Текст книги "88 Killer"
Автор книги: Oliver Stark
Соавторы: Oliver Stark
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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 28 страниц)
Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen
Crown Heights, Brooklyn
March 15, 11.02 a.m.
Harper made a judgment. Crown Heights had the largest number of synagogues in the area. He picked up Denise from the hospital. He needed someone with knowledge of Brooklyn. They drove towards the first on his list. He stopped and got out of his car, stretched his neck to get a good look up and down the street. Denise got out beside him.
‘Anything?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said Harper. ‘Let’s try the next.’
Harper saw a huge flock of starlings rise in a single movement from the rooftops. He looked up. It was a moment, that was all. He didn’t have time to wonder. A second later, a massive explosion ripped through the morning air with a horrifying shriek of violence. In a heartbeat, the world had changed once again.
At the shock of the explosion, Harper dived. His knees bent, and almost instantly as the first soundwave rushed by, he darted towards Denise with an outstretched arm, using his body to shield her. His mind was still taking in the noise, his body in adrenalin production, as he held Denise close to his chest. Time slowed. The blast lasted under a second, but the soundwave continued, lessening, widening like a gunshot disappearing over a plain, ricocheting off tall buildings.
A second after the blast, the treetops rushed with sudden air. Then the air was still.
And for a fragment of a second, it was so quiet. Maybe it was longer. It seemed longer. The silence seemed to hang in the air. Then someone took off the pause button and the scene burst to life with the shriek of car alarms and children crying.
Harper and Denise stood up. The blast had been close. Close enough for them to feel the shockwaves. Close enough for them to hear the raw burst of force and pressure. Maybe half a mile away, or less.
They watched a plume of black and gray smoke rise above the rooftops.
Harper’s ears rang and he saw the people all around dash into huddled groups. Taking Denise by the hand, Harper raced back to his car. ‘Get in,’ he shouted. They pulled away, turned and drove towards the center of the explosion.
Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen
Crown Heights, Brooklyn
March 15, 11.18 a.m.
Harper and Denise abandoned their car a street away. The traffic was too bad. Hundreds of cars packed tight. They got out and ran hard towards the scene. There was no telling what the bomb had done or how many were injured. The priority for the team was to get the injured out of there and to secure the scene. His priority had to be to stop Jack Carney.
Harper moved through the crowds at the end of the street. He slowed as he came across the scene. A gray New York street spread out from the center-point of chaos. Scattered, twisted, smoking metal. The wasted hulk of an exhumed truck, quietly breathing gray-black smoke. The spread of debris. Dazed victims, some staggering at the edges of the blast, some moving on the ground, others still. The whole front wall of the museum blasted to pieces. Carney hadn’t targeted the empty synagogue but a museum full of people. What’s more, like some final insult, he’d chosen Aaron Goldenberg’s workplace. Harper’s mind raced.
He stared at the devastation in a civilian street. Blood on concrete. Torn clothes. Papers and shoes. Body parts against fast-food wraps. The pressure wave had been enough to crush the closer victims. Their bodies were hit by an impenetrable wall of high pressure and had been thrown against the buildings. Further out, the shrapnel had caused carnage. The mix of bright red blood and black soot was smudged across the entire frontage of the museum.
Harper made for the makeshift Incident Command. He scanned the scene quickly.
There was no one in the bomb zone except the essential medical services and the Bomb Squad. There were two Bomb Squad detectives in big green EOD 8 Bomb Suits, fifty layers of Kevlar shielding them from any potential explosion. Thank God that they’d put the city on red alert. Every team had been up and mobile. The response time was astonishing and it meant that lives were being saved. The bomb crew were on all fours looking under cars along the street with a mirror.
A great phalanx of injured bodies lay at the entrance of the Museum of Tolerance. It was the epicenter.
‘There’s too many. Far too many bodies,’ said Harper.
Denise was in shock. She turned. ‘What?’
‘Something’s wrong. A street scene at this time wouldn’t have been this busy.’
Harper watched for a moment as the paramedics continued the pre-hospital triage – a hell of a thing to be doing in a New York street: tagging each of the wounded red, amber or green depending on how long they’d live. The red-tags were already being moved to the ambulances. Amber and greens would have to wait in the street in horrible agony.
