Текст книги "Gideon’s Sword"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

65

He turned his attention to the exposed wall of boxes. Down here in the trench, he was safe from fire – and Mindy, he hoped, was in position in the trees, ready to take down Nodding Crane if he tried to advance over the field. Nevertheless, there was no time to waste. He pulled off the goggles, stuffed them in his backpack, donned a headlamp, and switched it on. A wall of pine boxes greeted his eye, ten boxes high and five wide. Once fresh, the little coffins were already streaked with mud. Lightning split the sky and the rain continued to pour down. The stench was almost unbearable: it reminded Gideon of a combination of rotting meat, dirty socks, and liquid cheese.

He examined the numbers of the top row: 695-1078 MSH, 695-1077 SLHD, 695-1076 BGH. He thought: 1076 minus 998 equals 78.So Wu’s legs would be seventy-eight boxes back. A quick glance told him the number he was looking for wasn’t in the exposed row of boxes. He yanked a pickax out of his pack and swung it at a box at the bottom of the row, piercing it with the point. Prying the box from the wall, he caused the entire row to come toppling down with a crash, many of the boxes breaking open, decaying arms and legs flying everywhere, tags fluttering. The stench rose up like a wet fog.

The collapse of the front row exposed the next wall of coffins. He examined them with the light but most were covered with mud, the numbers obscured. He began wiping them off, one at a time, and examining the numbers.

As he worked, he suddenly heard an ominous sound: the second backhoe firing up. That was when he realized his mistake: he had left the keys in the other machine.

A roar told him the backhoe was out of the garage and coming down the field at full speed.

He put on the goggles and scrambled back up to the lip of the trench. The second backhoe was approaching, mud flying, wheels churning, bucket raised like the stinger of a scorpion. Nodding Crane had positioned the loader in front as a shield, using it just as Gideon had.

He had perhaps a minute before it arrived.

There was only one thing to do. Grasping a root at the edge of the trench, Gideon pulled himself out and scrambled into his own backhoe, still idling nearby. A volley of bullets tore through the cab as he lowered the loader, protecting him but blinding him at the same time.

He adjusted the loader so he could just see the top edge and then headed directly for the other backhoe, throttle shoved in forward, twenty tons of steel lumbering down the muddy field. He jammed his backpack on the accelerator, keeping it floored, so he could stand up and lean out with his Beretta, squeezing off a few shots. But his shots weren’t accurate and the rounds clanged harmlessly off the shovel of the approaching Cat. They were closing fast on a collision course, each moving twenty miles an hour. Nodding Crane returned fire with his more accurate weapon, sending Gideon scrambling back for cover.

They were now fifteen, maybe twenty seconds from collision. Gideon braced himself for the impact, frantically buckling himself in, his mind calculating a hundred possible responses to follow.

The collision came with a tremendous jolt, a deafening clash of steel against steel, throwing him forward, buckling his cab and shattering the already-holed windshield. He instantly threw the machine into reverse, backing and turning frantically as he fingered the joystick controller. Nodding Crane was doing the same with his backhoe, the wheels churning as he maneuvered into position.

Gideon extended the boom and, wielding the backhoe bucket like a club, pivoted it sideways at the other machine’s cab; the quarter-ton piece of steel swung around with a whine of hydraulics. But Nodding Crane anticipated the move, raising his own backhoe to block it, and the two booms struck each other with a violent, deafening crash.

The blow knocked Gideon’s backhoe sideways, spraying hydraulic fluid, and almost immediately a fusillade of shots tore through his cab. One struck the Kevlar vest that covered his chest, kicking him back, knocking his wind out.

Gasping for breath, struggling with the controls, Gideon saw the blow had by chance rotated his machine back into a striking position; he raised the bucket and brought it down hard on the other machine’s cab; but again the assassin saw it coming and lurched forward, striking Gideon’s machine with his own loader and tipping him back. Gideon’s bucket glanced off the corner of the cab with a spray of sparks and he frantically worked the controls, throwing out the stabilizers, trying to keep his backhoe from tipping over.

Nodding Crane raised his loader higher, readying it for a violent blow. As he did so he exposed himself. Gideon dropped the controls and, firing with both hands, emptied the Beretta into Nodding Crane’s cab, the rounds blowing out the glass windows and turning the interior into a flurry of broken plastic. But Nodding Crane had dropped to the floor, behind the protection of the lowered loader, an angle Gideon couldn’t target.

