The Edge of Armageddon (3 page)

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.

“Damn,” he blurted out. “This ain’t gonna take long.”

Matt Drake readied himself for the team’s wildest ride yet. A nasty nauseating feeling thrashed in the pit of his stomach, and it had nothing to do with the bumpy flight, simply the product of tension, anxiety and disgust at the people who might try to perpetrate such horrendous crimes. He felt for the people of the world who went about their everyday business uninformed but contented. They were the people he fought for.

The choppers were chock-full of soldiers who cared and put themselves in harm’s way for the people who made the world a good place to be. The entire SPEAR team was present, with the exception of Karin Blake and the addition of Beauregard Alain and Bridget McKenzie—aka Kenzie, the katana-wielding, artifact-smuggling, ex-Mossad agent. The team had departed Ramses’ devastated last bazaar in such a hurry that they had been forced to bring everyone along with them. Not a minute could be wasted, and the whole team was prepped and informed and ready to hit New York’s streets running.

From actual jungle to concrete jungle, Drake
thought.
We never close.

All around him sat the dependable crossed lines and turbulent waves of his life. Alicia and Beau, Mai and Kenzie, and Torsten Dahl. The second chopper housed Smyth and Lauren, Hayden, Kinimaka and Yorgi. The team was speeding into New York’s airspace, already cleared by President Coburn on down, and banking hard as they zipped through gaps between skyscrapers and zoomed low towards a square-shaped roof. Turbulence battered them. The radio squawked as information streamed in. Drake could only imagine the bustle on the streets below, the hurrying agents and frantic SWAT teams, the hellish thought of the sprint toward saving New York and the eastern seaboard.

He breathed deeply, sensing the next few hours would go ballistic.

Dahl caught his eye. “After this, I’m taking a vacation.”

Drake admired the Swede’s confidence. “After this, we’re all gonna need one.”

“Well, you ain’t coming with me, Yorkie.”

“Not a problem. I’m pretty sure Johanna will be in charge anyway.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

The chopper fell fast, sending their stomachs toward the stratosphere.

Alicia sniggered. “Only that we know who runs the Dahl household, Torsty. We know.”

The Swede made a face, but didn’t comment further. Drake shared a grin with Alicia and then noticed Mai watching the both of them.
Shit, as if we didn’t have enough to worry about.

Alicia waved at Mai. “You sure you can handle this kinda action, Sprite, after cutting yourself shaving so recently?”

Mai’s expression didn’t change, but she did send a hesitant hand toward the new scar across her face. “Recent events have made me so much more careful about those people I trust. And to watch for those who betray.”

Drake cringed inside.

Nothing has happened. She left me, ended it! Nothing was promised .
. .

Emotions and thoughts churned together to make an acidic bile that mixed with a thousand other feelings. Dahl, he noticed, inched away from Kenzie, and Beau barely broke eye contact with Alicia. Christ, he hoped the passions were running a little lower inside the second chopper.

More wild winds battered them as the chopper’s skids tapped against the building’s roof. The bird settled and then the doors were flung open, occupants jumping down and sprinting to an open door. Men with guns guarded the entrance and several more were stationed inside. Drake ducked in first, feet flying and feeling a little unprepared without weapons, but knowing full well they would be tooling up soon. The team hustled down the narrow staircase one at a time until they emerged in a wide corridor, blacked out and lined by even more guards. Here, they paused for a moment before receiving instructions to continue.

All clear.

Drake jogged, aware they had lost vital days getting the information out of the bazaar and then being debriefed by suspicious agents, especially those from the CIA. In the end, it had been Coburn himself who intervened, commanding that the SPEAR team be sent immediately to the hottest spot on the planet.

New York City.

Now, down another flight of stairs and they came to a balcony area where they could look out over an inner set of rooms—the station house of a local police precinct on 3
rd
and 51
st
, he had been told. Unknown to the public the precinct doubled as a Homeland Security office—in fact it was one of two that had been called the city’s “hub”, the nucleus of all the agencies’ activities. Now Drake watched the local police going about their everyday actions, the station bustling, loud and packed, before a black-suited man approached from the far end.

“Let’s move,” he said. “No time to waste here.”

