Never Go Alone Page 20

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  Schaub was deep in slumber when the knocking began. He wasn’t happy to be woken. But after he’d shaken off the cobwebs and gazed through his peephole, his discontent turned to absolute acid. It was just like Jake Rivett to appear like this. Two weeks of silence, and then all of a sudden he shows—with two unknown dudes. But Schaub opened the door. He always did and always would.

  “You don’t show up for practice. Don’t answer my calls. And it doesn’t even look like you brought breakfast,” Schaub said. “Who are they?”

  “I need your computer, Schaub.”

  “Oh, okay, I’ll just go screw myself . . .”

  “Boys. This is Schaub. He’s my best friend. We’re in a band. Schaub—some work friends. I need a favor . . . or two or three. I need it bad.”

  Schaub took another look at the three men. “I’m going back to bed,” he said.

  ▪

  Sitting in front of Schaub’s computer, Jake pulled the pile of SD cards from his pocket. “I believe you were looking for these,” Jake said. “I took the privilege of liberating them myself. Should we start watching?”

  Jake, Rory, and Castle began to go through the videos. After about a hundred sexual encounters, they were quite discouraged. They’d started to fast forward through the video files, scrubbing as quickly as they could to establish the content. Castle smoked a cigarette. Rory was the most fascinated—glued to the screen while Jake controlled the playback. They were nearing the end of the cards and still hadn’t found anything of interest.

  “Tell me about this . . . handoff,” Jake said.

  “Metropolis is scheduled to give one million dollars, cash, to the mayor.”

  “To Ronald Berg?”

  “Indeed,” Rory said.

  “Insane.”

  “You don’t have to believe it. It’s the truth. They know we know. She’s their insurance policy. Make sure it all goes down smooth.”

  “We gotta find her. Now. Insurance ain’t worth anything after the expiration date . . .” Jake trailed off.

  “I know that,” Rory agreed. “But it’s a big city, Jake. I’m not omnipotent. I can’t just divine her location.”

  “With the laptop, you’re not just a story. You’re a fact. Here’s what we can do. You turn state’s evidence,” Jake said. “Come in with me. I’ll do my best to protect you. We’ll make you a CI . . . get them to take Metropolis down the right way.”

  Rory’s laughter echoed all the way into Schaub’s dreams. “By that time? She’ll be dead. And the money? Gone.”

  Jake angrily jammed the last SD card into the computer and hit play.

  “What other option is there?”

  “We take the fight right to them. Take the money. Then we make a trade. Mona for their cash back.”

  “Think that would fly?” Jake asked.

  “You’re the cop,” Rory replied.

  But before Jake could answer, both of their eyes were drawn directly to the computer screen as if by an electromagnetic pulse. Wide across the monitor were the scared eyes of an urban explorer. Jake had never seen this explorer’s face before, but he didn’t need to be told who it was. He glanced at Rory for confirmation. Rory was white as a sheet, words barely emoting from his dry and quivering lips.

  “Will.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  WILL VISCO’S FACE FILLED THE screen. His smile was wide and open with features that mirrored Rory’s. Wearing a helmet, he grinned from ear to ear, culminating in a long microphone-blowing scream powered by pure adrenaline.

  “Sleddin’ the hydra!” Will yelled, his face still too close to the camera for any observers to make out his surroundings. “It’s really goin’ down!”

  The camera suddenly whipped around 180 degrees and was secured into a bracket on Will’s helmet. Now gazing forward, it was much easier to make out Will’s environment. To the left and right, the curved steel walls of an old sewer system filtered past. Will’s two feet—and the tops of his hands—were visible ahead. He was holding onto a small sled as if he were an Olympic luger. But instead of ice for a surface, Will’s track was the slick inside channel of the small descending drain. He whipped around each curve screaming at the top of his lungs while the force of physics mixed with the gyrations of the track and attempted to tear him from his sled. Will held extremely tight, fluidly adjusting his body in the exact rhythm necessary to not lose his balance.