Seizing the controls again, Gideon jammed the accelerator forward, ramming the other machine while raising the backhoe to smash the other’s cab. Nodding Crane blocked the move by raising his loader, and they clashed with a shower of sparks. At the same time, he extended his bucket high on its boom, then brought it down on Gideon’s cab with a terrific crunch, half-collapsing the cab in a burst of crackling metal and plastic, sprung wires and insulation.

Gideon threw himself to the floor, avoiding being pulverized at the very last moment. But his backhoe was now useless, the seat crushed, the controls gone. And he could hear Nodding Crane lifting his bucket for another massive blow. He had to get out.

He threw himself against the buckled door. It wouldn’t open.

Nodding Crane’s bucket came down with another shuddering crash, almost trapping Gideon in the wreckage, but when it lifted a tooth caught on part of the frame and tore open a hole in the tangled cab. Seeing his chance, Gideon dove through the hole, simultaneously pulling out the Taurus and firing up at Nodding Crane. He landed in the muck, rolled. Nodding Crane raised the bucket again, obviously intending to crush him like a bug. Gideon struggled to his feet and ran for the cover of the trench, fifty yards away.

A flurry of shots kicked up the mud around him and one slammed into his Kevlar-covered back, knocking him down. He wallowed in the muck, unable to rise, pain ripping through him. He could see more shots walking along the ground, sweeping toward him, and then he heard the roar of the backhoe as it bore down on him, full speed. He would never make the cover of the trench…

…And then he heard a distant pop pop popfrom the trees and the clang of bullets on metal. Mindy. The shots drew Nodding Crane’s fire away, forcing him to halt the backhoe and turn it to cover himself. Gideon seized the opportunity to struggle to his feet and stagger toward the trench, diving in.

He turned and started firing from the lip of the trench, raking Nodding Crane. Magazine empty, he reloaded with trembling hands and slammed it back into place, maintaining a steady fire.

The crossfire hemmed in Nodding Crane. He swung the loader around, trying to use it as a shield, but was unable to effectively block fire from two directions as the rounds tore through his cab. He backed the machine with a furious diesel roar, retreating across the field, moving out of handgun range. Gideon stopped firing and used the moment to once again reload the Beretta. As he did so he saw Mindy’s dark figure come running across the field, firing while she ran. He emptied his magazine, covering her, and a moment later she leapt into the trench as more gunfire erupted from the far end of the field.

“You’re supposed to stay in the trees!” he yelled over the storm.

“You need covering fire while you find the leg.”

Gideon realized she was right.

She positioned herself at the lip, firing steadily, the return fire kicking dirt off the edge of the trench or slamming into the walls of the trench behind them. Gideon quickly turned back to the wall of boxes, shining his light on each one in turn, frantically wiping off the mud. And there it was, halfway down: 695–998 MSH.

“Got it!” he exclaimed.

“Hurry!” Mindy kept firing from the edge of the trench.

He frantically pulled the covering boxes down, throwing them to one side, until he had exposed the right one. Grasping it by the edges, he hauled it free. Both his chest and back throbbed violently at the effort: the shots had broken a rib, maybe two. Raising the pickax, he swung it full-force into the lid, splitting it. With another fierce motion he ripped the pieces away and then probed inside with his light.

“Son of a bitch!” he cried. “It’s an arm!”

66

Gideon grabbed the tab tied to one finger, read off the patient data. MUKULSKI, ANNA, ST. LUKE’S DOWNTOWN 659346C-41. These bastards mixed up the body parts!” he cried.

“Keep looking!” Mindy yelled back.

She ducked as more bullets raked the lip of the trench, showering them both with mud.

Gideon surveyed the jumble of boxes, chose one at random, swung his pick at it and ripped off the lid, spilling out what appeared to be a diseased lung. Kicking it aside, he attacked another box, then another, ripping open the lids, ignoring all but the legs and reading the tags on those. Many of the boxes had broken open in the confusion and he sorted through the piles of body parts and less recognizable organs, checking the tags and putting the rejects aside. They had been days, even weeks, in the warm summer ground, and most of them were rotting, soft, bloated.

“He’s returning with the backhoe,” Mindy said.

“Keep him at bay!” Gideon pushed the discarded offal to one side of the trench and with his pick toppled another series of boxes, ripping off their lids. More arms and legs tumbled out, a veritable charnel pit.

“Sorry, guys,” he muttered under his breath.

“He’s coming! I can’t stop him – he’s got his loader up!”

“Find me time!” Frantically, Gideon sorted through the limbs, reading the tags, shoving the discards aside. And then, there they were: two legs, almost completely crushed, in the same box with a tag that read: WU, MARK. SINAI 659347A-44.

