Husk (26 page)

‘Christ,’ he whispers, wiping his lips and chin, unable to look at the display any more. ‘This is insane, man.’

‘Insanity doesn’t even begin to describe it.’

‘Is this what you were hoping to find?’

‘It’ll do,’ he replies

Javier leans toward me, hands the camera back. ‘We need to get the fuck out of here, like right now.’

‘Just one minute more. That’s all I need.’

Renard and his men walk
back into my line of sight, searching for the piece that escaped. I slink away, focusing the camera on their faces, making sure I get the company logo painted on the wall in the background. When I feel I’ve got all the damning evidence I need I turn the camera off and stuff it back in my knapsack. Keeping my eyes on the enemy, I reach out and tap Javier on the shoulder.

‘Okay,’ I whisper. ‘Let’s
get out of here –’

Renard suddenly turns in our direction, lifting the visor of his face shield and sniffing the air, catching the scent of Javier’s vomit. His expression hardens. I watch as he reaches into his coveralls and draws out his Rapier, flagging to his men with his other hand.

‘Something is wrong,’ he says. ‘We may have a breach.’

His men remove their face shields and draw their weapons.
Renard signals them to investigate the factory floor on the left and right while he takes the middle. The three of them fan out, advancing slowly. Javier and I melt into the shadows, keeping tabs on their progress as we retreat through the rows of vats to the back of the building. Their white coveralls make them easy to spot in the gloom. Just when I think we’re going to get out without being
detected, all hell breaks loose.

The first Rapier round rockets past my head and shatters a vat behind. Glass and fluid and meat flood out, sweeping me off my feet. I hit the ground hard. Javier picks me up from the floor as Renard shouts orders to his men and squeezes off two more rounds. Another vat explodes, then another.

‘Run,’ Javier shouts.

We sprint through the rows, dodging in and out
so our attackers can’t get a bead on us. More rounds go off, destroying the surrounding equipment, punching holes in suspended carcasses as they blow through the tanks. Javier and I manage to make it to the rear of the building in one piece. As we burst out of the back doors and into the alley my eyes fall on the van parked nearby.

‘Get in the van,’ I yell to Javier, pointing. ‘The keys are inside.’

We wrench open the doors and jump in. I crank the ignition, floor the gas pedal. Renard crashes through the back door behind us and raises his Rapier, levelling it at us as we take off. Three rounds rip softball-size holes in the side of the van as we speed down the alley.

‘Goddamn it,’ I seethe, smacking the steering wheel with an open hand. ‘We’re like fish in a fucking barrel.’

‘We need guns,’
Javier pants. ‘I know where we can get them.’

‘Where?’

‘Occupy Central Park.’

‘What?’ I skid onto the street with a screech and accelerate. ‘You’re kidding?’

‘There’s a core group of protesters who call themselves Integris, a real diehard faction, armed and ready. They’ve been sneaking in weapons for days now, anticipating an attack by the NYPD.’

Something doesn’t sit right with me. ‘How
the hell do you know all that?’

Javier swallows, says nothing. I shoot him an accusatory look and begin to repeat my question. He is quick to cut me off.

‘Okay, I’ll level with you,’ he says, throwing up his hands. ‘I’m not really part of the movement.’

‘What are you then?’

‘An informant.’

I could punch the motherfucker. ‘You’re a goddamn
snitch
?’

‘I don’t know what I am!’ he yells back.
‘All I know is I’m poor and sometimes starving and I feed the cops information about what’s going on inside OCP when I need the money bad enough.’

‘So, you get paid to report on the occupiers?’

‘The occupiers, Integris …’ Javier shoots me a nervous look. ‘And you.’

I almost hit the brakes. ‘Me?’

‘You were brought to my attention as a person of interest.’

‘By who?’

Javier throws up his hands
again. ‘Fuck, I don’t know. I never deal with actual people. They email me targets and give me links where I can send back results. The information I collect is uploaded for retrieval. I don’t know names, I don’t see faces. I make a report, send some photos, and money is released to my account.’

‘So, you’ve been spying on me this whole fucking time?’

‘No,’ Javier snarls. ‘I haven’t told them
a thing about you for weeks now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they got you figured all wrong, man,’ he replies. ‘They must think you’re some sort of criminal, some kind of threat, but I know you’re not. Like I said, you’re one of the good guys, man.’