  After one final curve, the drain dropped precipitously. Will fell along with it. He flew almost vertically through the air with his head in the lead—down a thirty-foot section of pipe. His sled reached the bottom of the vertical portion and ripped forward through a small elbow into a straightaway.

  The tunnel finally stabilized, flattened, and began to grow wider. Will careened down the straightaway, gradually slowing and losing speed from friction. Midway down the route, the inch of water that had collected became half a foot deep. When his sled hit the pooling water, it caused giant fans of water molecules to explode on each side of his small sled, like tires ripping through a puddle on a dreary afternoon. The water proved the final obstacle—slowing Will down almost completely until his sled came to a stop.

  Will reached for the camera on his helmet, yanked it out of the bracket, and aimed back towards himself.

  “Holy crap.” He breathed heavily from the exertion. “Incredible. Sometimes you scout for two months and get two minutes out of it. But it was all worth it. Best thrill ride of my life. If the water hadn’t stopped me up . . .” Will angled the camera towards the end of the tunnel. It was a large brick room consisting of multiple drain inputs and outputs leading to further depths. This was one of the multi-jointed vertices that brought together the disparate elements of the first sewer system in the city. That fact was also evidenced by the elegant creatures chiseled into the keystone of each tunnel ahead of him. Will shined his flashlight through each of the channels. The drains below Will’s feet were almost completely open and rusted through, in very bad condition due to decades of water flow without maintenance.

  “Well, I’m not gonna go any farther today,” Will said to the camera. “It’ll take me a few hours to climb back out. Lates.”

  The camera was secured to Will’s helmet again. He reached into muddy water at the bottom of the tunnel to pick up his sled when another voice could be heard in the background.

  “Visco,” the mysterious voice said.

  Will’s view straightened and whipped, searching through the dark for the source of the words. Then a man emerged from the open sewer channel to Will’s left. Will’s spotlight caught the man’s gaunt face as he entered. Wearing waterproof pants with a respirator hanging around his neck, Stian Ziros glared at Will.

  “Funny seeing you here,” Ziros said. He held up a pistol, aimed directly at the camera.

  “Uh . . .” Will stammered.

  “Don’t move,” Ziros said.

  Two more men surrounded Will on both sides.

  It was at that moment the camera began to frantically spasm. Will was running the other direction, heading back down the narrowing tunnel that he’d emerged from.

  Freedom ahead—or at least a shot at it.

  But no.

  A destructive crunch crackled—

  Will’s perspective dove to the floor—then aimed upwards.

  Ziros jumped on top of Will. With a bloodthirsty expression dominating his face, the plastic surgery-enhanced thug hit Will repeatedly. Alternating between his left and right hands like a UFC fighter, the camera wobbled back and forth with each hit until the man was done.

  “Should we finish him off, sir?” one of the henchmen asked.

  “Not with the gun,” Ziros replied as he stood. “But make sure he’s a goner.” Ziros leaned in quizzically until his face encompassed the entire screen of the video. Ziros' fingers gripped the camera and yanked it off Will’s helmet. “And . . . cut,” he said.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE SILENCE WAS DEAFENING. NONE of the three of th
em had been prepared for the raw delivery of this particular video. Rory was clearly the one affected most by the haunting and horrible memorialization of his brother’s death. His eyes glistened. But he wasn’t crying. He was contemplative, lost somewhere else, eyes focused on nothing.

  Castle, however, was bawling on the bed—much more willing to externalize his feelings.

  “I’ll take it in,” Jake finally said.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. That’s disgusting,” Castle said between gasps.

  “It was worse in my mind,” Rory finally said.

  “Ror . . .” Castle said.

  “It’s okay,” Rory replied.

  “I can’t imagine . . .” Jake said.

  “I’ve seen it for years. Up here,” Rory tapped his skull. “To be honest? It helps to know. It really does.”

  “I’ll bring this into Tony. My partner.”

  “No,” Rory said after another long pause.