As soon as Harper and Levene entered Incident Command, they spotted Sergeant Luce Colhoon, who called them across.
‘Just got here,’ Harper said. ‘You have anything on the bomber?’
‘Listen, we’ve got emergency services taking care of the wounded. Three dead already in ambulances. We got the utilities on it – there’s a burst gas main somewhere down the street, but they’ve closed off the gas already. I’ve got no idea about the bomber. What we got to know, Detective, is this: what the hell happened?’
‘You speak to any witnesses?’
‘Nobody who can hear me. They’re all deaf.’
Harper went back to the street. He looked again at the mass of bodies outside the museum, and then across the street. Debris, smashed car glass. Walls full of shot. Dazed and wounded people sitting where they could, receiving treatment. The ground scattered with nails. A sickeningly barbaric device aimed at maiming the maximum number of people.
But there were too many dead and wounded. That’s what he saw again. Normally at this time, the street would’ve maybe had a dozen or so people on the sidewalks, but this looked like someone had let off a bomb in a crowd.
Harper edged forward, mentally totting up the numbers. He put his hand on the shoulder of a cop trying to clear a path for the paramedics.
‘You get anything from any witnesses?’
‘I don’t know. There was a guy on the second floor of the building opposite the museum who said he was watching the street. Saw a crowd streaming out of the museum – and then the blast shot his window out. He’s in one of the ambulances. Maybe he’s gone already.’
‘They were coming out of the museum before the bomb went off?’
‘That’s what the man said.’
Harper thought for a moment and looked up at the museum. There was a window out on the second floor. Not unusual given the scene, but it was the only one out. Maybe there had been a smaller blast first. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe someone had set off an alarm.
Harper pulled Denise across to the entrance and in through the shattered glass doors. Two security officers were helping set up a temporary hospital area in the foyer.
‘We got to find out what happened,’ Harper told Denise. ‘Talk to people.’
‘This is where Aaron Goldenberg works. I need to find him. He might be hurt.’
‘Okay, try to locate him,’ said Harper. He went up to a security guard. ‘Detective Harper. I need some information fast.’
‘Okay, sir, I’ll tell you what I can, but you gotta speak up.’ The guard tapped his ears by way of an explanation.
‘Okay. Listen, did something happen prior to the blast, anything you see from in here?’
‘Yeah, something, but I don’t know what it was. The fire alarm went off and people began to walk towards the exits, then this crowd started down the stairs from the upper floors, in a panic, caused everyone to stampede. We couldn’t stop them. They got out of the doors and then, BAM! The device went off.’
‘The alarm went off first? You sure? Sometimes it can get confusing.’
‘It went off first. That’s why the blast hit so many. Like they were running right into it.’
‘Can you show me where the alarm was set off?’
‘We didn’t get a chance to look. The control is in the back office. I’ll take you.’
The security guard took Harper inside the main office and through a back corridor to the security unit. It was empty. The security officer stood in front of a bank of lights. ‘It’s flashing in Area 8B, I got to look it up, give me a second.’ Harper gazed at the TV screens as the guard looked up the code. Two screens were blank, but the two screens on the outside of the building were still working.
‘8B is up on the second floor in the exhibition room.’
‘And these two cameras that are out?’
‘Shit, I didn’t see. Okay. Maybe something happened. They’re both from the exhibition room. Shit. That’s bad news. You don’t think someone’s set off something to…’
‘To what?’
‘To create a diversion and steal the artefacts?’
‘If that’s what’s going on, it’s the most fucked-up theft I ever heard of.’ Harper was already out the door, his Glock 19 firmly in his hand as he leaped up the stairs to the second floor. The security guard followed.
The second floor was quiet. Harper stopped. The big wooden doors at the end of the corridor were closed. He waited until the security guard caught up.
‘They should be open, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay, let’s take this nice and slow. We don’t know what’s going on.’
‘Nice and slow.’
Harper made his way down the marble corridor, his reflection perfect in the freshly polished floor. At the door, he stopped and sank to his knees. He put his eye to the large old-fashioned keyhole and stared for a moment. It was enough. He turned and pulled out his radio.