Javier’s no fool. I believe what he’s telling me. I also believe that whoever was looking at me as a person of interest had me figured right, marking me as
a murder suspect, a possible kidnapper and killer of young women in Manhattan. I check my side mirror, see nothing behind us.

‘All right,’ I say. ‘You said OCP’s got guns?’

Javier nods vigorously. ‘Those Integris guys are armed to the fucking teeth, ready for war. Any police brutality that happens against the movement is going to be met with some fierce opposition, I can tell you that.’

‘And
they’ll hook us up?’

‘I know the people involved. I can get us both a piece.’

We speed down 14th Street, run two red lights and make a hard left on 8th Avenue. My driving skills are shit, and I hit the horn to warn people out of my way. I try to weave in and out of traffic, but end up jumping kerbs and sideswiping cars. I expect police sirens and lights to go off behind me any minute, but they
don’t. Javier looks in his side mirror, then over his shoulder and out the back windows.

‘That Cadillac is back there,’ he says. ‘They’re gaining on us quick.’

‘How close are they?’

‘Just drive faster.’

I floor it, pushing the van as fast as it will go. The Cadillac races up behind, rams us, trying to force us off the road. They try to come alongside, but I use the van’s bulk to keep them
at bay.

‘Keep going,’ Javier shouts. ‘We’re almost there.’

The chase through the concrete jungle is a blur until we reach Central Park. As I enter an intersection I hear the screeching of tyres. Then everything goes black with the force of sudden impact.

When I regain consciousness I don’t know where I am or what’s going on. Javier is shaking me hard, yelling in my face. Nothing registers. Sights and sounds warp around me. I smell gasoline, burnt rubber. It isn’t until Javier slaps me across the cheek that
things snap into focus.

‘C’mon, move it, man!’

He pulls at my shirt. I stumble out of the wreckage and fall to my knees, looking around wildly. A crowd has begun to gather. We’re on the edge of Central Park, near the Pond. The side of the van is crushed, front crumpled into a tree, loud hissing coming from the engine. Multiple vehicles are strewn about, some on the sidewalk, others on the grass
and road. All have shattered windows and dented bodies, results of collision. Fifty yards away I see the black Cadillac CTS rolled on its side in the street, bashed to shit, Renard and his men struggling to get out.

‘What happened?’ I gasp, grabbing my knapsack from the front seat.

‘We ran a red light, caused a clusterfuck of a crash,’ Javier replies, pulling me to my feet. ‘It bought us time
though.’

We escape into Central Park, stumbling and staggering as we go. I look back to see Renard and his men freeing themselves from their vehicle, readying for pursuit. I try
to quicken our pace, but become more aware of the injuries we’ve sustained in the crash. Mostly cuts and bruises, although Javier has a limp he’s trying to walk off unsuccessfully. As we advance further into the park
I pull Javier away from the illuminated pathways and into the shadows.

‘Stick to the dark,’ I say. ‘We have an advantage.’

From the knapsack I retrieve the night-vision glasses I swiped back at the apartment. When I place them over my eyes, the surrounding night is instantly bathed in a soft green glow.

‘Cat’s eyes,’ I say, turning to Javier and tapping the specs. ‘Follow me.’

I lead Javier
past the Wollman Rink and onto Bethesda Fountain. The presence of sleeping protesters grows as we progress toward the Great Lawn. They grumble and bitch as we run between them and disturb their rest. Behind we hear Renard angrily shouting orders to his men. They’re hard on our trail, but we manage to stay one step ahead.

Near the boat house shots are fired. Rapier rounds splinter through tree
trunks, kicking up dirt around us. People scattered about in sleeping bags and blankets begin to rise up in a panic, screaming and shouting. The spooked crowds start running in all directions, crying for help, allowing us to give our pursuers the slip. By the time we make it to the masses at the Great Lawn, Occupy Central Park is wide awake and alert. Javier and I slip in amongst the thicker crowds
and slow down, keeping an eye on the police officers running to the scene, alerted by the sound
of screams and gunfire. I look back, see Renard and his men stop at the edge of the lawn and put their weapons away before wading into the crowds to look for us.

‘Okay,’ Javier says, taking me by the elbow. ‘Now you follow me.’

