Robert Tanenbaum - Counterplay

Some nemesis you turned out to be, Mr. Karp, he thought, happily. Yes, you managed to save your stupid cathedral and precious Pope, but your life will be one of never-ending tears when you find your sons butchered and have to live with the idea that your daughter is my whore. I’ll ruin you politically as well when my friends in the media hear how you’re related to Russian gangsters. My new good friend Rachel Rachman will be the district attorney, and I’ll be able to return to the city…perhaps with a new face and identity.

Kane looked behind. The second boat with the shadowy pursuers would never catch him in time. We’ll scoot through and then shut the door, he thought happily. But the smirk left his face when his driver sounded the boat’s horn, which for the moment drowned out the sound of the storm, reminding him of Lucy’s story.

“What in the hell!” Kane shouted.

His man pointed ahead. The bridge was swiveling to a close, and it was going to be a race to see if they could reach the opening in time.

“Faster!” Kane shouted.

“There is no more speed,” the man shouted back.

They almost made it, but at the last minute, the driver had to cut the engine and turn the boat sharply to avoid crashing into the end of the bridge section. The drastic move caused the engine to stall and despite repeated efforts it wouldn’t start up again.

“No!” Kane howled. “How did this happen?”

As an answer a spotlight suddenly stabbed down from a helicopter overhead. “This is the New York City Police Department. Put down your weapons and remain where you are with your hands up.”

Suddenly, the lights on the bridge were turned on. Kane shaded his eyes and tried to see who was on the bridge. He could just make out three figures standing on the edge of the bridge looking down at him. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and when they did, making out the features of the tall one in the middle, he screamed in rage. “Karp! I don’t believe this!” He aimed his gun and fired until he was out of bullets, but his aim on the pitching boat was worthless and all his shots went wide.

“Shoot them, dammit,” he yelled at his driver. The man obediently grabbed his AK-47 and jumped up on the bow of the boat. He aimed the rifle but never got a shot off before there were two flashes from one of the figures on the bridge and the terrorist fell back and into the water.

Up on the bridge, standing between his wife and Ned, Butch Karp picked up a bullhorn. “It’s over, Kane,” he said. “There’s nowhere to go. The river’s sealed off in both directions. The Pope is safe. So is the cathedral. And by the way, you don’t have any money.”

“You’re lying, Karp,” Kane said, suddenly turning to point his gun at Lucy. “Open the bridge or I swear I’ll kill her.”

Kane glanced over as the second boat pulled up twenty feet away. A tall, pale man stepped to the edge of the boat. He looked almost like a skeleton. Or the pale rider, a voice said in Kane’s head sending a spasm of fear through his body.

“Nope, telling you the truth, Kane,” Karp said. “Emil never got the chance to reroute the money into your foreign accounts. You got nothing, nada, zippo.”

Kane’s call to confirm the transfer of the money from the Vatican’s bank had arrived with Emil Stavros already in handcuffs and Ray Guma holding the phone so he could speak. Dante Coletta was also handcuffed and sitting on the floor, somewhat worse the wear for having tried to duke it out with Clarke Fairbrother first.

Kane stood for a moment as if contemplating his surrender. But fast as a snake, he reached out and yanked Lucy to her feet and then held his knife at her throat.

“So this is how it ends, Karp,” he said. “But first you’re going to have to watch me cut this bitch’s head off.”

Karp spoke quietly. “Can you get him, Ned?”

Ned shook his head. He still had the terrorist’s handgun from the cathedral, but it was an automatic, not what he was used to, and the boat was pitching. “I’m as likely to hit her as him.”

“Open the bridge, Karp,” Kane said. “Is it worth watching your daughter die?”

Down in the boat, Lucy was finishing her conversation with St. Teresa when Kane pulled her to her feet. For the first time in a long time, Teresa had appeared as a visual manifestation sitting on the seat at the back of the boat. But she looked different than she had in the past. Before, she’d appeared as a young, not particularly pretty woman in fifteenth-century robes; for unknown reasons, this time she was wearing a blue silk shirt over white cutoffs. She also looked to be in her midthirties and was very beautiful.

“I swam this once,” Teresa said. “But I wouldn’t try it at high tide.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Lucy replied, though she realized she’d said nothing aloud.

“No reason,” the woman said. “Just a memory of who I used to be. Andy’s got memories, too, of your kindness once before. I suggest that the white queen make her move. Oh, and Lucy, when you see Ray Guma, tell him hi for me.”

I’ll do that, Lucy thought, then said aloud, “Andy, you need to stop him.”

Kane tightened his grip and pressed the knife harder against her throat. “What the fuck are you talking about, you little whore.”

“Andy. You have to be strong.”

“Quit calling me ‘Andy,’ I hate that name, and you’re giving me a headache,” Kane snarled. “As soon as we get your daddy, I mean Karp, to open the bridge, I’m going to cut your fuckin’-”

“You shouldn’t use bad words,” a boy’s voice scolded.

Lucy felt the grip on her loosen for a moment, then it tightened again.

“Shut the fuck up, you little wimp,” Kane yelled.

“Let her go,” Andy replied. “You’re a bad man.”

“Get out of my head!” Kane shouted again. “You’re not real. You died a long time ago…worthless…stupid.”

“Sticks and stones may break my bones,” Andy rhymed, “but words will never hurt me.”

“I’ll hurt you, you son of a bitch,” Kane said, letting go of Lucy who crawled over next to Fulton.

Kane slashed at the air with his knife. “Die, you little faggot,” he screamed, slashing again. “You’re weak. You’re stupid. You’re a whore’s son.”

“I’m just a little boy,” Andy cried. “I want to be loved.”

Kane slammed his left hand down on the gunwale of the boat. He raised the knife and chopped down, cutting off three fingers. “There, you weakling,” he screamed. “Now, run and hide. You never could handle pain.”

Blood pouring from his wounded hand, Kane turned to Lucy. “Nice try, bitch. But your little friend is gone. And now I’m going to finish you, too.”

Kane took two steps toward Lucy with his knife in the air. A shot rang out from the bridge above, but the bullet whizzed past. He leaped for the girl, but even as he prepared to drive the knife into her chest, Fulton’s foot lashed out and caught him in the stomach.

The blow knocked Kane to the deck. When he rose, the big detective was between him and the girl.

“Well, Detective.” Kane smirked as he dropped into the Kali on-guard pose. “Guess it’s like I said…I should have killed you back in February.” He feinted with the knife for Fulton’s eyes, then stabbed at his chest. But instead of his blade sinking into flesh, he was surprised when his hand was deflected outward; then the wind was driven out of him when the detective’s other hand shot in and caught him in the solar plexus.

“This ain’t my first knife fight, sucker,” Fulton snarled. “And you…” the next blow caught Kane under the chin “…ain’t that good.” The right cross sent Kane spinning against the rail of the boat where he tottered for a moment and then fell over the side.