“Got it!” He hauled the left leg out of the box, laid it on a plank of wood. It was so rotten, it separated at the knee. But it was the thigh he needed. He yanked the box cutter out of his backpack and pulled out the X-rays. Laying his flashlight down, he held up the X-rays, compared them with the leg, identifying the place to cut.

“For God’s sake, hurry! He’s dropped his loader and he’s pushing a wall of dirt toward us! I can’t fire through it!”

Gideon drew a deep breath. Then he sank the cutter into the flesh and drew a long line; retracted the scalpel; drew another parallel line a centimeter away; then another. The wire was just beneath the surface, but the leg was so mangled, so rotten, and so full of debris from the accident that it was hard to identify the correct place to cut.

“Hurry!” Mindy screamed.

He could hear the roar of the backhoe approaching, the deep vibration in the ground.

Another long cut, this one at a ninety-degree angle.

“Oh my God!” She was firing almost continuously. The roar was almost on top of them.

The scalpel was deflected by something. Gideon reached in with his fingers, grasped it, drew it out: a heavy piece of wire, bent in a U shape, about a centimeter long.

“Got it!” He shoved it in his pocket.

But the roar was now on top of them. An enormous pile of dirt, mingled with bones, crashed down on them like a tidal wave, knocking Gideon to the ground and burying Mindy. Her scream was abruptly cut off as blackness rose to meet him…

Gideon swam back into consciousness buried almost up to his chest, pinned in a mess of muck and water. He could feel his broken ribs grinding against each other. He shook the dirt away from his head, sucked in air, tried to pull himself out.

A heavy boot came down slowly on his neck, pressing him into the mud. “Not so fast, my friend,” came the cool, accentless voice. “Give me the wire.”

Gideon lay there, breathing hard. “Help her. She’s buried—”

The boot jammed his neck and the voice said, “Don’t worry about her. Worry about yourself.”

“She’s suffocating!”

Nodding Crane dangled the tag from Wu’s leg in front of him. “I know you have the wire. Give it to me.” A hand searched his shirt pocket, pushing away dirt. Feeling through the dirt, the hand located the Beretta and the Taurus. The box cutter came next.

“Let me up, for God’s sake!”

The boot came off his neck and Nodding Crane stepped back, night-vision goggles swinging around his neck. “Get yourself out. Slowly.”

Gideon tried to crawl out from under the dirt. “The shovel,” he gasped.

Nodding Crane picked up Gideon’s shovel and tossed it over.

Frantically, Gideon shoveled away the dirt, wincing with pain. Finally he got enough of the weight from his lower body to allow himself the use of his legs. He shook off the dirt and dragged himself free. Rising to his feet, he took a shuddering breath, then immediately attacked the slide of dirt that had buried Mindy.

“The wire,” Nodding Crane said, jamming his gun—​a TEC-9—​against Gideon’s head.

“For God’s sake, we’ve got to dig her out!”

“You’re a fool.” Nodding Crane struck him a lashing blow across the head with the butt of his gun, wrenched the shovel from his hand, and screwed the barrel of the TEC-9 into his ear. “The wire.”

“Fuck you.”

“I will take it from your dead body, then.” He gave the warm muzzle of the pistol another screw into Gideon’s ear and whispered, “Good-bye.”

67

Manuel Garza, dressed in a frayed Department of Sanitation uniform he’d appropriated from the vast wardrobes of EES, walked along the bicycle path that circled the north end of Meadow Lake. In the distance, he could hear the hum of the Van Wyck Expressway. It was past eleven; the joggers, bikers, and mothers with strollers had gone home hours ago, and the sloops on the lake were tied in their berths.

With the retractable trash spear he held in one hand, he jabbed at a stray piece of rubbish and stuck it into the plastic bag hanging from his utility belt. Cover like this had been much easier back in the 1980s, when New York had been a filthy place. These days, with the city squeaky-clean, park sanitation crews weren’t nearly as invisible as they had once been. He considered that EES should brainstorm some new covers: commuters, maybe, or homeless persons, or marathon trainers.

He speared another piece of trash, his expression darkening. The thought of EES brought Eli Glinn back to his mind. No matter how long he worked for the guy, Garza had never understood him. Every time Garza thought that age had mellowed the man, or a particularly onerous op had reformed him, Eli Glinn went and proved him wrong. You could just never predict what he’d do – or wouldn’t do. Like that time in Lithuania, when he’d threatened to detonate the nuclear device because the client refused to make final payment. He hadn’t been kidding, either, he’d actually started the arming sequence before the client capitulated. Or that fateful expedition in Tierra del Fuego, when they were under pursuit and Glinn had blown up an iceberg to…

He shook that particular memory from his mind and turned away from the lake, heading back to the electric Parks Department cart that sat nearby. Just this morning, after the encounter on the subway train, Glinn had refused Garza’s request that they assign several teams to shadow Crew during the final stage of his mission. Glinn listened carefully, then simply shook his head. “We’re not doing that,” he’d said.