‘Sergeant Colhoon, it’s Detective Harper,’ he whispered. ‘I’m in the museum up on the second floor.’
‘So what have you got for me, Detective?’
‘This is worse than we thought. The first blast happened up here. We’ve got several casualties on the second floor. And you’re going to need to call a SWAT team. Maybe two. The bomber is in the building. And he’s got hostages.’
Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen
Museum of Tolerance, Brooklyn
March 15, 11.32 a.m.
The truck had been packed with explosives. Nothing ornate or fancy. Ammonium nitrate sitting loose in a flat box. Three bangers stuck in there and a can of fuel. All according to the instructions he’d been given. Carney had also thrown in a few bags of old nails he had no more use for.
The truck bomb had worked better than he’d expected. The fuse must’ve been just right. He’d had exactly the right amount of time to walk up to the second floor, set off a small incendiary device, start screaming, ‘Fire!’ all over the place, and then watch as the chaos ensued. All of them running as if to freedom, only to feel the heat of a bomb blast and a barrage of red-hot nails flaying their skin.
In the chaos, he shot out the two cameras on the second floor and then he shut the door to the exhibition room behind him. Those who hadn’t managed to escape stood there in front of him. Mindless sheep, unable to think or realize what was happening. He blocked the doorway. The crowd stopped.
‘What are you doing, man?’
‘There’s a fire in the stairwell. Smoke’s real bad. It’ll kill you.’
‘What do we do?’
‘There’s another stairway. Follow me.’
There were about twelve of them. Men, women, children. They turned from the exit and followed Carney down a corridor and into another exhibition room. When they were all in the room, Carney shut the door and pulled out Josef.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Making a point that needs making. Now all of you, sit the fuck down.’
The twelve hostages started to scream and panic. Carney shouted but the panic had set in. He pulled a man out of the crowd of wailing, crying people and pushed his Luger hard into the man’s cheek.
‘Shut the fuck up.’
Carney shot one round into the floor, then returned the gun to the man’s face.
‘What’s your name, Jew?’
‘Jeb Rosenbaum,’ the man said. Slowly, the group fell silent.
‘I’ll kill the children first, if you scream again.’
Jeb held his head in his hands. He was crying. Carney turned to him. ‘What are you crying for, Jeb? You’re the lucky one.’
He took Jeb by the elbow and pushed him against the opposite wall.
‘Why are you doing this? What do you want?’
‘I want people to know.’
‘What?’
‘Kneel.’
‘Please don’t kill me. I’ve got three children.’
‘It’s the breeders that are the worst. Fucking kneel!’ shouted Carney.
Jeb knelt and Carney took out a knife from his boot leg. He stood in front of him and stared.
‘You know what a scapegoat is, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know what you mean…’
‘Yes, you do. It’s the innocent goat sent away bearing the sins of its people.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘You will. Don’t you worry about that.’ Carney produced a roll of barbed wire from his backpack. He threw it down. ‘I’m going to wire you up, Jeb.’
The twelve stopped and stared. Carney stared back. He stepped up to the man and held up his gun. ‘You are not human. You are no longer human, you understand?’
Carney moved in with the barbed wire. He took Jeb and wrapped the wire three times around his neck.
Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen
Museum of Tolerance, Brooklyn
March 15, 11.37 a.m.
Harper sat with his back against the wooden door to the exhibition room. Inside, he’d seen Jack Carney clutching a Luger and pointing it at a group of hostages. He counted twelve: one of them was half-wrapped in barbed wire.
Harper looked through the big keyhole again. Carney was armed. His face and clothes were coated in a film of soot from the incendiary device. Harper watched in silence as Carney taped an explosive device around one of the hostages. Harper felt his breath shorten as he listened to the hostages pleading. They were terrified. Carney would be in no mood for negotiation. Harper could sense the tension in his voice. It was a bad sign. Carney clearly had a plan and he was going to stick to it.
Harper spoke low into his shortwave. ‘How long till SWAT get here?’
‘Three to four minutes. Keep it nice and quiet up there.’
‘I don’t think this guy intends to live. That makes him very dangerous.’
