Galloway unclipped a bunch of keys from his belt one-handed, did it slow and quiet. He selected a cuff key with his teeth. He silently released the handcuffs that clamped the gate closed. He let the cuffs hang loose and open.
‘Hell with it,’ murmured Galloway. ‘We all got to die sometime, right? Just got to pick our terms.’
37
Tombes floated in dark water. He squirmed deep into a crevice between massive concrete slabs.
A half-cut girder. He triggered the plasma arc and touched the cutting head to steel. Metal bubbled, liquefied, ran in rivulets like tears.
Cloke hung back. He watched stuttering flame light from deep within the heart of the rubble pile.
Tombes shut off the arc and withdrew from the fissure. He pulled a chunk of girder clear and threw it aside.
‘Can you reach her?’ asked Cloke.
‘Yeah.’
‘Want me to do it?’
‘No. It’s my job.’
Tombes forced himself deeper into the crevice. He reached Nariko’s body. Her face behind the visor: eyes closed as if in a deep sleep.
He unsheathed a knife and began to saw through the fabric of her suit.
‘The pistol should be tucked in her weight belt. Can you reach it?’
‘No.’
Tombes backed out of the space dragging Nariko’s tanks and helmet behind him.
‘We’re done.’
He shouldered the gear and swam for the surface.
Cloke took a last look inside the fissure. His helmet lamps lit Nariko’s body, half-buried beneath tumbled masonry blocks. Her hair gently wafted in the current. The water around her tinged pink with blood.
He turned away and kicked towards the surface.
The subway car.
They lay diving equipment on the floor beside Ekks. They knelt and inspected the gear.
‘She looked peaceful,’ said Cloke. ‘She looked at rest.’
Tombes ignored him. He checked valves. He checked each tank gauge.
‘How much air left in the bottles?’ asked Cloke.
‘About an hour. Maybe less.’
Cloke got to his feet.
‘Get him ready to move. I’ll meet you back here in fifteen.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Tombes.
‘Couple of things I need to do before we leave.’
Cloke returned to the radio carriage. The operator fused to the transmitter, broadcast lights flickering intermittent red and green.
Cloke retuned his Motorola.
‘How you doing, son?’
‘Please. I don’t want to be here any more. It’s cold. It’s dark. Are you on your way? Will you be here soon?’
‘We’re coming for you, son. We’re almost there. Just hold on. It won’t be long. It won’t be long now.’
Cloke laid an FDNY shoulder pack on the floor. He unzipped, and took out a cardboard box labelled with brissive warning icons.
He pulled back the flaps. Half-pound sausage tubes of ammonium nitrate demo charge wrapped in wax paper.
He carefully picked his way between metallic tendrils snaking across the floor. He crouched beside the radio operator. He lashed a tube of explosive to the table leg with duct tape.
‘I hate it here. It’s so dark. So cold.’
‘Hang on, kid. It’ll be over soon.’
The subway tunnel. Cloke walked the track, peering into shadows. He was spooked by the silence, spooked by the dark.
A buttressed arch. He mashed explosive against the brickwork.
Tombes unrolled a yellow radiation suit. He dressed Ekks as gently as he could: rolled him in the cot, manoeuvred the rubber suit beneath him, zipped arms and legs. He sealed the gloves and overboots with tape.
Cloke joined him.
‘All set?’
‘The seals should remain hermetic unless we dive deep. They’ll keep out water, but not under pressure.’
Cloke dumped the explosive pack on the floor.
‘Laid a couple of charges. Last thing I’ll do when we leave this damned place. Bring down the roof.’
‘Whatever. I just want to get the hell out of here.’
‘You got some kind of detonator?’ asked Cloke. ‘How do I trip them off?’
Tombes picked up the backpack and unzipped a side-pocket. He took out a plastic box and unclipped the lid. Silver cylinders laid out like cigars.
‘Time pencils. Old school, but they work. Each tube holds a little glass capsule full of acid. When the time comes to start the clock, pinch the top of the tube with pliers. The glass will break. Acid will start to corrode a lead wire. When the wire burns through, it releases a spring-loaded percussion cap. Kaboom.’
‘All right.’
Tombes held up a time pencil.
‘Blue band. Burns for fifteen minutes.’
‘How many do I use?’
‘One. Two to be sure. Those demo charges are ammonium nitrate, stuff they use for blasting quarries. Pop one charge, and the blast will trigger the rest.’
‘How’s Ekks?’ asked Cloke. ‘Any improvement?’
‘Holding. Just holding.’
They carefully lifted Ekks and strapped him to the backboard. They lashed cylinders either side of his arms. They put the helmet over his head and sealed the neck with tape.
‘Sure this is airtight?’ asked Cloke.
‘Probably maintain integrity for an hour or so. Long enough to get him to Fenwick.’
The IRT office.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Wade. ‘It’s chickenshit. Shooting the guy like a sick dog.’
‘You’ve seen what this disease can do.’
‘The guy deserves to make his peace. Sure, if Galloway were walking the wing, if he got shanked, I wouldn’t give a shit. Probably cheer when I heard the news. But we’re not in the joint any more. The man has a right to die on his own terms.’
‘We’ve given him plenty of time, plenty of space. When he turns, it will happen fast. We can’t wait for ever.’
‘What does Donahue say about this shit?’
‘She doesn’t give a damn. She just wants to get home.’
‘So what do you want from me? I’m blind. If you off the guy, nothing I can do about it.’
‘I guess I want your blessing.’
‘Looks like Donahue left the phone off the hook. So you’re stuck down here with two dead guys and a madman. Do whatever you’ve got to do.’
Galloway sat on the bench. Blue lips, cold sweat. The stump of his wrist tucked beneath his left armpit. He rocked back and forth.
Lupe wandered from the office. She walked across the ticket hall slow and casual. She sat beside him, kicked back and crossing her legs. She laid the shotgun across her lap.
‘So how you doing?’
‘Not so great. Painkillers are wearing off. Might need another shot.’
‘How’s your arm?’
‘Minus a hand. How’s yours?’
‘Let me take a look. Maybe we can redress the wound.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll dig out some fresh bandage later. Patch myself up.’
‘Come on. Let me take a look. See what I can do.’
‘Forget it.’
Lupe spoke softly:
‘Show me your arm.’ Edge of menace.
Galloway stopped rocking back and forth. He turned to look at Lupe. He observed the shotgun laid across her lap, barrel trained on his belly.
‘Show me your arm,’ repeated Lupe.
Galloway slowly held out the stump. Metal spines protruded through bloody gauze.
‘Sorry, man.’
‘Amputate,’ said Galloway. ‘Make another cut. Take my arm at the shoulder.’