We’re not doing that.Garza rolled his eyes. A typical Glinn answer, containing no reasons, no explanation. Just fiat.

He eased himself into the cart, put the trash spear away, and unlocked a metal equipment locker bolted into one wall of the vehicle. He made a quick visual inventory of the contents: nine-millimeter Glock with silencer, sawed-off shotgun, taser, police radio, night-vision goggles, emergency paramedic kit, half a dozen federal, state, and local ID badges in assorted sizes. Satisfied, he closed the locker, then eased the cart north, toward the Queens Museum of Art.

Glinn had nixed assigning teams to Gideon Crew. So Garza had come here on his own initiative. This was a critical mission, a world-altering mission. There was no way Garza was going to let Crew go it alone – especially when somebody as dangerous as Nodding Crane was involved.

The Unisphere, Crew had said. Garza could see it ahead in the distance: a huge, gleaming silver globe, fringed at its base by fountains, on the far side of the Long Island Expressway. The problem was, Crew hadn’t said whether they were meeting right atthe Unisphere, or just somewhere in the general vicinity. The fact that the damn thing was located smack in the middle of Flushing Meadows Corona Park—​the second largest park in New York City—​didn’t make Garza’s job any easier. If it had been up to him, he’d have had police, real and imitation; EMS workers, public and private; snipers, fire-suppression teams, hijacking specialists, getaway drivers, journalist interdictors, and a partridge and a pear tree, all fanned out through the park in carefully assigned locations. As it was, he was alone and had his work cut out for him.

It had made absolutely no sense right from the get-go. Why assign such an important mission to someone like Crew: untested, unproven? Glinn could have selected any number of operatives who had proven themselves under fire. It just wasn’t right to pick a screwup like Crew, someone who hadn’t made his bones, who hadn’t started small, worked his way up through the ranks – the way that, say, Garza himself had. Gideon Crew was impulsive; he operated on anger and adrenaline more than steely-eyed caution. Garza was a pretty levelheaded guy, but the very thought made irritation bubble up in him like so much acid.

He glanced at his watch again: eleven thirty. Ahead, the Unisphere glowed against the night sky like a streaking meteor. Not much time – he’d do one last reconnoiter, then pick the optimal spot from which to monitor the unfolding situation. He pointed the cart toward the vast globe and pushed down hard on the accelerator.

68

Gideon knew he was going to die but felt absolutely nothing. At least this way would be quicker and less painful.

There was a sudden yell and a fusillade of shots. Turning toward the sound, Gideon saw a monstrous apparition—​a form covered in mud—​erupting from the slide of dirt, firing and screaming like a banshee. Nodding Crane was punched violently back by the bullets. He sprayed return fire wildly as he went down.

“I’m out of ammo!” she screamed, tossing the rifle aside and scrabbling in the muck for her handgun.

Gideon fell on Nodding Crane, grasping the man’s gun and trying to wrench it from his hands, hoping he was dead. But he was not – it seemed he, too, had body protection. The two wallowed in the muck, locked in a struggle for the TEC-9. But Nodding Crane was incredibly strong and he threw Gideon off, bringing his weapon up.

Mindy swung in with a board, attempting to slam it against Nodding Crane’s head, but the assassin pirouetted away, deflecting the blow with his shoulder and raising his weapon unsteadily.

Gideon staggered back, realizing they had only one option now: to get away. “Out!” he cried.

Mindy leapt over the lip of the trench as Gideon followed. Another burst came from the TEC-9, but they were already racing across the field in the blackness of the storm and the rounds went wild.

For a moment the sky was split by an immense blast of lightning, followed by the roar of thunder.

“Bastard’s reloading,” Mindy gasped as they ran, reaching the line of trees as a fresh burst of fire ripped through the leaves around them, spraying them with vegetation. They crashed through the undergrowth, running until they could run no more.

“Your weapon?” Gideon gasped.

“Lost it. Got my backup.” She pulled out a military-issue Colt .45. “The wire?”

“In my pocket.”

“We’ve got to keep moving.” She turned and headed south at a jog, Gideon following, pushing away the pain as best he could. He had lost his night-vision goggles and flashlight in the fight, and they were moving in pitch black, blundering through the woods, thrashing aside heavy brush and brambles. He had no doubt Nodding Crane was following.