‘I’ll pass it on, Harper. Just sit tight.’
Harper tried to breathe deeply. Three to four minutes to get to the location. A minute to get out of the SWAT truck and a minute to get up to the second floor. Inside, a couple of the younger hostages were sobbing. In the background, further off, was the sound of crying and shouting. A scuffle, then silence. There was too much silence.
Harper looked again. Right in front of him was a man. He was about forty years old; three sticks of dynamite were now taped around his waist beside the detonation device. His face was blank. He had goose bumps all over his body.
Harper heard the killer walk up and down the room.
‘I just want the world to see you as you are. Rich bastard, aren’t you? I want you to crawl out of this place. I want to hear you bleat like a goat.’
Then what? Harper considered the plan. He looked at his watch. Time was too tight to call. If he waited for the SWAT team to get there, something might have happened, but if the killer was planning on getting his hostage to crawl out of the museum, he’d have a chance. Harper heard Carney’s voice barking commands.
‘Okay, all of you now get down on all fours.’
Harper leaned in and watched the killer orchestrating his delusions. Then he called into Command.
‘We’ve got a situation developing. He’s wiring the main hostage with explosive devices.’
‘They want to know the exact layout of the rooms, you got that information?’
‘Sure. But how long till we got some backup here?’
‘They’re caught in the fucking chaos. They’ve left the truck but they’ll be maybe another five minutes.’
‘I could take a shot.’
‘This is an order, Detective. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt a rescue.’
‘Okay. I’ll hold off.’
Inside the room, the terrified hostages were on their hands and knees. When the device blew, the explosion would savage them all.
Harper watched Carney stand back.
‘Look at you go. Terrified to die, my little goats?’ Carney wiped his mouth. Spit was forming on his lips. He looked tired. The adrenalin must have hit him in fits and starts – rising up and then falling like a wave.
Carney approached Jeb Rosenbaum.
‘You want to know what’s going to happen? You’re going to crawl out into the street.’
Carney laughed.
Jeb dared not look up. Carney took out a small black device that looked like a cell phone. He held it up.
‘You know what? I’m going to see how far you all get to. I shall let you go, just so long as you don’t squeal. But if they touch you, I press this number; it dials, connects to the little receiver next to that dynamite and what it will do, Jeb, what it will do… is explode.’
Jeb started to shake.
‘The idea is that it will rip your head clean off. Your head will go flying into the crowds. It’s up to you. You keep them off you, you’ll live. For a time. I want the TV crews to see you Jews as you should be seen.’
Harper listened and turned to the security guard. ‘If he gets that hostage into the street, that fucks up the whole idea of a rescue. Any other way into that room?’
The security guard pointed to the stairs. ‘You can get into it from the other side.’
Harper nodded. ‘Keep watching through the keyhole. Soon as you see me on the far side, knock three times on the door. He’ll look up and I’ll… well, I’ll do something.’ Harper stood and shot up the stairs.
The security guard waited in terrified silence. He didn’t hear someone coming up the stairs until she was right there. He turned and saw a blond-haired woman. ‘Who are you?’
‘Denise Levene. I’m with Harper. Where’s Dr Goldenberg?’
The security guard shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Harper’s gone round the other side.’
‘What’s his plan?’ asked Denise.
‘I don’t think he has one.’
Inside the foyer of the museum, Aaron Goldenberg stared down at the dead and injured. The cops had taken the worst to the ambulances. He saw one of his security guards lying on his back, a bloody bandage pressed to his shoulder. He approached the man and knelt at his side.
‘What happened, Bill?’ he said.
‘Dr Goldenberg. God, Dr Goldenberg. A bomb, that’s what happened.’
‘I know there was a bomb. The alarm went off in here. Why?’
‘They think he’s in here, the 88 Killer. The cops just went up. I’d like to go up with them. Some lady is looking for you, too. I sent her up to the exhibition room.’
‘The 88 Killer?’ said Dr Goldenberg.
‘Detective took the other guard. They went upstairs. Exhibition Room.’
Aaron Goldenberg let the pain emerge. He could think of just one thing. He reached down to the security guard’s side and opened the plastic holster.
‘What are you doing, sir?’
