Shadow Ops: Fortress Frontier-ARC (pdf conv.) (20 page)

“Maybe we could spend the night there,” Truelove said, pointing to the village. “Maybe Marty could help Sarah? Maybe they have someone there who knows how.”

“No way,” Britton said. “You two are persona non grata with those goblins. You almost started a riot the last time you were there. I don’t think a couple of days have made much of a difference. Marty had his hands full as it was dealing with the aftermath of that fight, and I don’t want to go making the trouble any worse. If we’re going to find help, it’s going to have to be with the Houston Street gang.”
Besides, Swift said that I’m a
legend to them. If he’s telling the truth, we can expect a warmer
welcome there.

Truelove started to say something, then stopped.

“What?” Britton asked.

“It’s just . . . Oscar, it’s Swift.”

“I know,” Britton sighed.

“He’s . . . he’s kind of nuts.”

“No, he’s not nuts. He’s pissed and irrational and grief-stricken. But I never thought he was crazy. I think we can trust him to act in his own self-interest.”

“He’s not crazy,” Therese agreed. “Just hurting.”

“He’s just an asshole,” Downer added.

Truelove smiled at her, then turned back to Briton. “Yeah, but what’s his self-interest in this case? All he wants is to kill Harlequin . . . and that’s just a start. Then he wants to bring the whole government down. Walsh, Whalen, all of them.”

“Right. And he knows he’s got a better chance to do that if I’m in his corner.”

Truelove looked doubtful.

“Anyway, what other options do we have?” Britton asked.

“We can’t sit out here freezing our asses off, and I’m not going after Scylla again right now. It was wrong of me to ask you to come along for that. That was my fight.” He looked over Truelove’s shoulder at Downer.

“I’ve got no regrets,” Downer said, shivering. “That crazy bitch needs to be put down.”

Therese said nothing, only looked over at Downer, eyes wide with concern.

“We’ve got to get shelter and proper food and rest,” Britton said. “And if we’ve got a chance to really change things, Houston Street is as good a place to start as any. I’m open to ideas if you’ve got any.”

After Truelove was silent, Britton looked to Downer. “Any ideas, Sarah?”

Downer hugged herself. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

“We need to get out of the cold, Oscar,” Therese said.

Britton nodded and opened another gate.

They stepped into the subway maintenance locker where he’d run the mission against the Selfer and later dropped off Swift.

The interior was pitch-black.

Britton opened another gate to give them a little light and gently tried the handle. It opened on a well-lit platform entrance, just inside the turnstiles. There was an empty attendant’s booth on the other side, the bulletproof glass scratched with graffiti. Britton began to open the door and step out of the locker, then suddenly jerked back, raising a finger to his lips.

“What?” Therese whispered.

“There’s a cop,” Britton said. “Just standing guard. In . . . tactical gear. Looks like SWAT.”

Therese nodded. “They’ve got them at all the stations now. It’s a reaction to Houston Street. They know they’re in the tunnels and at least want to make a show of trying to do something about it. Is it just the one?”

Britton peeked back out the door. The cop leaned against the turnstile, helmet tucked under one elbow, using the edge of his body armor to prop up his double chin. He looked bored. Britton pulled back into the locker. He risked a glance in the other direction. The platform looked empty.

“Just the one.”

“I’ve got this,” she said, pushing Britton aside and gently peeking out the door. She concentrated, and Britton could feel her magic gathering. A moment later the cop lit up a streak of curses, hand flying to the small of his back. “Goddamn it!” he swore. He lurched around the turnstiles for a moment, trying to massage his lower back through the body armor before giving up and making for the staircase out of the station, calling into his radio.

“Let’s go,” Therese said. “I don’t know how long it’ll be before they replace him.”

“I thought you swore to never . . .”

“Relax, Oscar. I just tweaked some muscles around his sciatic nerve. Figured a guy that out of shape would have back problems already. It’ll hurt for a while, but they should be loosening up already. He’ll be okay. Let’s go.”

