She paused a moment. “So drop your weapons,” she said coolly.
There was a brief instant in which nobody moved.
“I said, drop your weapons!” she yelled at the top of her voice.
In the silence that followed, she heard the clink of an aluminum bat hitting asphalt. Then another. Then came a quieter sound: a steel blade dropping to the earth. She waited a long moment, then took a deliberate step backward.
“Officer Carlin,” Hayward said quietly. In a moment, he was at her side.
“Shall I frisk them?” he asked.
Hayward shook her head. “Driver’s licenses,” she said to the group. “I want those, too. Drop them on the ground right there.”
There was a brief pause. Then the youth in front dug a hand into his jacket pocket, removed his wallet, and let the plastic card flutter to the ground. The rest followed suit.
“You can pick them up tomorrow afternoon at One Police Plaza,” she continued. “Ask for Sergeant Hayward. Now, I want you all to walk straight past me until you reach Central Park West. Then I want you to go your separate ways. Do not pass Go; do not collect two hundred dollars. Head straight home, and go to bed. Understand?”
There was another silence.
“ I can’t hear you!” Carlin’s voice roared out, and the men jumped.
“We understand,” came the chorused response.
“Then move out,” Hayward said. The youths stood motionless, as if rooted to the spot.
“ Shake it!” she barked. The group started up, silently, heads straight ahead, walking slowly at first, then faster, toward the west. Soon they had vanished into the darkness.
“Bunch of pricks,” said Carlin. “You think twenty or thirty were really killed?”
Hayward snorted as she bent to pick up the weapons and licenses. “Hell, no. But if the rumors keep spreading, people like that are going to keep coming. And this situation will never get resolved.” She handed him the bats with a sigh. “Come on. We might as well report in and see if we can help out tonight. Because tomorrow, you know we’re going to get our butts reprimanded for what happened down in those tunnels.”
“Not this time,” Carlin replied, grinning slightly.
“You said that before.” Hayward turned toward him. “Just what are you telling me, Carlin?”
“I’m telling you that this time, the righteous shall be rewarded. And it’s the Millers of the world who will get hung out to dry.”
“And just when did you acquire this gift of prophecy?”
“When I learned that our friend Beal, who you helped into the ambulance back there, is the son of one Steven X. Beal.”
“Steven Beal, the state senator?” Hayward asked, eyes widening.
Carlin nodded. “He doesn’t like people to know,” he said. “Afraid people will think he’s pulling influence to get an easy ride or something. But that crack on his head must have loosened his tongue a bit.”
Hayward stood motionless a moment. Then, shaking her head, she turned back in the direction of the Great Lawn.
“Sergeant?” Carlin asked.
“Yes?”
“Why did you ask me to step away from those punks like that?”
Hayward paused. “I wanted to show them that I wasn’t afraid. And that I meant business.”
“Would you have?”
“Would I have what?”
“You know,” Carlin gestured. “Kicked their asses back to Scarsdale, and all that.”
Hayward looked at him, raising her chin slightly. “What do you think?”
“I think—” Carlin hesitated a moment. “I think you’re one scary lady, Ms. Hayward.”
= 56 =
AS THE LAUNCH sliced through the dark waters of the Hudson River, Snow suited up belowdecks, feeling the hull tremble with the muffled rumble of the big twin diesels. There was barely enough room to stand amongst the loran gear, geopositioning satellite units, sonar equipment, and arms lockers. He noted that it was a wet suit, not the usual sealed dry suit the police team wore, and instantly regretted his suggestion to go in through the treatment plant. Too late,he thought, struggling with the suit. The boat lurched and he pitched forward, banging his head painfully against a bulkhead.
He rubbed his forehead with a curse. It hurt, all right. So he wasn’t dreaming. He really was in a boat full of Navy SEALs, armed to the teeth, bound for God only knew what kind of mission. Fear and excitement surged through him simultaneously. This, he knew, meant a chance at redemption. Maybe his only chance. He’d make damn sure he didn’t screw it up.
He adjusted the lantern visor, snugged on the last glove, and went topside. Commander Rachlin, who had gone forward and was speaking with the coxswain, turned at his approach. “Where the hell’s your paint? And what took you?”
“The equipment is a little different from what I’m used to, sir.”
“Well, you got from now until insertion to get used to it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rachlin jerked his head toward Snow. “Donovan, get him fixed up.”
Donovan came over and wordlessly began smearing black and green greasepaint across Snow’s cheeks and forehead.
Rachlin motioned the rest of the team to gather round. “Now listen up,” he said, unrolling a plastic map on one thigh. “We’re going in via the main settling tank above the West Side Lateral. According to Snow here, it’s the quickest way in.” His finger traced a route on the map. “Once at the first riser, we’ll follow our plotted course until we reach this place, here, where the tunnels branch. That’s our rally point. Once we’re in position, teams Alpha, Beta, and Gamma will each take one of these tunnels. I’ll lead Alpha, and ride point. Snow and Donovan are Team Delta. They catch the milk run, staying in the rear and covering our asses. Questions?”
Snow had several, but he decided against asking any of them. His face burned from the rough strokes of Donovan’s gloved hand, and the thick greasepaint smelled like rancid tallow.
The Commander nodded. “We’ll go in, place the charges, and come out. Nice and simple, just like exercises at the ’phib base. The charges will seal off the lower drainage tunnels that feed into the Lateral. Another team is going down from the street, sealing access from above. Real pros, from the sound of it.” The Commander made a snorting sound through his mask. “They told us to use NVDs. If you can believe that.”
“NVDs?” Snow echoed.
“Night-vision devices, darlin’. But try wearing one over a wet suit and mask.” He spat over the side. “We’re not afraid of the dark. And anything that wants to come take a piece of us, let them try. Still, I like to see what I’m blowin’ away.”
He stepped forward. “All right. Hastings, Clapton, Beecham, you catch AW duty this mission. I want one weapons carrier per team. Lorenzo, Campion, Donovan, carry the pyros. You’ll be the candymen, along with myself. We’ve got redundant charges, so expect a heavy load. Now shoulder up.”
Snow watched as the men slung automatic weapons over their shoulders. “What about me?” he heard himself asking.
Rachlin turned toward him. “I don’t know. What about you?”
Snow paused. “I’d like to do something. To help, I mean.”
Rachlin stared at him for a moment. Then a small smile appeared briefly on his lips. “Okay,” he said. “You get to be chunk boy for this op.”
“Chunk boy?” Snow asked.
“Chunk boy.” The Commander nodded. “Beecham! Toss the kit over here.” Rachlin caught the waterproof rubber duffel that was thrown to him, then placed it over Snow’s neck. “That stays on until we reach the exit point,” he muttered.
“I’ll need a weapon, sir,” Snow said.
“Get him something.” Somebody thrust the butt of a harpoon gun into Snow’s gut, and he quickly looped the strap over his shoulder. He thought he heard somebody sniggering quietly, but he ignored it. Snow had speared plenty of fish in the Sea of Cortez, but he’d never seen spears quite as long or as evil-looking as the ones that hung from the underbelly of this gun, fat explosive charges packed at their ends.