  “Really?” Jake asked.

  “That video doesn’t have Arthur Metropolis in it. I don’t win if the ghost gets a first-class ticket to the electric chair. I want Arthur’s head on a pitchfork.”

  “Think about this like a cop,” Jake said. “Some cases—most, actually—reach a point when you’re just slogging along. You’re draggin’ mud, and you hit a wall that you just can’t climb. But there’s a little birdie sitting there—it’s something, and it’s good. Sometimes you gotta take the bird in hand. You want justice? We’ll get it. We’ll nail Stian Ziros and the other two. They won’t see freedom for the rest of their pathetic-ass adult lives.”

  “Nah, Jake. I told you a long time ago, I do what I want. I access all areas. What I want is Arthur Metropolis. It’s not enough to break a couple windows. I am going to take his life down to the studs and then melt the frame. The whole thing—the whole organization.”

  “What about Mona?”

  “Her too. All of it. Get the handoff on video, get the cash, get Mona, then release the footage. Understand? The preparations have been made. Whaddya think, noob?”

  The whole room knew where Rivett was going before he opened his mouth.

  “Of course,” Jake said. “I’m absolutely in.”

  ▪

  The gray stone of Fifteen Central Park West, an imposing residential building on the west side of Manhattan, rose into the air with geometric precision. This building was notable for many reasons, but the wealth of its inhabitants was definitely its most remarkable factor. It was also important to Tony Villalon because it was one of Rory’s five possible targets. Jake’s information had arrived at exactly the right time. While Susan Herlihy was making plans to physically locate Rory and the rest of his crew, Tony had presented another idea: “We know the five places that they’re going to hit, right? Conduct a grade-A stakeout and nab them while committing the crime itself.” That would lock Rory right on up, and the police wouldn’t have to rely on the testimony of an unreliable undercover or overcomplicated surveillance data.

  Fifteen Central Park West’s regal central courtyard reflected a bygone era—one in which a building in Manhattan could afford to sacrifice open-air building opportunities for the sake of residents’ comfort. But considering that the inhabitants of this building’s total net worth would add up to a sum greater than the value of many countries, it wasn’t that out of the ordinary. What was unusual was the boxy, gray NERV truck parked just a few feet from the entrance to the building. A Networked Emergency Response Vehicle, it housed multiple live feeds and formed a virtual “command station” for Villalon. Other techs connected and booted up various surveillance systems within the truck as Tony stood outside and sampled from a tray of catering the building’s manager had brought out for them.

  “We’ll need to tread very carefully,” the manager told Tony.

  “Agreed.”

  “The residents of this building are not accustomed overt police presence.”

  “Let me tell you what your people really won’t like,” Tony said bluntly. “Having all of their jewelry and documents swiped by a bunch of cat burglars who’ve never been caught.” Tony finished up a scrumptious croissant then turned as another NYPD car arrived in the driveway.

  Susan emerged from the vehicle completely poised, as usual. She was wearing a large, wide-brimmed hat as if her next stop was the Preakness. She tilted the chapeau up just enough to read Tony.

  “Isn’t this exciting?” she asked. Then she nodded her head towards the NERV and took the stairs in her high heels.

  ▪

  When they were both inside the truck, Tony quickly briefed Susan on the coordination between various elements of the NYPD’s counterterror, SWAT, surveillance, and technical units.

  “We’ve contacted the managers, and in some case the owners, of the remaining four places. That’s the Trump, Time Warner Center right down the street, Eighteen Gramercy and the Millennium building. You see the moving truck right there?” Tony pointed through the one-directional glass of the NERV truck and past the wrought-iron gates of Fifteen’s motor court towards a large eighteen-wheeler parked innocuously on the street.

  “Is that where my boys are?”

  “Indeed,” Tony said. “Markle and some of the most terrifying men that SWAT has on payroll are in there prepping their gear as we speak. We have smaller units at the other buildings, but given how close Fifteen and the Time Warner Center are, we figured this was the best place for the main squad.”

