of falling under the wheels, Frank grabbed at the handrail below. Sleepers flashed by underfoot, and the fear of falling paralyzed his mind and body. He screamed. To his one side, columns and people gleamed in the lamp light. The train gained speed and was about to disappear into the dark tunnel.
His knee hit a bulge of some kind. Frank made himself look down. The trailer coupling was protruding a few inches from under the car. Frank placed his foot onto it, pulled himself up, sat himself down on the footboard and let out a sigh when the train rolled into the tunnel.
Chapter Five. Nowhere to Run
The view of the Manhattan skyline filled a wall-to-wall window. The wind had changed and was now sending the thunderclouds toward the ocean. For a split second, they drifted apart revealing a scarlet strip of sunset and flooding the roofs and the gigantic construction site on the coastline with red.
Captain Bud Jessup closed his eyes and turned away. Two men sat at the desk in front of him. One was Russell Jefferson Claney, a member of Congress and Honorary Chairman of Memoria’s board of directors. The other, Joe Binelli, the corporation’s chief executive.
The door into the council chamber opened. The secretary brought in a trayful of fresh coffee. She started passing the cups around while the gray-headed Jessup watched Claney. He couldn’t help wondering why this ageing bald-headed man, a good fifteen years his senior, still looked so good. His complexion was smooth, with the exception of a few negligible crowfeet in the corners of his eyes. His scalp and cheekbones looked almost polished, like the precious walnut paneling of the council chamber’s walls.
Jessup rubbed his stubbed chin and looked at Binelli. Compared to Claney, the executive was a mere wreck: an obese pig oozing fat all over the chair. He was larger than even Freeman, God rest his soul, with his neck concealed by folds of multiple chins, his droopy cheeks and his constant panting. Binelli grabbed at the edge of the desk as if expecting them to take him to the slaughterhouse any minute. Skittish, as opposed to a composed Claney with his eyes glistening like steel spikes, ready to bare his shark’s teeth.