The Nervous System (23 page)

On the b-side, pretty much anybody who's looking can see me. No margin for stealth here, y'all.

The rain has brought a fair bit of darkness with it even at this early hour, so it's not a complete cinch to spot everything on this level, despite all the windows. Thus far I spy exactly nobody, which doesn't bode well. The mezzanine silent, abandoned …

No, hold up. Seated on one of the granite benches back toward the gates I make out a figure. My gut flippy-flops. Could be a random citizen. Highly unlikely. Squint: they're facing the other direction, away from me.

I hear a helicopter. Nothing unusual, but I listen for it to pass overhead. Headed uptown.

Fuck if it's not another neat setup, as no matter what kind of rock and roll shapes I throw, I'm totally exposed. Any eight-year-old with a rifle-mounted scope could take me out sans problemo. So fuck it.

I pop a pill, bring myself to a standing position. Get to crunking across the floor toward the only occupied bench. Trying to manage my limp, and vibrate strength. Holding my dead hand to my side, so it's not completely obvious that I'm one impaired motherfucker. Move.

I'm checking side to side as I close the gap, seeing nothing notable, hearing and smelling only the rank water, and remote construction cacophony.

Reckon I'd better be prepared for dramatics so I raise my 99. “Hey there,” I call out. “Be advised I'm armed.”

No response from the seated individual.

“Gonna need you to identify yourself, right fucking now.”

Still nothing, though I'm close enough to read the person as female …

Rose.

I stumble around the column at the end of the row of benches, looking left and right, gun extended. All a bit of a charade as my shit is wide open.

NB: out the exit doors directly in front of us I can see the dark water, and a small Coast Guard Defender–class boat, engines idling. Assuming it's manned. Its military function announced by the large aft-mounted machine gun.

Rose Hee is sitting stiff-backed straight, dressed in orange prison garb, her hands behind her back, mouth sealed neatly with black tape. Her hair is down. She's got metal shackles around her neck and legs. Makeup a clownish smear. Gaze stunned, attempting defiance. Her vast, shiny peepers track me as I come up on her.

“Rose.”

I kneel down, digging the white plastic leg shackles. Rose is making a squeaky sound, attempts to kick me. Eyes wild with frustration, fear. Points her chin at … orange nylon rope, attached to both leg and neck restraints, leading—

Turn around. The ropes thread under the doors, out to the water … I move forward, tracing them out the window, down the slipway, and onto the boat. They must spot me now, cause the Defender guns its engines, and kicks up foam.

So Rose is tethered to the boat. Fuck me. Cute.

Spin back toward her, and there he is, hand on her head.

Early seventies, but military sharp despite the jowls. White mustache and an NYPD baseball hat. Bomber jacket. My head goes whiz bang, and I see him clearly, turning toward the child that is me several decades back, a spray of camera flash.

“My two favorite kids,” says Nic Deluccia, showing us his teeth, his fine dental work. “Who'd a thunk it?”

My tummy in a twist, I raise my pistol. It's a thick New York brogue he speaks with, and I recall it well.

“Nic,” I say. “Correct?” I'm all kotted up, smooth talk eluding me, so I do the safe thing and rock it dumb.

He gives a pained, off-kilter grin. “You gonna make like you're not sure it's me? Listen. I dunno what's the idea with this amnesia bit, which I find kinda, well, kinda fucking insulting, given all I've done to help you better yourself, son.”

“Don't know what you're talking about,” I say, froggy. Realize his voice has never left me.

It's my intention to stick with the plan to claim ignorance, floss stupid.

Nic snorts. “Really, you're gonna play this thing out all the way like you don't remember old Nic Deluccia? Goddamn if I haven't known the both of yous since you were nothing but tadpoles. All but raised you, son. This is like a family fucking tragedy.”

“Let's just do this and cut out the fat,” I counter. Won't look at him, no, not directly. “Say what you want, guy, I don't know you, so there can be no head-fucking. I'm immune.”

Nic examines me, shrugs. “Well, hell, it's not important, I suppose. Cause I know you.”

Now I look at him. Eyes. Blue-gray-flecked headlights on the man. I'm twelve years old. I want him to be proud of me. Shudder, wanna shuck this sticky feeling.

