Karma.
Dahl whirled again, now dripping blood from his ears and chin. Kenzie and her opponent were still locked in mortal contest, but Smyth’s had managed to open a gap between the soldier and himself by rolling several times. On the final revolution he fought to wrestle his weapon around, got lucky, and ended up with the pointy end aimed straight at Smyth.
Dahl roared, bounding in, but there was nothing he could do about the shot. In the blink of an eye the terrorist fired and the onrushing Smyth took a bullet that stopped him dead, sending him to his knees.
Bringing his forehead in line for the next shot.
The terrorist squeezed the trigger, but at that instant Dahl arrived — a seething, mobile mountain — and smashed the terrorist between himself and a wall. Bones broke and grated together, blood gouted, and the rifle clattered away. When Dahl started, stricken, toward Smyth he saw and heard the angry soldier swearing loudly.
He’s okay then.
Saved by the Kevlar vest, Smyth had still taken a short-range bullet and would have a bruise almost to die for, but their new avant-garde body armor had taken the sting out of it. Dahl wiped his face, now registering the approach of a SWAT team.
Kenzie wrestled her opponent this way and that, the larger man struggling to match her for dexterity and downright brawn. Dahl stood back with a faint smile on his face.
One of the SWAT guys ran up. “Does she need help?”
“Nah, she’s just fooling around. Leave her be.”
Kenzie caught the exchange from the corner of her eye and gnashed her already gritted teeth. It was plain the two were evenly matched but the Swede was testing her, gauging her commitment to the team and even herself. Was she worthy?
She wrenched at the gun and then let go as her opponent wrenched back, making him overbalance, bringing a knee up into his ribs and an elbow to his nose. Her next blow was a chop to the wrist and then a lightning fast grab. As the man struggled and groaned she bent the wrist back hard, heard the snap and saw the gun fall to the floor. Still he fought, withdrawing a knife and thrusting at her chest. Kenzie squeezed it all in, felt the blade nick the flesh over her ribs, and spun around, taking him with her. The knife pulled back for a second thrust but this time she was ready. She took hold of the extracted arm, spun under it and wrenched it around behind the man’s back. Without mercy she pushed until it also broke and left the terrorist helpless. Swiftly, she plucked two grenades from his belt and then stuffed one down the front of his trousers and into his boxer shorts.
Dahl, watching, found a scream tearing into his throat. “Noooo!”
Kenzie’s fingers came out with the firing pin.
“We don’t do that, you—”
“Now watcha gonna do,” Kenzie whispered up close, “with your arms all broken and stuff? Ain’t gonna hurt anyone now are ya, asshole?”
Dahl didn’t know whether to stick or twist, bolt, or dive headlong, grab Kenzie or leap for cover. In the end the seconds ticked by and nothing exploded except Smyth’s particularly short fuse.
“Are you kidding me?” he bellowed. “What the fu—”
“Fake,” Kenzie flicked the firing pin at Dahl’s bleeding head. “Thought those perfect eagle’s eyes would’ve spotted a dud.”
“I didn’t.” The Swede breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Shit, Kenz, you are one fucking world-class female lunatic.”
“Just give me back my katana. That always calms me down.”
“Oh, yeah. I bet,”
“And this coming from you — the Mad Swede.”
Dahl inclined his head. Touché. But crap, I think I’ve met my match.
By now the SWAT teams and assembled agents were among them, and securing areas around Times Square. The team regrouped and took a few moments to catch their breath.
“Four cells down,” Lauren said. “Only one to go.”
“We think,” Dahl said. “Best not get ahead of ourselves. And remember this final cell is the one keeping Marsh safe and probably in control of the…” He didn’t say the word “nuke” out loud. Not here. This was the heart of Manhattan. Who knew what parabolic mics might be scattered around?
“Good job, guys,” he said simply. “This day of hell is almost over.”
But, in truth, it had barely begun.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Julian Marsh figured that, without a doubt, he was the happiest man alive. Directly in front of him lay a primed, trussed up nuclear weapon, close enough to touch, his to play with on a whim. To his left curled a divine, beautiful woman, also his to play with on a whim. And she to play with him of course, though a particular area was starting to get a little sore from all the attention. Maybe some of that whipped cream…
But continuing on his previous and most important train of thought — a passive terrorist cell sat near the window, again his to play with on a whim. And then there was the American government, chasing their tails all over the city, running scared and running blind, his to play—
“Julian?” Zoe breathed a hair’s breadth from his left ear. “Want me to head down south again?”
“Sure, but don’t inhale the bastard like you did last time. Give him a little breathing space, eh?”
“Ooh, of course.”
Marsh let her have her fun, and then thought about what would happen next. Mid-morning had already passed, and certain deadlines were approaching. The time was almost here when he would unwrap another burner cell and call Homeland with the dead-drop demands. Of course, he knew there would be no actual “dead-drop”, not with five hundred million being exchanged, but the principal was the same and could be executed similarly. Marsh gave gratitude to the gods of sin and iniquity. With those guys on your side what couldn’t be accomplished?
Like all good dreams this one would come to an end, but Marsh determined that he would enjoy it while it lasted.
Patting Zoe on the head and then standing up, he untied one of his shoe laces and walked over to the window. With two minds often came two different viewpoints, but both of Marsh’s personalities were au fait with this scenario. How could either of them lose? He’d pilfered one of Zoe’s condoms and now tried to pull it over one hand. In the end he gave in and made do with two fingers. Hell, it still satisfied his inner quirkiness.
As he wondered what to do with the spare shoelace, the cell leader rose and stared over at him, giving Marsh a blank smile. This was Gator, or as Marsh privately referred to him — the Gatorous One — and, though quiet and clearly slow, he did have a look of danger about him. Marsh guessed he was probably one of the vest-wearing types. A pawn. As expendable as a long piss. Marsh guffawed aloud, breaking eye contact with the Gatorous One at just the right moment.
Zoe followed in his footsteps, taking a look out the window.
“Nothing to see,” Marsh said. “Lest you enjoy scrutinizing humanity’s lice.”
“Oh, at times they can be amusing.”
Marsh looked around for his hat, the one he liked to wear canted at an angle. Of course, it had disappeared, maybe even before he reached New York. The last week had become a complete blur to him. Gator walked over and asked politely if there was anything he required.
“At the moment, no. But I will be calling them soon with details for the money transfer.”
“You will?”
“Yes. Didn’t I provide you people with an itinerary?” The question was rhetorical.
“Oh, that piece of crap. I have been using it as a fly swatter.”
Marsh might be eccentric, crazy and driven by blood-lust, but a shallower part of him was also clever, calculating and entirely switched on. This was how he survived so well, how he made it through the Mexican tunnels. In a moment he realized he’d gauged Gator and the situation all wrong. He wasn’t in charge here — they were.