  “Fine,” Susan said. “So now what?”

  “Now? We wait.”

  “I was never good at that.”

  Tony chuckled.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You and Rivett. You bicker like cats and dogs. But you’re more similar than anything else.”

  “Rivett. Where is he?”

  Tony could only shrug. “Don’t know about Jake. Lickin’ his wounds, I bet.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  JAKE HAD A SIXTH SENSE for sniffing tails and he didn’t like what he was smelling.

  “You prepared?” Castle asked Rory—who was now driving the three of them away from Schaub’s apartment inside Schaub’s old Toyota Corolla. They had left the Sprinter parked on the street.

  Rory’s hand emerged from the side pocket of his jacket holding a pistol. “I am,” Rory said.

  “What the hell?” Jake asked. “What’s the gun for, dude?”

  “Oh, this? Not for the cops. Not your boys. It’s for my main man.”

  “You didn’t say anything about firearms.”

  “Well, you didn’t say you were a pig, but that didn’t stop you from being one, did it? I don’t care. Why should I? You saw the video.”

  “You know that everything’s coming down on you, right? Half of anti-terror’s doing waterfall surveillance on you. There’s so many people out there we won’t see a single repeated face if they’re onto us. Whole borough's on tactical alert, and there’s a SWAT team at each one of those five places you prepped for.” Jake glanced back through the back window of the car. A good distance away, a beat-up Saab followed them, the two headlights of the vehicle only barely visible about four hundred feet back. “You see that car back there?”

  “I see the Saab, yes.”

  “We can’t go anywhere near your five buildings. Right? Would be suicide.”

  “I’m well aware, noob. You also forgot to mention our cell phones.”

  “Well, we need to get rid of them too—ASAP,” Jake responded.

  “We still good, Jack?” Rory asked Castle, avoiding Jake’s statement.

  “A-okay,” Castle replied.

  Jake looked over Castle’s shoulder. Castle was browsing an Instagram profile on his phone. But Jake couldn’t quite make out who it was.

  “If it isn’t one of those five buildings, then what’s the target?”

  “Hold your horses. First we need to deal with the hippie.”

  ▪

  Back inside the NERV truck at Fifteen Central Park West, Tony Villalon observed a cl
uster of two cell phone signals moving in unison onscreen. Jake was right about the Saab, and Rory was right about the cell phones. Tony was indeed tracking Rory’s location dynamically via signals intelligence.

  Tony, Susan, and various other police and special situations commanders all stood in the truck, focused on the data scrolling across the screen in front of them. The place hummed with op-speed adrenaline. It was a drug that all of them were addicted to but could never admit and might not even know—at least until the doldrums of retirement hit them like a sledgehammer.

  “I can taste it,” Susan said while she turned towards Villalon. “Can you? Just like, on the tip of your tongue? Just a little bit?”

  “What”

  “Blood.”

  Tony chuckled nervously. The location dots were now heading towards one of the massive new parking lots that had emerged around the new Brooklyn Nets stadium at Flatbush and Atlantic.

  ▪

  Whipping down Flatbush Avenue, the Toyota skidded around a left turn and raced with breakneck speed into the large parking complex.

  Following just a few moments later, the Saab arrived and turned on its blinkers across the street from the entrance to the parking garage. It wasn’t thirty seconds before another car, a blue BMW, slowly passed by the Saab. The professionals inside the Saab nodded to those inside the Beemer—three men from major crimes and professional human trackers at that. The trackers entered the garage in pursuit.

  ▪

  On the second story of the garage, Castle turned to Jake. He was holding a large plastic Ziploc that already contained his own and Rory’s cell phones.

  “Ready to give them up?” Castle asked.

  “Sure.” Jake pulled out his two cell phones. He placed them into the bag.

  Rory focused his attention forward. He gunned the accelerator, ripping up the circular parking ramp in the middle of the complex. They finally crunched into a stop on the third level.

  Rory turned back to Jake. “It’s now or never.”