They walked quickly to the train platform’s far end, out of view of the booth and the staircase, clustered around a map on the wall. It turned out they were on Manhattan’s east side, a few stops away from the Canal Street station. Once they confirmed where they had to go, they spread out, sitting on the dirty bench or the dirtier tiled floor. Britton jerked his hood up and kept his head down. Therese and Truelove looked ordinary enough, sitting on the bench chatting softly. Downer didn’t have to work hard to look down on her luck. She hunched beside Britton, shivering and sweating, her clothing filthy. Britton put an arm around her, and she leaned against him. His heart leapt into his throat as other passengers arrived on the platform, but they were veteran New Yorkers, and didn’t spare the homeless couple or the commuters on the bench a second glance.

Britton looked up at the ceiling and spotted the steel housing with scratched plastic plate that held the security cameras. A tiny light flashed red at regular intervals. He bit down on the panic the sight raised. There was no reason to think that anyone watching camera footage would think any more of Britton and his group than the other passengers did.

They boarded the train and spread out, making occasional eye contact. None of the other passengers batted an eyelash all the way to Canal Street, and Britton breathed a sigh of relief as they exited the train and made their way to the platform Swift had indicated. This late at night, there were few people there, but Britton knew they’d have to wait for the platform to completely empty before they could make for the rendezvous location.

If this station had a cop, he was out of sight, probably by the turnstiles and attendant booth upstairs.

The platform was broken up by a series of ceiling supports, wide steel I–beams broad enough to hide a person behind. He sidled up alongside Therese. “Keep spread out and on the platform, I’m going to find our entry point. Once I signal you, gather by me, but loosely. Let’s try not to give the impression that we’re together.” Therese nodded silently, thrust her hands in her pockets, and made her way down the platform.

Britton began to run his eyes along the ceiling, looking for security cameras. He saw one immediately, on the edge of the platform, just before the darkness of the tunnel’s edge. He was about to move closer to it when something stuck to the tile walls caught his eye.

It was a small black sticker, about five inches across. Someone had made the effort to scrape it off and given up after rendering it mostly transparent. Dirty patches of dried adhesive around it showed him that this was the last of over a dozen stickers that had already been removed. The sticker’s center was, a black-and-white mug shot that he had to squint at to make out.

But after a moment, he was certain.

It was him. The photo was from his military Common Access Card, the same one the police had been using on his wanted posters.

Above it, Britton could make out the words: why is this man running for his life?

Below it, almost illegible, were the words free oscar britton.

His breath caught in his throat, his heart raced.

He was looking for a movement, but he’d never thought that a movement might be looking for him.

Therese sidled alongside him, followed his gaze, then squinted. He was turning away when he heard her catch her breath. “Oh, wow. Is that what I think it is?”

Not now. Stay focused.
“Leave it,” he said. “Don’t draw attention to it or to us.”

The sticker had kicked off a string of emotions. Excitement, fear, honor, worthlessness. None of them would help him examine that camera. He let it fill his attention, pushing the butterflies in his stomach away.

The camera had a good view of the entire platform, its view only obscured by the steel columns. It was precisely like the other cameras he’d seen at the last station. Except for one difference.

The red light was out.

Britton caught Therese’s eye, then moved behind one of the columns. Truelove came next, supporting Downer, who sloughed drunkenly against him. Therese was just behind. They stood in a small circle, making a show of tending to Downer, a friend who’d had one too many. Britton and Therese detailed opposite sides of the column, casting glances down the platform length, waiting to see if it cleared.

After nearly an hour of agonizing waiting, the train pulled up, the last passengers on the platform stepped on, and nobody got off.

Britton tapped Therese and raced off the platform’s edge, dropping into the darkness beyond. He fell about four feet, his boots crunching on packed gravel and wood fragments. Three separate thuds told him the rest of his group had joined him. The inky blackness covered them. Smells reached him, trash, rank water, creosote. He heard scrabbling, and squeaking as rats protested his intrusion into their domain.

“Put Downer in the middle,” he said. He opened a small gate, using its light to get his bearings. The gate’s uneven light glinted off the train rails to his right. He guessed that they had enough room to flatten themselves against the tunnel wall if a train were to pass, but he couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to find out.

