The hours wore on. Julian Marsh trudged underneath America, a nuclear weapon strapped to his back. The device might be smaller than he’d expected — although it still bulged the backpack — but the internal gubbins were no less heavy. The thing dragged at him like an unwanted friend or brother, pulling him back. It made every step a strain.
Darkness surrounded and almost overwhelmed him, disrupted only by the occasional hanging light. Many were broken, too many. It was dank down here, the scuttle of unseen animals always painting nightmare images in his brain that played in wicked harmony to the random itches running across his shoulders and down his spine. Air was in limited supply, and what there was, was of poor quality.
He began to feel weary beyond measure, to hallucinate. Once, Tyler Webb chased him and then an evil troll. He fell twice, scraping knees and elbows, but dragged himself back to his feet. The troll transmogrified into evil Mexicans and then a walking taco, bursting with red and green peppers and guacamole.
As the miles wore on he began to feel that he might not make it, that everything would turn out better if he just lay down for a while. Take a little nap. The only thing stopping him was his more colorful side — the part that had once stubbornly survived childhood when everyone else wanted him to fade away.
Eventually brighter lights appeared ahead and he breached the other end of the tunnel, and then spent many minutes gauging what kind of a reception he might receive. In truth, he expected no reception committee — he’d never been expected to reach the land of the free.
By design, he’d arranged completely separate transport at this end. Marsh was careful, and no fool. A helicopter should be stationed a few miles off, awaiting his call. Marsh removed one of three burner cells secreted around his body and in the backpack, and made the call.
No words were passed when they met, no comments on the blood and dirt that encrusted Marsh’s face and hair. The pilot lifted the bird into the air and swooped off in the direction of Corpus Christi — the next and penultimate stop in Marsh’s grand adventure. One thing was for sure, he’d have a boatload of stories to tell…
And nobody to tell them to. One thing you didn’t regale the party guests with was how you’d managed to smuggle a suitcase nuke from Brazil to the east coast of America.
Corpus Christi offered a little respite, a long shower and a quick nap. Next would be a twenty-four-hour drive to New York, and then…
Armageddon. Or at least the edge of it.
Marsh smiled as he rested face-down on the bed, head buried in a pillow. He could barely breathe but quite liked the feeling. The trick would be to convince the authorities that he was serious and that the bomb was authentic. Not hard — one look at the canisters and fissionable material would make them sit up and beg. Once that was done… Marsh imagined the dollars rolling in like some kind of Las Vegas slot machine throwing out money at a rate of knots. But all for a good cause. Webb’s cause.
Maybe not. Marsh had his own plans to execute whilst the odd Pythian leader was off chasing rainbows.
He slithered off the bed, landing on his knees before rising. He applied a little lipstick. He rearranged the room’s trappings so that they made sense. He exited and took an elevator to the basement where a rental awaited.
Chrysler 300. The size and color of a bleached whale.
Next stop… a city that never slept.
Marsh piloted the car effortlessly as the world-renowned skyline hove into view. It seemed ridiculously easy to take this car into New York, but then who knew any different? Well, somebody might. It had been over three days since he left Ramses’ bazaar. What if news had leaked out? Marsh didn’t change a thing. He was just one more traveler meandering his way through life. If the game was up he would find out very soon. Otherwise… Webb had promised that Ramses would provide men willing to help at this end. Marsh was counting on them.
Marsh drove blind, not knowing nor particularly caring what would happen next. He was cautious enough to stop before entering the great city, finding a night’s refuge on the other side of the river as the sun began to set, adding to the unsystematic route of his journey. An L-shaped motel sufficed, though the bed linen was scratchy and undeniably unclean, and the window frames and floors edgings were inches thick with black grime. Still, it was unremarkable, unplanned and pretty much undetectable.
Which was why, around midnight, he sat up straight, heart pounding, as someone knocked at the door of his room. The door faced the parking lot, so in truth it could be anyone, from a lost drunken guest to a prankster. But it might also be the cops.
Or Seal Team Six.
Marsh arranged knives, spoons and glasses, and then brushed the curtain aside to peer outside. What he saw rendered him momentarily speechless.
What the…?
The knock sounded again, light and breezy. Marsh didn’t hesitate, but opened the door and allowed the person to step inside.
“You have surprised me,” he said. “And that doesn’t happen too often these days.”
“I’m good that way,” the visitor said. “One of my many attributes.”
Marsh wondered about the others, but didn’t have to look too far to spot at least a dozen. “We have only met once before.”
“Yes. And I immediately sensed a kinship.”
Marsh straightened his frame, now wishing he’d taken that fourth shower. “I thought all the Pythians were dead or captured. Apart from Webb and I.”
“As you can see,” the visitor spread her hands, “you were wrong.”
“I’m pleased.” Marsh offered a smile. “Very pleased.
“Oh,” his visitor also smiled, “you’re about to be.”
Marsh tried to ward off the feeling that all his birthdays had come at once. This woman was odd, maybe as odd as himself. Her hair was brown and cut spiky; her eyes green and blue just like his own. How spooky was that? Her outfit consisted of a green woolen pullover, bright red jeans and dark blue Doc Martins. In one hand she held a glass of milk, in the other a glass of wine.
Where had she gotten…?
But it didn’t really matter. He liked that she was unique, that she somehow understood him. He liked that she’d turned up out of nowhere. He loved that she was entirely different. The forces of darkness were pushing them together. Blood red wine and bleach white milk were about to mix.
Marsh relieved her of the glasses. “You want to be on top, or on the bottom?”
“Oh, I don’t mind. Let’s see how the mood takes us.”
So Marsh positioned the nuke at the head of the bed where they could both see it, seeing an additional spark flash comet-like through Zoe Sheers’ eyes. This woman was powerful, deadly, and perfectly bizarre. Probably mad. Something that suited him no end.
As she stripped her clothes off, his dual mind wandered away to peruse what was to come. The thought of all the excitement promised for tomorrow and the next day as they brought America to its knees and played happy with the nuke made him perfectly ready for Zoe as she tugged his trousers down and climbed on board.
“No foreplay?” he asked.
“Well, when you placed that backpack just so,” she said, watching the nuke as if it might be watching her. “I realized I didn’t need it.”
Marsh grinned with happy surprise. “Me too.”
“You see, lover?” Zoe sank down onto him. “We were made for each other.”
Marsh then realized he could see her slow-moving, extremely pale ass in the reflection of the mirror that hung on the wall just above the old dresser, and past that the backpack itself nestled among the bed’s pillows. He stared into her well-tanned face.