Perlman looked at him.
“We’ve got seconds, not minutes,” he said. “Please.”
The officer handed him the weapon. Kealey threw off the safety, kept it pointed down. The contours of the Hudson shores were winding past, like separately undulating snakes. He saw the domes of the plant. The western bank curved in a way that did not allow him to see the site from the surveillance camera.
“Take us down,” Kealey said.
The chopper dived forward. Kealey put a hand on the door. The power plant was coming into view.
That also meant Hunt couldn’t see them, though he’d hear them approaching. Hopefully, he would be too focused on his target, on waiting for the go-ahead signal from the rocket launcher…
“As soon as that boat comes into view, you’re going to have to hit the brakes and turn me toward it,” Kealey said.
“Don’t open the door till I do that,” Sagal said.
“Yeah.” If Kealey thought that by flying from the chopper, he could stop Hunt, he would gladly take the flier.
“He’s hot in ten… nine… eight…,” Perlman said.
They were about a half mile downriver and 1,000 feet too high.
“ Push it! ” Kealey shouted.
“Seven… six…”
Kealey felt the harness dig into his chest as the helicopter screamed forward. It didn’t matter if Hunt knew they were there. He couldn’t fire for another few seconds…
“Five… four…”
The chopper came out of the half-parabolic dive, just skimming the Hudson.
“ Brake, now! ” Kealey yelled.
Kealey grabbed the door handle hard. The turn was so sharp that Kealey was thrown against the left side of the harness, but he retained his grip. As the chopper leveled, he yanked the handle, popped the harness, and put his foot to the door.
“Three… two…”
As he kicked open the door, he raised the 20mm and fired. He was short, raised it, peppered the canvas roof of the runabout.
“One!”
Kealey continued firing at the covering, turning the ivory-colored surface black with holes and smoldering fringe. Flaps fell away as he emptied the clip. He saw a man in the cockpit move toward the back; Kealey cut him down. A woman in the front seat had dropped to her knees with her hands raised.
Kealey was out of ammunition.
“Take us down,” he said and drew his handgun.
Sagal was on the loudspeaker system. “NYPD antiterror action. Stand down!” His voice rang across the river, and he repeated the announcement several times. That was for any security forces who might not notice the big NYPD on the side of the chopper and opened fire. Hourly security was like that.
The chopper lowered itself directly above the runabout. Kealey leaned out. Hunt was lying facedown, a mass of red splotches. The other man was on his back, with blood running from the top of his head. Kealey climbed onto the landing strut. The woman was looking out. He motioned toward the shore with his handgun. She nodded and made for the shore with her hands raised.
The black and white security boat was racing over.
“Put down your weapon!” someone shouted.
Sagal said, “You gettin’ off?”
Kealey grinned back and nodded. He glanced back at Perlman. “We’re gonna need bomb guys from the National Guard station.”
“Already called it in.”
Sagal turned the chopper around so Kealey was over the shore. He jumped from the chopper and landed near the train tracks that ran between the river and the road. The woman was standing there with her hands up.
“I said drop your weapon!” the voice from the boat repeated.
“I’ve got this,” Sagal said into the mike. He moved the chopper sideways and dropped it between the security boat and the runabout, a few yards above the water. The black-and-white had to make a hard turn to avoid a collision. “I said stand down,” he repeated.
The security boat stayed where it was.
Kealey told the woman to lie facedown on the track bed. She listened. He knew Perlman would be watching her, and he went to the runabout.
Hunt was dead. So was the other man. The nuke was active, alive. He didn’t want to read too much into that, but that had been the state of the world since Hiroshima: the players changed, died, and were replaced. The threat remained the same.
He called the update in to Andrews as he walked back to the train tracks.
There were cries of relief on the other end.
Kealey said he’d call when he was en route. Then he phoned Bishop.
“Ryan…?”
“We got him,” Kealey said.
“Jesus Christ.”
“With time to spare. What’s going on there?”
“Bomb squad shut down the nuke. I’m giving them a report.”
“Well, smoke ’em if you got ’em.”
“Can’t,” Bishop said. “Made someone a promise.”
Kealey understood. Good man, he thought. “Can you meet me at the Thirtieth Street helipad in an hour?”
“Probably. What’s up?”
“I’m going to get these boys to give us a lift to LaGuardia.”
“Debrief hell,” Bishop said.
“Yeah, but not yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have a stop to make first,” Kealey said. “I’ll tell you about it en route.” He clicked off, walked over to the woman. “Who are you?” Kealey asked.
“I will not answer your questions.”
Kealey went to the runabout, found her shoulder bag, retrieved her wallet. She was Dr. Ayesha Gillani. Affiliated with universities, hospitals, high-powered organizations.
He threw it back in the bag and looked back at her. Behind him, local police choppers and maritime units were converging. The NYPD chopper found a spot to set down.
Kealey was going to sit this one out, let them work out all the who did what and why.
A psychiatrist. A medical doctor. Obviously, World War II didn’t teach some members of the profession a damn thing about morality. Or maybe it was just a percentage of the general population itself that had corrupted data files in their head-Hunt and his dead companions included. Fortunately, there’s more of us than them, he thought. Un fortunately, all it took was five or six of them to let loose the dogs of destruction.
Well, at least there were fewer. And soon-very soon-there would be fewer still.
CHAPTER 34
“Mr. Trask,” said the voice from the intercom, “there are people to see you.”
He turned to the box mounted to the wall of the greenhouse. “Who are they?”
Before the voice could answer, the door behind him opened. Six FBI agents in SWAT gear entered, their weapons trained on the industrialist. The four agents on the outside held. 45-caliber Springfields; the agents on the inside were holding M4 carbines.
The two men who entered after them were not holding weapons, nor were they wearing SWAT black.
“Jacob Trask,” said Reed Bishop, unbuttoning his blazer, “you’re under arrest.”
Trask placed the shears in the box of soil. He turned to face the men, his hands on the planter. “The charge?”
Bishop continued to walk toward him alone. “Accessory to murder.”
“Based on what evidence?”
“The testimony of your chauffeur, Elisabeth Kent,” he said. “She went to the Atlanta PD when she learned that the woman you sent to New York, Agent Jessica Muloni, had been murdered.”
Trask smiled. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Ms. Kent, the former sheriff, gave us security footage.” Bishop stopped less than a foot from Trask. There was a Glock tucked in the agent’s belt. “Ridiculous or not, the charges will give us the twenty-four hours we’ll need to get you on federal terrorism offenses.”
He held out his hands. “Your charges will have me back here, tending my tulips, before they require watering. As for the other-”
“You killed my daughter, you miserable man,” Bishop said. “You’re going to answer for that.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know you or your daughter,” Trask said. There was no hostility in his voice, no emotion whatsoever. “But I do know that your accusation is harassment. That will get me back here even sooner.”