“It will be traced to you,” she said.
“Gold bullion won’t. You’re going to get some more.”
Nolan glanced at Russell. “Is he alive?”
Russell nodded.
Relief washed over Nolan’s face. She put a hand on the wall and rose unsteadily. When she was upright, Harcourt waved to the stairs with the gun.
“Move,” he said. He turned his weapon on Russell. He was going to kill her.
Her heart began racing, and the chills that were racking her body actually stopped for a moment as the adrenaline in her system overrode everything else. She looked up and spotted a security camera high above his head and behind him.
“There’s a camera. You shoot me here and the whole world will see it.”
He glanced back at it. “Dream on. That camera’s not working. MTA’s security team is way behind schedule and overbudget. I should know. As special liaison to the NYPD, it’s my job to know where the security weaknesses are. I know a lot.”
He smirked at her and aimed at her heart. She scrambled for another excuse to stop him from shooting.
“Smith knows that I wasn’t shot. They find a bullet in me, they’ll trace it to you,” Russell said.
“Say goodnight,” he said. She heard the noise of a siren, coming fast. Or maybe it was the roaring of her own ears as the blood rushed to her head. The light dimmed and she battled against passing out. The blackness deepened, and she thought with relief that at least she wouldn’t see the bullet coming.
Harcourt shot her, point blank.
It was the second hit the vest had taken, and she could feel the punch but also heard the vest shred with the impact. She flew back and her head hit the ground. A wet liquid started at her shoulder and spread across her chest. Blood, she thought. The vest must have allowed the bullet through. She lay on the cold stone. Harcourt was hauling Nolan up the stairs when he looked back and aimed again at Russell. He’s going to finish me off, she thought.
She heard a noise on the platform behind her and looked over to see Howell, his face covered in oozing blisters and the skin around his eyes bulging. He swayed a bit as he aimed a weapon at Harcourt. He fired. Harcourt winced as bits of the wall near his face broke off and sprayed him. He turned and hustled up the stairs, dragging Nolan with him. Howell fired again, but the only visible part of Harcourt was the back of his legs. The shot didn’t land.
“Russell, are you alive? I can’t see,” Howell said. Russell nodded and then realized that Howell probably couldn’t see the motion. She tried to formulate a thank-you, but she couldn’t get her lips to move. Howell took a step nearer to her and then dropped to his knees. “Smith said it would be bad, but I’m afraid he underestimated it.”
Howell slowly slumped to the ground.
The rushing noise filled her ears and she floated in the space between full awareness and unconsciousness. She wasn’t sure how long she hovered in that state before she felt a warm, live human arm wrap itself around her shoulders and pull her to her feet. She opened her eyes again, expecting to see black, but was rewarded with a view of Smith’s face as he lifted her off the cement. He looked like hell and she wanted to tell him that and about Harcourt and Nolan, but her voice failed to function. Or maybe it did function and she just didn’t hear it, because he said, “You don’t look so good yourself.”
“You’re right. Harcourt’s the mole,” she said.
“Can you walk?”
She was too tired to respond. She started walking. Each step required her entire concentration. She leaned on Smith’s arm and kept moving.
“I’m going to get you into a car, and Agent Brand is going to get you to a hospital.”
She shook her head but couldn’t tell if he noticed, so she stopped to get his attention.
“Howell.”
Smith nodded. “I saw him. Klein’s arranging to quietly remove him from the platform and get him to a hospital. Which is where you’re going as well.”
“No hospitals. I could have contracted the mutant virus and this illness could be the flu starting all over again. I could be contagious. Take me someplace where I can be alone.”
He frowned. “You need a hospital. They can quarantine you.”
“No,” she said. “Did that already. It’s not safe.”
“Yes,” he replied. “I’ll get someone to guard you.”
“Take me where I can be alone. Or let this Brand person take me. But go after Harcourt. Now. He’s the mole and he has Nolan.” Smith’s face took on a vicious look, which was not a word she would normally have applied to him. Russell stumbled against his side and spotted a gun stuck in his waistband. “Do you have another weapon I can use? I hate being unarmed.”
“Brand may have one in the car.”
They were at the stairs, and Russell directed her attention to climbing them. As she rose, the air became fresher and she inhaled. At the top of the exit, Smith pulled her toward a large, unmarked sedan. Brand stepped out.
“This is Agent Brand of the FBI,” Smith said.
“The guitar man,” Russell said.
Brand smiled. “Yes.”
“I could be contagious,” Russell said.
Brand nodded. “I know.”
She looked at Smith. “You could be too.”
“If I find Harcourt, I’ll be sure to spit on him,” Smith said.
“He said he’s going to force her to get some gold bullion. I don’t know where or how.” Smith lowered her to the sidewalk, then turned to Brand.
“If they’re getting gold bullion, then I know where they’re headed. I’ll need a car to get there.”
Brand waved at the sedan. “Take it. I’ll help Ms. Russell.”
Russell fought the waves of nausea as she waited for the ambulance. Then the blinking lights returned and she passed out.
54
Smith kept the lights and sirens going as he barreled uptown. He used the car radio and asked for backup for a possible kidnapping at the pawn shop. The response he received heartened him.
“We already have officers at the scene.”
“You do?” Smith said. Perhaps Bilal’s security system had clocked Dattar and Harcourt, and Bilal had called for help.
“Thank you for your report,” the dispatcher said. She clicked off.
Sweat poured into his eyes and he wiped it away. His lids started to itch and he rubbed them lightly. Then his arms followed suit and he ran his nails up and down his bare skin. The gas was starting to do its work.
Ten minutes later he shut down the siren, removed the strobe from the dash and switched off the headlights. He coasted into a spot at the curb and killed the engine. Smith watched a bum stagger down the sidewalk, and cars drove by, but little else moved on the street. The lights in the predominately business block were dark and the stores’ doors were barred and locked. The pawn shop’s neon signs, though, still flashed, and a light glowed through the one window that was still glass, though it was glass block rather than a pane. Bilal’s solar panels were still working, pumping electricity, Smith thought. Bilal was taking no risks with his gold stash.
All of the other windows in the building had been replaced with metal sheets and overlaid with metal. The glass block corresponded to where Smith thought Bilal’s office had been. Smith crawled out of the car, holding his gun down where it wouldn’t be seen. He hitched up his collar and did his best to move slowly. Brand had given him some standard uniform pants and a man’s white undershirt with a dark uniform shirt to wear over it. Smith did up the buttons, hoping to blend better into the darkness. He moved closer to the building, approaching with as little noise as possible.
One lone police cruiser was parked in front, confirming what the dispatcher had said, but Smith thought it was a pathetic response in light of the potential capture of an international terrorist. He stepped into an empty doorway and called Klein.