Him saying, “And the fuckin thing is … none of it makes a lick of difference now. Cause you kids …”

He laces his fingers through Rose's hair. Her eyes are locked on mine. Nic now shifts attention to Rose. I scan the man's torso for a clear shot. Dig me now: it's gonna be difficult to bring myself to pull the trigger on this man.

“And I'm most disappointed in you, my dear. Such a smart and well-behaved woman, always toeing the line, always helpful … What happened to the young Rose I know and love? The world was your oyster, my sweet Rose.”

Since Rose can't respond, I do.

“She grew up, pal. So give and let's all just skate home, happy as clams.”

Nic checks me again. Contemplates my damaged face, my split lip, my gimp hand, my many open wounds, ropes of scar tissue. I'm no beauty, but if I didn't know better I'd have the impression he was actually glad to see me. Glad but disappointed.

“You,” says Nic, directing his mouth at me, not without affection. “Willful as all get out, you were. Are. Apparently few things change.”

“Let's wrap this up, dreamweaver. Tick tock.” Tough stuff, heart thumping in the back of my throat.

“That's right, son,” says Nic. “Game running down on you both. Now listen to me, and listen good.”

I swallow. Something of the scared child turns in my chest. That voice.

Saying, “You kids have succeeded in inserting yourselves into an affair that is very fucking serious business indeed. And a soft touch I may be—”

Twists Rose's hair, hard. She audibly inhales, tenses further. A single tear ambles down the side of her face, trailing black mascara.

“But I don't allow personal histories to complicate matters when I'm in the field. Business is business. You kids. Fucking around with my golden goose. Money is money. This kinda thing though? This is tough on me, don't doubt that. Even if you wanna fake like I'm nobody to you. Like I said, I'm fucking insulted.”

“Back up off of her, Nic.” My voice hangs there lame, like a shitty joke.

He shows me his teeth, and they disappear quick. Directs his chin at me. “I see your gun, son. That's a pretty gun. Sure. I'm not backing up anywhere. The very second you get a shot off, you'd better hope and pray it's a winner. Which is neither here nor there, cause either way the lovely Rose goes waterskiing. Hell, it'd be a shame to see such a beautiful lady meet such a ridiculous end. So come with it.”

“Kathleen Koch is nearby,” I say, not sure what I'm doing anymore, waving the pistol vaguely, pressing forward, all I know is I gotta press forward. “She's unharmed. She's close. Rose gets cut loose and you get her, no fuss, no muss.”

“How about your bomb, son?”

That doesn't track. I blink. The reappearance of Nic Deluccia in my zone has succeeded in throwing my normally verbose ass for a loop.

“You don't mean to tell me you forgot to wear your handy body-bomb thingamadoodle? As promised.”

Goddamnit. Spacing on key shit … If I could just back up and do this again, but that's not the way the world turns …

I open my coat with my smashed hand, say, “Take a look, motherfucker. That's right.” Halfhearted. It's not gonna float but I gotta go through the motions.

Nic doesn't bother moving his eyes from mine. “I won't push ya, son. And I truly hope we get the chance to all walk away from this thing friends, healthy and happy.”

“Cocksucker, nobody walks out of here at all, dig? Unless you let Rose, unless you, unless you get your fuckin hands off …” I'm stumbling over the words. Something in my mouth. My tongue, my tongue in my mouth, lumpy, a hunk of fat.

Nic shakes his head. “You're a mess. Hard thing to see. Lookit here. Think about what you're saying, kid. Really. If you had a bomb, a real bomb, would you want to blow up yourself and your girlfriend with you? For what? Just be clear, there's no bomb, and you've welched on the arrangement. Madame Senator is not here. Which means you're not respecting anybody's
time
. You're not shooting straight, son. Giving me an ulcer. After all I gave to you. Listen up. The senators, particularly Senator Howard, are some of my best clients. You'd better believe if I was running security for Senator Koch, you, son, would not have gotten near her. Unthinkable. Now, all right.” His tone gets sincere, sympathetic: “Business aside, we can help you out, honest we can.”

I almost buy it as genuine sympathy. Maybe it is genuine.

Nic continues, “Son, I've seen soldiers … I've seen men and women come back from even the most devastating circumstances. I've seen 'em come off the edge of that cliff, rebuild their lives.”

