Orest Stelmach - The Boy from Reactor 4

Halfway to the curtain, Victor thought of Specter and the possibility of jail, but realized the man had never seen him commit a crime. The authorities had nothing on him. When Victor burst through the curtain, his religious inspiration left him. He became the greedy bastard he’d always been. Once he knew he was safe, and that he’d see Tara and her child again, he thought of what all men thought of when they were conscious. Money.

As he escaped the Underground through the back door onto the street, it occurred to Victor that if Stefan were killed, the dove and the maiden would be his once again.

WHEN THE BULLETS started flying, Nadia tackled Adam. They stayed low. The floor shook before her eyes when bullets felled Stefan and Victor’s other bodyguard.

The firefight ended as abruptly as it had started.

Specter rushed over to them. Nadia and Adam were still on the ground.

“Are you all right?” he said.

His words sounded distant. Nadia realized her hearing was impaired from the gunshots.

Nadia glanced at Adam, who was rubbing his ears.

“I think so,” she said, collecting herself. She studied Specter. “Who are you, really?”

Specter pulled out a wallet and flipped it open to reveal an ID. “John Dzen. FBI. I work for the joint Hungarian-American task force on organized crime. We started there, ended up here. Where’s Victor Bodnar? He was here, wasn’t he?”

Nadia stood up. Her body trembled. She looked around. An agent was tending to a wounded colleague near the front door. Yuri and Simon were sitting on the floor, unscathed. Another agent was checking the pulses of Stefan and the other bodyguard. But there was no sign of Victor.

“These two are dead,” the agent said.

“He must have slipped away,” Nadia said. “You’re going to get him, though, right?”

“Did he have a gun? Did you see him shoot anyone?”

Nadia remembered Victor standing beside his bodyguards with his hands by his sides. “I don’t think so.”

Specter frowned. Raised his eyebrows. “Where’s the formula?”

Adam stood up.

“There is no formula,” Nadia said.

“Nadia, please,” Specter said. “The formula is a matter of national security. You must hand it over to the federal government. Let me put it to you this way. You will hand it over to us one way or another.”

“There’s no formula, Specter,” Nadia said. “Adam, show this man what was in the locket. Show this man what this was all about.”

Adam held the picture of the Statue of Liberty in his left hand. He extended his arm so Specter could see it.

Specter frowned. “What’s this? Is this a joke? Do you think I’m stupid enough to fall for this? Where’s the microfilm—”

Adam was staring with disbelief at a purple stain on his sports jacket. It was near his upper chest on his left side.

“He’s been shot,” Nadia said. “Specter, you shot an innocent child.”

“Stray bullet,” Specter said.

“Get an ambulance. Now.”

Adam’s knees wobbled. Nadia caught him. Specter helped her ease him back to the floor and peeled his jacket back. His white shirt was stained with blood, like Yuri’s the night he’d pretended to be Max Milan. Only this time, the blood was real.

Specter barked orders for a second ambulance and a first-aid kit. When it arrived, he opened a sterile bandage and told Nadia to apply direct pressure on the wound.

“It’s the upper chest,” he said. “Near the deltoid-pectoral tie-in. Nothing vital. Worst case, a muscle got hit. He’ll be fine. Ambulance is on the way.”

Adam, near the border of consciousness, studied Specter and turned to Nadia. “Government man,” he said. “Can’t trust a government man.”

“No,” Nadia said, giving Specter an evil eye. “No, you most certainly cannot.”

Nadia followed Adam’s gaze to the paper in his hand. The glossy newsprint and its dimensions struck a chord within Nadia. The hockey magazine. Adam had held up a page when she first asked about it on the Trans-Siberian. The page had a hole in it. It was the page for the New York Rangers. He’d torn the picture of the Statue of Liberty out of the magazine and put it in the locket.

Adam nodded at the picture of Lady Liberty. “Downtown?” he said.

Nadia nodded. “Downtown. I’ll take you to see her.”

For the first time since she’d met him, Adam smiled.

Nadia continued to press her hand to his wound gently. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll take care of you. But no more lies between us. Okay, Bobby?”

He took a second to absorb the comment. “Okay. No more lies, Auntie.”

SHE WAS THE mighty woman with the torch.

Back in school in Korosten, Adam had badgered a teacher into translating the poem with which the Mother of Exiles greeted new arrivals:

Those were the lines he liked the most. Those were the phrases he recited before he went to sleep.

Now that he was here in person, though, she seemed to have more to say. It was a simple message. The wind carried it across the harbor and onto the bridge. It echoed in his ears over and over again:

Anything can happen in New York City.

Any dream can be fulfilled.

EARLY IN THE third period, Fordham Prep cut its deficit to 2–1. The pace quickened, play sharpened. The teams traded power plays and numerous quality scoring chances. With five minutes left in the game, Coach Terry Hilliard tapped Bobby Kungenook on the shoulder for the first time since benching him.

With two minutes left to play, Iona broke in on a two-on-one. A third goal would put the game out of reach and end any chance of Fordham continuing its undefeated season. Bobby Kungenook skated backward as the two Iona forwards converged on the goalie. He moved his stick toward the puck carrier and shifted his body as though he were going to lunge for him. The Iona forward assumed he was about to get hit and shuffled the puck across to his teammate. Bobby pushed off with his back skate, righted himself, and intercepted the pass.

He exploded up ice. One stride. Two strides. Bobby blew past the third Iona forward at full speed. He shoveled the puck to his center. An Iona defenseman leaned toward the center, who left a drop pass behind his back. Bobby collected the puck again a second later and streaked by them.

His black hair flowed behind his helmet as he rushed toward the net, gleaming like a bat’s wing under the arena lights. He faked right, slid the puck between the second defenseman’s legs, collected it, deked the goalie low, and tucked the puck into the upper-right-hand corner of the net.

The crowd erupted. Goose bumps sprouted on Lauren’s neck. She realized she was standing and clapping, though she never remembered having risen to her feet.

After the goal, Bobby circled the net but didn’t raise his hands in jubilation as most hockey players do. Instead, he rounded the corner of the rink and stopped in his tracks. As his four teammates mobbed him, he kept his hands by his sides and stuck his head out to receive their congratulations, like a cat eager to butt heads with its owner. They hugged him and rubbed their gloves over his helmet, and when he skated to his bench to butt fists with his other teammates, he looked like a long-lost boy who’d finally found his home.