And it was a moment too late.
Marsh struck out at Gator, knowing exactly where he’d left a gun, a knife and an unused Taser. Expecting success he was surprised when Gator blocked the blows and returned one of his own. Marsh took it well, ignoring the pain, and tried again. He was aware of Zoe gawping at his side and wondered why the idle bitch didn’t jump in to help.
Gator again turned his punch with ease. Marsh then heard a noise at his back — the sound of the apartment door being opened. He jumped away, surprised when Gator let him, and turned.
A gasp of shock escaped his throat.
Eight men entered the apartment, all dressed in black, all carrying bags, and looking mean as foxes in a chicken run. Marsh stared and then turned to Gator, his eyes even now not quite believing what they were seeing.
“What is going on?”
“What? Did you think we would all sit nicely whilst the rich men in their tailored suits funded their wars? Well, I have news for you, big man. We do not wait for you anymore. We fund our own.”
Marsh was staggered by a double blow to the face. Falling backwards, he caught hold of Zoe, expecting her to hold him up, and when she didn’t they both fell to the floor. The shock of it all sent his system into overdrive, sweat glands and nerve endings in full flow and an annoying tic starting up at the corner of one eye. Took him right back to the bad old days, when he was a boy and nobody cared about him.
Gator stalked about the apartment, organizing the now twelve-strong cell. Zoe had made herself as small as possible, practically a part of the furniture as guns were revealed and other weapons of war — grenades, more than one RPG, the ever-dependable Kalashnikov, tear gas, stun-bombs and a plethora of hand-driven, steel-shod missiles. This was somewhat unnerving.
Marsh cleared his throat, still clinging to that last shred of dignity and egotism that ensured him that he, in this room, was the Satanic goat with the biggest horns.
“Look,” he said. “Get your filthy hands off my nuke. Do you even know what this is, boy? Gator. Gator! We have a deadline to keep.”
The leader of the fifth cell finally threw a laptop aside and strode over to Marsh. Now with backup and with the gloves well and truly off, Gator was a different man. “You think I, owe something to youuuu?” The last word was a squeal. “My hands are cleeeean! My boots are cleeeean! But they will soooon be covered in gore and ash!”
Marsh blinked quickly. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“There will be no payout. No moneeee! I work for the great, the revered one and only, Ramses, and they call meeee the Bombmaker. But today I will be the initiator. I will give it life!”
Marsh waited for the inevitable squeal at the end but this time it didn’t come. Gator had clearly allowed a splurge of power to turn his head, and Marsh still didn’t understand why these people were handling his bomb. “Guys, that is my nuke. I bought it and brought it to you. We’re awaiting a nice payday. Now, be good boys and put the nuclear bomb down onto the table.”
It was only when Gator punched him until the blood flowed that Marsh began to truly understand that something had gone terribly wrong here. It occurred to him that all his past deeds had led him to this point in his life, every right and wrong, every good or bad word and comment. The sum of every experience put him right in this room at this time.
“What are you going to do with that bomb?” Terror lowered and thickened his voice as if it were being forced like cheese through a grater.
“We are going to detonate your nuke as soon as we receive word from the great Ramses.”
Marsh sucked in air without breathing. “But that will kill millions.”
“And so our war will have begun.”
“This was about money,” Marsh said. “Payback. A little fun. Making the United Donkeys of America chase their tail. This was about funding, not mass murder.”
“Youuuu… have… killlled!” Gator’s fanatical rant ramped up a notch.
“Well, yeah, but not many.”
Gator kicked him until he curled into a motionless ball; ribs, lungs, spine and shins aching. “We only await word from Ramses. Now, someone, pass me a phone.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Inside Grand Central the last pieces of Marsh’s puzzle began to line up. Drake hadn’t realized before, but this was all part of someone’s master plan, someone they thought they’d already neutralized. An enemy they hadn’t counted on was time — and the way it was fast passing nullified their thinking.
With the station declared safe and inhabited mostly by cops, Drake and his crew had chance to scrutinize the fourth demand they’d finally found duct-taped to the underside of the café’s table. A series of numbers written in large type, it was impossible to figure out what they might be unless you managed to squint at the heading, which was typically written in the smallest font available.
Nuclear weapon activation codes.
Drake squinted in disbelief, again thrown off balance, and then blinked at Alicia. “Really? Why would he send us these?”
“Gamesmanship would be my guess. He’s enjoying this, Drake. On the other hand they could be fake.”
“Or acceleration codes,” Mai added.
“Or even,” Beau clouded the issue some more, “codes that might be used to start up a different kind of hidden weapon.”
Drake stared at the Frenchman for a moment, wondering where he’d developed such twisted thoughts, before calling Moore. “We have the new demand,” he said. “Except that instead, it appears to be a set of deactivation codes for the nuke.”
“Why?” Moore rattled. “What? That doesn’t make any sense. Is that what he told you?”
Drake realized how ridiculous it all sounded. “Sending now.” Let the suits sort it all out.
“Good. We’ll get them properly checked out.”
After Drake pocketed the cell, Alicia dusted herself off and took a long look around. “We got lucky here,” she said. “No casualties. And no follow up from Marsh, despite our lateness. So you think this was the last demand?”
“Not sure how it can be,” Mai said. “He told us that he wants money but hasn’t yet supplied a when and where.”
“So at least one more,” Drake said. “Maybe two. We should check weapons and load up again. Somehow, with all these mini-bombs going off around the city I think we’re far from finishing this yet.”
He wondered as to the purpose of the small bombs. Not to kill and not to maim. Yes, they instilled terror into society’s very soul, but in light of the nuke, Julian Marsh and the cells they were taking down he couldn’t help but think there might be a different agenda afoot. The sideshow bombs were distracting, aggravating. It was the few men on motorcycles hurling homemade firework bombs along Wall Street that were causing the most problems.
Alicia spied a kiosk tucked away in a far corner. “Sugar fix,” she said. “Anyone for a chocolate bar?”
“Get me two Snickers,” Drake sighed. “Since sixty-five grams was only for the nineties.”
Alicia shook her head. “You and your bloody chocolate bars.”
“What next?” Beau came over, the Frenchman easing the aches out of his body with a few stretches.
“Moore needs to step up his game,” Drake said. “Get proactive. I for one am not dancing to Marsh’s tune all day.”
“He’s stretched,” Mai reminded him. “Most of his agents and the cops are securing the streets.”
“I know,” Drake breathed. “I bloody well know.”
He also knew that there could be no better support for Moore than Hayden and Kinimaka, both with lines to the President, both having experienced most of what the world could throw their way. In this moment of relative calm he took stock, thought about their problem, and then found himself worrying about the other crew — Dahl’s team.