“We hug this wall. The chamber should be a couple of hundred feet in.”

He shut the gate and followed the wall along, the rest of the group coming behind him, each person with a hand on the shoulder of the person in front. Downer kept up, though Britton could feel her pulling at his coat at times, letting him drag her along.

Twice he felt the wall on his left open up into alcoves. He opened the gate both times, using the light to find only long strings of incandescent bulbs, now dark and unused. He moved on, straining to hear the sounds of rumbling wheels that indicated a train was headed their way. At last they came to another alcove, and he opened the gate again, expecting another lighting niche.

But the back of this alcove had been knocked out. Old sawhorses stood before it, strung with tape that had probably once been yellow before it, like everything else in this filthy tunnel, had been completely covered with black residue. Britton pushed one aside and led them in. The empty back opened into a tiny, bare chamber. The floor was broken earth and rocks, the walls layer upon layer of ancient, long-dried mastic and mortar. The musty smell of old concrete drove out all other scents. There was enough room for all of them, but not much more, and no other exits but the one they’d just used.

“Do you think this is the right place?” Therese asked. Britton scanned the walls, running the gate’s light over the broken surface of the desiccated stone before finding what he was looking for. Near the ceiling of the wall to the left of the entrance, was a fist-sized red X. Red letters had been marked into the triangles formed by the X’s intersecting lines.

North to south read: hs.

East to west read: ny.

Britton nodded. “This is the right place. We wait here.”

“Did we beat midnight?” Truelove asked.

Britton shrugged. “I have no idea, and none of us have a watch. We wait as long as it takes. If maintenance crews or anyone else discovers us, I’ll just gate us out of here.” He turned to Downer. “You going to be okay?”

“I keep telling you, I’m fine.” She hugged herself, shivering.

“I’m just a little tired, is all.” She leaned against the wall and slid down to a sitting position, heedless of the filth tracking along her back and the ripping of her coat against the sharp and uneven surface of the wall.

Britton nodded, then looked at Therese.
She’s not fine,
he mouthed. Therese nodded back and nestled up alongside Downer, warming her with her body heat. Britton could feel the current of Therese’s magic eddying around them. Truelove took up position alongside the entrance, lowering himself more carefully to the ground, knees up to his chin. “I hope we’re doing the right thing.”

“We are,” Britton said firmly. “And if we’re not, I can get us out of there. Either way, we’ve got to try. Try to get some shut-eye if you can. There’s just one entrance. I can keep it covered.”

Truelove nodded and was silent.

Britton had no idea how much time passed. The darkness was total, and the only sound was Downer’s labored breathing and the occasional rustle as someone shifted position or rats scurried past the entrance. After several trains had roared by, Britton cursed himself for not keeping count of them. He guessed that this late at night, they were running every half-hour, and he could have used their passage as a clock. His mind raced, with things he wanted to say to Therese, worry about the gang they were about to meet, nuclear-winter scenarios about Downer’s illness. At long last his mind was overwhelmed by the tide of worry and went numb. He focused on the entrance to the alcove. Overwatch was simple. Overwatch was something he could do.

He was brought out of his reverie as Therese moved to his side, her hands finding his face in the darkness. For a moment, he leaned into her touch, raising his hands to hers. She hesitated before stammering, “Let me fix your face, Oscar. If the gang comes to find us, we want you recognizable.”

He jerked his hand away, embarrassed. “Of course.”

“A little light to work by? It helps if I can see what I’m doing.”

He opened a pinprick of gate again, closed his eyes, then bit down on agony as the magic did it’s work, his features melting back into their original positions. After what seemed an eternity, the pain stopped, and he opened his eyes. Therese’s hands still cupped his cheeks, the warmth of her skin tingling against him.

Her eyes were deep orbs of black, reflecting the gate’s light. Her lips were parted slightly.

“All fixed?” he asked. “How do I look?”

She kept her hands pressed to him. “You look great, Oscar.”