Drake couldn’t agree more. He pushed Alicia along, much to the blonde’s distaste, receiving a dour look for his troubles. The others crowded in, Hayden trying to approach the new guy but running out of time as he vanished through a far door. As they filed through they came into a round room with white tiled floor and walls, and chairs placed in rows facing a small dais. The man ushered them in as fast as he could.

“Thanks for coming,” he said emotionlessly. “Just so you know the men you captured—the self-named Ramses, and Robert Price—have been taken to the cells below us, there to await the outcome of our . . . manhunt. We figured they might hold valuable information and should be close by.”

“Especially if we fail,” Alicia said grimly.

“Indeed. And these prison cells, underground, with added security inside the Homeland division, will keep Ramses’ presence undetected, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”

Drake remembered that Ramses’ local units, after they had stolen or violently taken the nuke from Marsh’s hands, were under orders to await Ramses’ go ahead for detonation. They didn’t know he had been captured, or that he’d almost died. The New York cells of Ramses’ organization knew nothing at all.

It was at least one thing the SPEAR team had in their favor.

“He will become useful,” Hayden said. “I’m pretty sure.”

“Yeah,” Smyth added. “So lay off the cattle prod for now.”

The Homeland agent winced. “My name is Moore. I am the lead field agent here. All intelligence will pass through me. We’re setting up a new task force to assimilate and assign actions. We have the hub, and now we’re arranging the offshoots. Every agent and cop—available or not—is working this threat and we are fully aware of the consequences of failure. This cannot . . .” he faltered a little, showing stress which would normally be unheard of. “This cannot be allowed to happen here.”

“Who is in charge on the ground?” Hayden asked. “Who makes the decisions here, where it really counts?”

Moore hesitated and scratched his chin. “Well, we do. Homeland. In conjunction with the Counter Terrorism Unit and the Threat Squad.”

“And by we do you mean you and I? Or do you mean just Homeland?”

“I think that may change as the situation demands,” Moore allowed.

Hayden looked satisfied. “Make sure your cellphone battery’s charged.”

Moore looked the group over, as if sensing their urgency and liking it. “We have a short window as you know. It won’t take long for these bastards to figure out Ramses ain’t about to lay down that order. So, first things first. How do we locate a terrorist cell?”

Drake checked his watch. “And Marsh. Shouldn’t Marsh be the priority since he’s with the bomb?”

“Intelligence says Marsh will merge with the local cells. We don’t know how many that will be. So we concentrate on both, of course.”

Drake recalled Beau’s report of the conversation between Marsh and Webb. It occurred to him then that the slippery Frenchman, whom they first met whilst being forced to participate in the Last Man Standing tourney and pretty much battled against ever since, had shone for the light of good when it mattered. Shone like a star. He really should give the guy an extra break.

Somewhere along the tibia . . .

Moore spoke again. “There are several ways to locate a deep cell, or even a sleeper cell. We narrow the suspect pool. We investigate links to other known cells that are already under surveillance. Check fiery places of worship where well-known Jihadists spew their poison. We look at newly ritualized people—those who suddenly develop interests in religion, withdraw from society or speak out about a woman’s dress. The NSA listens to metadata collected from millions of cellphones, and evaluates. But far more effective are the men and women who risk it every day of the week—those we have infiltrated into the population from which fresh Jihadists are regularly recruited.”

“Undercover.” Smyth nodded. “That’s good.”

“It is. Our information thus far is thinner than Barbie Iggy Pop. We’re trying to confirm the amount of people in each cell. Size of cells. Areas. Capabilities and readiness. We’re combing all the recent phone logs. Do you think Ramses will talk?”

Hayden was itching to get started. “We’re gonna give it a friggin’ good try.”

“The threat is imminent,” Kinimaka said. “Let’s assign teams and get the hell out there.”

“Yes, yes, that’s good,” Moore explained. “But where will you go? New York is a very large city. Nothing can be gained by running off without a place to go. We don’t even know if the bomb is real. Many people can make a bomb . . . look right.”

Alicia shifted in her seat. “I can vouch for that.”

“Vehicles are at the ready,” Moore said. “SWAT vehicles. Choppers. Unmarked, fast cars. Believe it or not we do have plans for this scenario, ways to clear the streets. Officials and their families are already being evacuated. All we require now is a starting point.”

Hayden turned to her team. “So let’s quickly assign groups and get started on Ramses. Like the man said—our window is small and it’s already closing.”