He leads me through the closely packed people to a large orange tent inside
one of the baseball diamonds. A tall, muscular guy guarding it stops us, but then lets us pass when he recognizes Javier. Inside the tent a bearded man stands at the centre holding an open gym bag, reaching in and passing out handguns and machine pistols to others who stow them in their jackets and pants. I quickly realize it’s the same guy I’ve seen speaking through the megaphone on the podium,
one of the apparent leaders of OCP. I pocket my cat’s eyes and Javier takes me to him. Beard Man finally notices me when we’re within arm’s reach. Before I know it he’s pointing a Desert Eagle in my face, hammer cocked and trigger finger itching to squeeze.

‘Friend or foe?’

‘A friend,’ Javier says quickly. ‘A friend we can trust.’

I hold my hands out, palms up, keeping cool in the situation.
I’ve had so many guns pointed at me tonight I’m almost numb to it. Beard Man looks me over suspiciously, the sidearm held steady in the grip of a professional. I suspect he’s ex-military or former law enforcement. He trusts me about as much as I trust him. The fact that I’m showing no fear irritates him. He presses the cold metal of the gun barrel to my forehead.

‘Why did you bring him here?’
he asks Javier.

‘We need guns,’ Javier replies. ‘We’re desperate.’

‘I don’t have time for this shit. We all need guns right now. The pigs have started their attack out there.’

‘No they haven’t. Those shots you heard were meant for me and my friend here. There are mercenaries in the park who want us dead.’

‘Mercenaries?’ Beard Man looks back and forth between us. ‘Why?’

I slowly raise my hand
to the gun held against my head and gently push it away, holding the man’s gaze. He lowers the gun and lets me speak.

‘Because I’ve made discoveries that can bring down some of the very people you’re protesting against. I’m a loose end that they want to tie up pretty bad, because I can’t hurt them if I’m killed or captured.’

‘What did you uncover?’ Beard Man snaps.

‘It’s a long story,’ I say,
holding up my knapsack for him to see. ‘But I have evidence of it in here.’

‘What kind of evidence?’

‘The kind that can light the fuse to one hell of a powder keg. Knowledge they will kill anyone to get their hands on.’

‘And all you want from me is a gun?’ He scratches his head. ‘That’s it?’

‘I just need a piece.’

Beard Man looks me in the eye, trying to determine if I’m a man of my word
or absolutely full of it. He must see something reassuring, because he takes my hand and places his Desert Eagle in my palm. From the gym bag he pulls out a Glock and gives it to Javier, who slides back the action and clicks off the safety. Beard Man looks pitifully
at the two guns he’s donated, and then looks at me with some confusion.

‘I’m surprised you don’t ask me for more help,’ he says,
looking around at his armed comrades. ‘Do you know who we are? Do you know what it is that we do?’

‘I have a vague idea.’

‘Look, whatever stories you may have heard about the Occupy Movement or Integris from the media aren’t even close to being the truth.’

‘I realize that.’

Beard man grabs me by the elbow. ‘Do you even know who
I
am?’

Honestly, the guy’s a mystery to me. And I’d like to keep
it that way. This is a whole other world I can’t afford to wade into right now, and picking sides seems like other people’s problems. Saving my own ass is my priority. Sticking my neck out any more will certainly get it broken. For a moment I consider giving him the evidence, donating it to the cause, letting him run with it. Then I remember what happened with Phineas and Craig, not to mention
the fact that this man just held a gun to my head and the faction he’s aligned with is pretty much regarded as a domestic terrorist organization.

‘No, I don’t know who you are,’ I reply, stowing the gun inside my jacket. ‘And I don’t much care. There’s no reason to endanger anyone more than I already have.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I can take care of myself.’

Beard Man nods respectfully, though he
is clearly disappointed. The fact is I don’t trust him or Integris any more
than I trust the men hunting me at the moment. He steps back just as a beautiful young blonde sidles up to him and curls one hand around his bicep. In her other hand is a gun. Even though she leans into him affectionately, her eyes are fierce, newly protective. It takes me a moment to place her. Annabel Colette, one of
the kidnapped Manhattan women whose disappearance I wasn’t responsible for, is actually standing here before me, alive and well. The police were right. She’s a victim of Integris, not a victim of mine. Except she doesn’t look like a victim at all.

‘Hey, wait a minute,’ I say, nodding toward her. ‘Isn’t she one of those kidnapped women?’

‘She is here by choice now,’ Beard Man says, kissing Annabel
on the forehead. ‘She has seen the light, she understands the truth.’

Stockholm syndrome
, I think, glad she didn’t fall prey to me.
Lucky girl.