‘Shh,’ said Aaron. ‘He’s got my daughter.’ He pulled the gun out and held it in his hand. He looked at it. ‘How do I work it?’
‘You can’t do it, Dr Goldenberg. You got to leave it to the police.’
‘I have – for seventeen days. Now I’ve got to do something. He’s here. Where’s the safety?’
The guard nodded to the side of the gun. Aaron pushed down the small button. ‘This ready now?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the guard.
Aaron touched his cheek. ‘I took it without your knowledge. And thank you, Bill.’
Aaron Goldenberg stood, held the handgun by his side and walked across to the stairs.
Two floors up, Carney circled his hostages and continued to speak in a slow drawl. ‘The problem with you guys is that you think you have a right to own the fucking world. Everyone’s got to feel sorry for you. Who feels sorry for guys like me? Guys who want the world back, guys getting destroyed by your conspiracies.’
‘I don’t understand what that has to do with me.’
Carney looked up. ‘It’s because…’
Carney stopped a moment, the little black phone in his hand. His mind seemed to miss a beat, as if the usual connection wasn’t available and he didn’t know what else to say.
The hostage went on: ‘You know no one’s to blame here. We’re all just trying to make a living like you.’
The words dragged Carney back to life.
‘Like me? You don’t fucking know what being like me is. You people… you’ve bled us fucking dry. This is America.’
‘I’m American.’
‘That right? You can be American when it suits but you only care about your own kind.’
Aaron Goldenberg walked up the stairs through broken glass. His heart had been walking through broken glass for days.
The 88 Killer. The man who had his daughter, Abby – who had her imprisoned somewhere – was in his building. He reached the first floor and then started up to the second. He wanted his daughter. He wanted revenge. The purpose focused him.
‘Abby,’ he said to himself. ‘Abby, Abby, Abby.’ In his heart, he felt she was dead. That was all he’d learned to expect, that there was only worse to come – a broken, beaten corpse, his daughter’s magnificent life reduced to nothing. Tears were streaming down his face, a burning agony in his chest. He had never known feelings like these. Suicides and murders hadn’t ever come within his world, but now his purpose was clear. He could not live without his daughter. He would not live without her. Not another day.
He would not walk alone on earth without love. And the killer would not walk on the earth another day either. Let this be the end.
He knew what he had to do.
Inside the exhibition room, Carney stood up. ‘They’re here. Time to take you all for a walk.’
He took the cell phone and brought up the number of the receiver hanging around Jeb’s neck.
‘Time to go, goat-boy. Crawl forward.’
Carney moved to the door and pulled it wide open.
The security guard and Denise Levene stared in horror at the hostages on their hands and knees.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Carney demanded.
‘Security.’
Carney laughed. ‘Fuck you.’ He pulled out his gun and shot the security guard without a thought. The gunshot reverberated throughout the building. Denise felt a wave of shock and nausea. She stepped backwards.
Carney stood at the entrance to the exhibition room. ‘Ah, Dr Levene – you made it.’
‘I understand you, Jack,’ she said, trying to hide the tremble in her voice. ‘You need help. We can get you help. This isn’t the end of the line. There’s a way out here.’
‘What do you mean? This is it. The media is all run by Jews. No one tells the truth, that’s why I’ve got to splash the truth all over the front page.’
‘Is that why you’re doing this, for attention?’
‘American soldiers die every day, we report that, but every day, Americans here in America are being destroyed by the Jews running the country.’
‘How?’
Carney walked across to the stairwell and leaned over. There was a solitary man walking up the stairs, but Carney could see all the way down into the foyer.
‘I represent true American interests,’ he shouted. Down in the foyer, horrified people stared up at the killer, paralyzed with fear. ‘I am fighting to free America from the insidious influence of the Jew and his kind. These here are the Jewish scapegoats. These poor Jews are going to die for the sins of their brothers and sisters. They are going to be sacrificed.’
He turned to Denise. ‘In my hand here, you can see the detonator. One move and I blow them, and the rest of us, sky-high. If my thumb presses dial, this little goat will erupt, splattering his offal all over you. So back right off, Dr Levene, and watch the show.’