He speaks softer still. It's like it's just me and him.

“That's a big part of the Cyna-corp family, why I started it up in the first place. You know what I'm talking about, cause however you slice it we've had this conversation before. My organization, it's somewhere to go for people with a … what? With a very special skill set, who might otherwise find themselves spurned, ostracized. They send you out there, and then, hell, nobody wants you back, am I wrong, son? Unsure about what's next for ya? Nowhere to go to do what you've been trained to do. I've been through it myself, God knows. Hell, you were part of my outfit, once upon a time, son …”

My vision goes a little wonky … spiky ticklish pain, as if insects are attempting to gnaw their way out of my eye sockets. A bomb, a real bomb. See the mystery chest, deep in the guts of the library, overflowing with explosives … why …?

Reflexively, I put my hand to the back of my neck, to the small machine that waits there under my skin. Does it shift, push back a little?

Get it together, Decimal.

For Rose. For Rose, insists the killer in my head, I have to rally. I must overcome. Okay, the body-bomb thing is a bust. I fumbled there, and that's my badu.

Aware that Nic is talking. I keep the gun trained on him and think very carefully, from the ground up, about how exactly Rose is secured.

“Like I said. Hey, we'd love to have you back. You were part of the team, but I can't ignore you didn't execute your job up at the library. No follow through. Maybe you just got confused, like you're confused now. Trying to say that's okay, kid, we can move forward in a new—” She's not lashed to the seat. Okay. Set it off. I shoot Nic in the chest.

He gives a surprised snort, steps back, and catches his own foot, collapsing behind the bench.

Step lively, Decimal. Unseen snipers cut loose with gunfire but I go to work, yes I'm moving, I hug Rose and swing her around do-si-do. Bullet knocks my hat off and I'm shoe-slapping full bore toward the slip, bang through the doors, hot sting on my shoulder as I'm hit but it doesn't slow me down much, Rose under one arm, gun in my floppy left hand, firing on the vessel with my ring finger, maybe twenty feet out, the guys on the boat panicking, one of these geniuses makes for the machine gun, realizes he won't be able to spin it around without spraying the cabin, so both turn and return fire with sidearms, then (go go go) one of them gets smart and hits the gas a bit too energetically.

As the Defender slides sideways toward the dock for a moment, I throw myself and Rose at the boat's rear, trying to turn in the air so as to land on my back in the manner of the pole-vaulter, but an athlete I am not … sickeningly I'm looking at nothing but water, yet we bounce off the twin engine hulls and come down hard on the boat itself. If the Defender hadn't slid sideways at that moment, we wouldn't have made it. I don't dwell on this.

One joker is barking at the other as the Defender shoots out into open water, with us hanging halfway off its rear runner. As we come out from under the shelter of the terminal, the rain douses us, and I get on top of Rose, the pile of nylon rope slack, trailing harmlessly off her legs and neck into the river … goddamn. As I eliminate one source of fucking stress, a whole slew of new problematics come bopping in.

Copilot is letting off a volley of close-range shots that are going embarrassingly wide. I get up on my elbows, hurting. Take a deep, peaceful breath as I focus on his dome, squeeze that trigger.

There's a burst of blood from atop his shoulders, and the man I just killed shimmies off the side into the river.

Skipper seems to be trying to decide between steering the boat and protecting his neck, and in that moment I shoot him too through the back of his skull, he collapses neatly, I daresay a fine bit of left-handed gunwork on my part considering.

Rose is moaning and groaning, her hands and feet immobilized as they are. Gunmen on the roof of the terminal are letting us have it, and I'm trying to drag the lady into the tiny cabin, munitions pinging and ponging off the boat, I'm praying they don't hit the engine, and then it occurs that the most pressing problem is the fact that nobody's steering the ship. Move.

As I pivot to seek out the wheel of a fucking
boat
for the very first time in my tragicomic life, we glance off the listing wreckage of a Circle Line ferry. With a horrendous scrape, the impact knocks me over, sends my gun skidding down the length of the boat … I'm crawling after the 99 and simultaneously attempting to crane my noggin around to see what's doing, and we smack into the looming Circle Line hull again, this time causing us to spin all the way around, effectively killing our engines.