There is more to it than that though. I can see it in their eyes when they look at each other, behind the anger and the principle. Somehow they’ve fallen in love, committed themselves to one another as well as the cause.
Till death do us part
seems likely
for these two with those guns in their hands. Beard Man points a finger toward the entrance of the tent, telling us it’s time for us to be on our way. As Javier and I leave he continues to hand guns out to the gathered protesters. I wonder just how many of them are willing to die for their beliefs.

Outside, I don my glasses as we merge with the crowds of the Great Lawn and walk among agitated
citizens, listening to their concerned chatter. Tensions are high.
Worries are growing. The lawn seems to be more illuminated than I remember. Several portable police floodlights have been activated around the field perimeter as additional officers arrive on the scene in response to the reported gunshots. Javier and I make our way across the baseball fields, constantly scanning the crowds for
danger, keeping to areas still bathed in darkness.

Near the eastern edge of the Great Lawn we stop. With my night-vision I spy Renard behind the police line, conferring with a group of newly arrived men dressed in plainclothes. More of Winslade’s security team has been called in, most of them guards from his building. They check images on their Liaisons, undoubtedly of me, as Renard briefs them.
Soon they split up, dissolving into the crowds to aid in the search.

Thankfully, the operatives move in the direction away from us. I keep my eyes on Renard, who begins walking toward the NYPD’s two stationary EMUs parked just outside the perimeter, less than fifty yards from us. With the police distracted, he sneaks up behind one of the drones and pulls something from his pocket. At this distance
I can tell it is one of Winslade’s wireless transmitter devices. Renard reaches up and connects it to the back of the drone’s head. Within seconds the machine comes to life, straightening its posture and extending its neck. I cringe as it tests out its appendages and takes two pensive steps. Seemingly satisfied, it starts to stalk the crowds from the shadows, reflective lenses scanning back
and forth over the protesters. Without a doubt I know. Winslade has personally joined in the hunt for me.

The EMU moves south. It isn’t long before both protesters and police start to notice the eight-foot mech creeping around in the dark. People warn each other of the drone’s approach, giving it a wide berth, everyone unsure of what’s going on. Eventually a police lieutenant approaches it waving
a hand frantically, trying to get its attention while talking to someone on his radio. The EMU ignores him, continuing its search as if he isn’t even there.

Javier and I start to move in the opposite direction when a heavy hand grips my shoulder and spins me around. I come face to face with one of Renard’s men. The barrel of his Rapier pushes hard into my gut.

‘You’re coming with me –’

Javier
doesn’t hesitate. He swings and strikes the enforcer on the back of the head with the butt of his Glock. The gun goes off accidentally with the impact, shot cracking through the night, muzzle flash giving away our position. As the enforcer sinks to his knees the people around us either run or hit the ground screaming. Police officers, private mercenaries, protesters, they all turn in our direction.

‘Into the crowd,’ I tell Javier. ‘Now.’

We run and catch up with those fleeing, finding cover in their ranks. Nearby, another of Renard’s men draws his Rapier and fires at us, the rounds blowing through a woman in front of me, almost cutting her in half. I turn and take aim, pull the trigger twice and down him with the Desert Eagle. When I turn back I see a cop ahead just as he opens up on us
with an assault rifle. Javier dodges and
returns fire, catching the cop in the shoulder with a round that spins him to the ground. The Great Lawn suddenly erupts in gunfire as armed protesters pour out of the big orange tent, guns blazing, targeting the surrounding police force. Cops fire back, gun barrels spitting fire, unloading magazines indiscriminately into the crowds. People start dropping
everywhere, some writhing in pain, others stilled.

Alerted by the commotion, the EMU turns and gets me in its sights. It tries to fight through the protesters and police, spraying tear gas to disperse them, white clouds rolling over the riotous scene. I watch in horror as one man falls in its path and is trampled, the robot’s weight snapping his spine like a twig. Central Park descends into absolute
chaos.

Javier and I try to escape to the north, sprinting with everything we’ve got. By the time we reach the basketball and volleyball courts I can hear the thudding footsteps of the EMU gaining on us. I look over my shoulder and see it crashing through the hordes of people, blasting them with its water cannon, smashing them aside with its limbs, sending bodies flying. By now even the police
have realized the drone has gone rogue. Cops and armed protesters alike open fire on the urbanized war machine. Multiple rounds ricochet off its metal body, completely ineffective. It keeps coming, growing larger every time I risk a glance back. As we reach the tree line the EMU is upon us, towering over our heads, raising its appendages. There is no escape.