“This isn’t going to work,” gasped Gideon. “He’s got night vision. We need to get out in the open where we can see.”

“Right,” said Mindy.

“Follow me.” Recalling the map, Gideon headed due east. The woods thinned and they passed through another field of bones, their feet crunching over skulls half-hidden under the leaves, and emerged at a broad, overgrown road with long, low buildings along one side: the boys’ workhouse complex. There was just enough light coming from the southern sky – the lights of New York City – for them to see. Gideon broke into a run and Mindy did the same.

“Where’s the boat?” she gasped.

“Near the beach by the smokestack,” he said.

A sudden burst of fire came at them from behind, and Gideon instinctively threw himself down. Mindy landed beside him, rolled, returned fire with the .45. There was a sharp scream, then silence.

“I got him!” she said.

“I doubt it. He’s a wily bastard.”

Scrambling to their feet again, they ran for the ruined dormitories, leaping over a shattered doorway. Gideon kept going, running almost blind through one ruined room after another, tripping over mangled bed frames and broken plaster. Coming out the far end, he took a sudden turn into the ruined chapel, ran its length, leapt out the broken rose window at the end, then doubled back.

“What are we doing?” Mindy called softly from behind. “You said the boat was the other way—”

“ Randomis what we’re doing. We need to lose him, go to ground.”

Gasping, ribs on fire, he led the way through a dense stand of woods toward the opposite shore, moving more slowly now, trying to be as silent as possible. The trees thinned and they stepped out onto the overgrown baseball field he had seen earlier, bleachers covered with vines and trees, the diamond having vanished under a riot of weeds and saplings.

They pushed through the field. Gideon stopped and listened. The wind howled, the rain came down in stinging sheets – it was impossible to hear.

“I’m pretty sure we lost him,” Mindy whispered, digging rounds out of her pocket and reloading. She nodded at the bleachers. “That looks like a good place.”

Gideon nodded. On their hands and knees, they crawled under the old bleachers. They were covered with a heavy mat of vegetation; within, it was like a cave. The rain drummed on the metal seats above.

“He’ll never find us here,” she said.

Gideon shook his head. “He’ll eventually find us anywhere. We’ll wait for a bit, then make a dash for the boat. It’s not that far.”

He listened. Over the roar of the storm he could hear the sound of the surf in the distance.

“I think I really did hit him back there.”

Gideon didn’t answer, thinking instead of the route they now had to take to get to the boat. He had no confidence that Nodding Crane had been hit – or that they’d shaken him.

“You don’t have a light or the map?” he asked.

“Everything was in my pack. All I saved was the gun.”

“How did you get out of the dirt?”

“It was loose and I wasn’t far under the surface. You shoveled off most of the weight. Give me the wire.”

“For God’s sake,” he hissed, “we’ll deal with that later.”

The gun came around and pointed at him. Mindy rose slowly, taking a step back. “I said, give me the wire.”

For a moment, Gideon’s mind went black as he stared at the gun. And then he recalled Nodding Crane’s comment. You’re a fool.It had seemed like a random insult at the time. But now, too late, he realized that nothing Nodding Crane said or did was random.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“Just give me the wire.”

“Who are you? You’re not CIA.”

“I was. They didn’t pay worth shit.”

“So you’re freelance.”

She smiled. “Sort of. I’m doing this particular job for OPEC.”

“OPEC?”

“Yeah. And I’m sure you’re smart enough to figure out where OPEC comes in.”

“No,” he said, buying time.

“What do you think that piece of wire would do to their business? You could kiss the petroleum market good-bye. Along with the gas-powered car. So give me the wire, big boy. I really don’t want to kill you, Gideon, but I will if you don’t do what I say.”

“So how much are they paying you?”

“Ten million.”

“You sold yourself short.” He thought back to Hong Kong, how she’d just happened to have a diplomatic embosser in her bag. That alone should have made him suspicious. He recalled how she always seemed to be working alone, no backup, no partner. Very un-CIA.

Nodding Crane was right – he’d been a fool.

She stuck out her hand. Of course, she might kill him anyway. But maybe, just maybe, the memory of their time together would stop her…He reached into his pocket and handed her the wire.

“That’s a good boy.” Still covering him, she held it up, scrutinizing it. Then she balled it in her fist and took fresh aim.

“Wow,” she said. “I’m really sorry to do this.”

And Gideon realized she meant it: she truly was sorry. But she was going to do it anyway.

He closed his eyes.