Carney pulled back. ‘Keep walking, goats,’ he commanded. Jeb and the other eleven hostages started crawling towards the stairs.
Harper was at the far door of the exhibition room when he heard Carney talking and shouting. He then heard a woman’s voice and realized that it was Denise. He could see the poor hostages, all stripped and tied with wire. Carney had lost his mind. He was going to go out in a blaze of hatred. There was no time to wait.
Harper saw the detonator in Carney’s hand. Any trigger and Carney could blow them all to pieces. The security guard raised the thumb on his fist and raised his eyebrow. It was enough. Harper got it. The explosion was a single movement of his thumb.
Down below, on the marble floor, Harper could hear the sound of boots. Lots of boots. The cops were coming up the stairs. At this point, that was bad news. Carney would blow them all up.
Harper pushed off his shoes and started to move across the floor of the exhibition room, his Glock held out ready to take a headshot. Denise saw him move. She understood. ‘Hey, Carney, you know what Lucy said in the ambulance?’
Carney turned. ‘What did she say?’
‘She said she thinks you’re right.’
‘What?’
‘She doesn’t understand why you took her. She’s not a Jew.’
‘Because she knows I am,’ he said. ‘I made that mistake in school, I made that mistake with Lucy. You tell someone you’re a Jew and they shit all over you.’
‘Damn right, they do,’ said Denise.
Harper was five feet from Carney. His gun was aimed at his head. Carney caught one of the hostages glancing behind him and Harper saw him tense. A boxer knows muscles – and Harper had boxed for years. He knew what muscles did when they sensed danger, when they were about to move. And Harper saw Carney’s right arm and shoulder flinch ever so slightly. The hand crease, the finger move.
Carney had just about begun to turn his head. Harper had the start on him and lowered his gun. He had to get the cell phone, but couldn’t afford a struggle. In a struggle, everyone was dead. Even with a headshot, the thumb could press the button.
Harper moved in tight and pulled the trigger. The nozzle of his Glock was thirty centimeters from Carney’s elbow and the bullet ripped the joint to pieces. Carney’s body froze. Enough time for Harper’s right hand to grab Carney and pull his thumb from the detonator.
The two of them slumped to the floor. Harper’s left hand reached out towards Carney’s right hand. Carney’s arm was limp but his hand was still hard-gripped around the cell phone.
Denise Levene watched in stunned awe. She didn’t move. Her mouth just opened wide.
The room went silent. They were all waiting for the blast. Harper’s right hand was firmly around Carney’s thumb. Harper’s left hand slowly prized the cell phone, finger by finger, from Carney’s grip.
Harper suddenly realized he needed to breathe. He’d been holding his breath the whole time he’d walked across the room. Maybe two whole minutes. He breathed in deeply, took Carney’s other hand and crushed it with his boot until the Luger dropped. Harper grabbed it and rolled away from Carney with the gun. He held up the cell phone.
He looked at Jeb. ‘It’s okay. Keep calm. I got it. Denise, untie these people.’
Harper checked Carney and cuffed him. They could deal with him later. Denise and Harper moved across to the hostages. Behind them, Aaron Goldenberg reached the top of the stairs. He could see Jack Carney lying on the ground. All he could feel was anger and pain. He wanted this man dead. He stopped and stood over Carney. ‘You know who I am?’
‘Yes,’ said Carney.
‘Where’s my daughter?’
‘She’s dead. You’re all dead.’
Aaron pointed the gun at Jack Carney’s head. ‘Then I’m going to kill you.’
‘Then do it, Jew.’
Denise turned and saw the gun rise and tremble. She called out, ‘Aaron, stop, don’t do it! Don’t ruin this now!’
‘After what he’s done,’ said Aaron, ‘why shouldn’t I kill him?’
Aaron’s hand was shaking. His finger tightened around the trigger.
Denise was next to him now. ‘Aaron – we got Abby. She’s alive. Abby’s alive. Don’t throw it away now. She’s okay. I mean it – I’ve seen her.’
Aaron Goldenberg seemed not to hear. Then his head turned. He looked at Denise. ‘Where is she?’
‘Brooklyn Memorial.’
Aaron Goldenberg dropped the gun and ran towards the stairs.
