That was a long time ago, and not just in years.
Conscious of how much had changed, Massina came out of the church in a contemplative mood, and it only deepened when he returned home. If he had been of a different temperament, this contemplation might have led to melancholia, a yearning for the past, and half a bottle of Scotch or some similar beverage. Massina was different: his mood prompted a laundry list of projects he must absolutely turn his attention to, things he had to accomplish, projects he had to try. That was his family’s greatest legacy — urging him to never be satisfied.
If I can dream it, why can’t it be?
A somewhat naive credo, and yet look where it had taken him.
Massina was lost in thoughts of cybergenic prosthetics and autonomous ships when the security system alerted him to the car that had pulled up to the gate.
He was surprised to see that it was one of his company SUVs, driven by Johnny Givens.
“Open gate,” he told the system, then went to meet Johnny on the landing to the front steps.
“You have today off,” said Massina sharply as his deputy security supervisor got out of the truck. “Why are you here?”
“Terrorists are attacking the city,” said Givens tersely. “There’s been an explosion in the T, hostages at a hotel downtown, a bombing—”
“Take me to the office.”
“Beef wanted you to stay here. It’s safer.”
“We’re leaving now,” said Massina. “Do you want to drive or should I?”
Johnny Givens had only worked at Smart Metal for a short time, but he wasn’t surprised at all by Massina’s decision. He doubted Bozzone would be either.
Getting downtown, however, was not an easy task. The police had cordoned off the area near the Patriot Hotel, and traffic was snarled to the point that they reached a standstill about a dozen blocks from their office. Massina surveyed the situation, sat patiently for about thirty seconds, then unlocked his door and hopped out.
“Mr. Massina!” Johnny shouted. “At least let me come with you.”
“Well, come on, then.”
“I can’t abandon the truck.”
Massina shrugged and started away.
They had passed a parking lot a half a block away. Johnny edged his way onto the sidewalk — fortunately empty — then backed all the way to the lot. He pulled into a space, then ran to catch up to his boss.
The inventor was rather short, and Givens had the benefit of appendages that were several times more powerful than “normal” legs. Still, it took him several blocks to catch up. By that time, they were within sight of the renovated factory that housed Smart Metal’s offices in the city center.
Two policemen dressed in riot gear stopped them on the next block. Givens prepared himself for an argument, but he didn’t get a word out of his mouth.
“Hey, Jimmy O’Brien,” said Massina, walking over to the taller of the two officers. “I saw your father at mass this morning. He’s looking very well.”
“Mr. Massina, how are you?” said the policeman, pushing up the shield on his helmet to see Massina better.
“Not good. What the hell is going on?”
“We’re not sure, but the city’s on lockdown.”
“I’ll be at my office,” said Massina, already starting past. “If you need anything, send someone around to see Bozzone. We’ll send you out some coffee. I’m not sure if there’s food, but if so, we’ll get you that, too.”
“Thank you.”
“You know everybody in the city?” asked Givens, catching up.
“Just the important people.”
Bozzone met Massina in the entrance hall. “You were supposed to stay at your house.”
“You’re giving the orders now? What’s the situation here?”
“We’re secure,” said Bozzone.
“How about our people?”
“I don’t know where everyone is but—”
“But you’re working on it,” snapped Massina. It wasn’t a question.
“I am.”
“Good.”
“The police want everyone to shelter in place,” said Bozzone.
“Is that wise?”
“Probably.”
“Unless they happen to be in a place where the terrorists are,” said Massina. “Make sure everyone is accounted for. Update me upstairs in twenty — no, ten minutes.”
4
Chelsea crawled around the back of the dining room toward a door that led to a hallway with storerooms and a bathroom. She could hear gunshots and a commotion at the front of the room, but knew better than to stop and see what was going on.
“Still with me, Aunt Vic?”
“Right behind you,” said Victoria.
The lights snapped off just as Chelsea reached the entrance to the hallway. She took her aunt by the hand, then rose and began running down the corridor.
Her first thought was the restroom, but out of the corner of her eye she saw a metal fire door and realized it meant there was a stairway behind it.
“The stairs,” she hissed. “Come on!”
She slammed her shoulder against the crash bar as if she were punching into a scrum in a field-hockey game. The door gave way easier than she had expected, slamming against the concrete wall of the stairwell and punching her in the side. Victoria rushed past, ducking to the right as Chelsea pushed the door closed. There was no lock.
“Up the stairs, come on,” she told Victoria, though her aunt was already leading the way.
Chelsea expected the older woman to fade as they hit the second flight, but either fear or her daily running exercise — perhaps both — gave her the energy of someone forty years younger. She wasn’t even breathing heavily as they reached the third-floor landing.
“How far up should we go?” asked Victoria.
“To the roof!” decided Chelsea.
Unlike the richly paneled and stuccoed walls of the hotel’s public areas, plain cement blocks lined this stairwell. Cold to the touch, their solid, no-nonsense, whitewashed surface reassured Chelsea as she climbed. It was a bunker-like womb, a literal stairway to safety.
Or so it seemed until a loud crash reverberated from above. A woman screamed — high-pitched, the sound bounced off the hard surfaces of the walls, vibrating the loose metal of the treads so that the entire stairwell tingled with fear. A deeper sound followed, one even more frightful — it was male, a grunt that turned into a shriek before sinking to a groan, pain mixing with despair. Its echo lingered for only a moment, disrupted by the sound of automatic gunfire, a rapid click and whistle, ricochets dicing the surface of the cement. Splinters began to fall, and a cloud of dust — cement, gun gases, blood — filled the stairwell.
“We gotta get out,” Chelsea told her aunt, grabbing her hand and pulling her to the door of the landing they’d just climbed to. The doorknob turned but the door wouldn’t open. Chelsea’s adrenaline took over. She pulled her aunt with her, descending to the next level down.
Don’t panic, she told herself. Step by step.
She thought of her trip to the Ukraine, and her training, and how to breathe. She forced herself to slow as she reached the next landing, fighting her adrenaline.
This door also seemed blocked, even though the knob turned.
Oh, for crapsake!
She was pushing, when of course the damn thing opened into the stairway.
Calm is better!
Slow is sure. Sure is fast. Slow is fast and sure!