Nick Stephenson - Panic

Stark pulled the trigger without another thought.

“Stark? The senator’s security chief?” said Mary. “What makes you think he has anything to do with this?”

“He’s the only one that fits,” said Leopold, pointing to the whiteboard. “The murders were all committed by a professional, and Stark certainly has the pedigree.”

“What about motive?”

“A disgraced former black ops colonel would hold a grudge against anyone remotely connected to current military policy. He truly believes he’s doing the country a favor by getting rid of what he considers to be corrupt leadership,” said Leopold. “But motive is irrelevant. He’s the only person with the skill and opportunity to pull this off.”

“Why not just kill Senator Logan? He’s had plenty of opportunity,” said Mary. “I don’t see the benefit in going after Christina.”

“This is an opportunity to twist the knife and really make Logan suffer. On top of that, he also gets a hostage he can use if things go wrong.”

Albert stood up suddenly, his index finger raised in the air as though to emphasize his point. “Just one question.”

“Yes?” said Leopold.

“Stark is the one who has Christina and has been sending people to try and kill us?”

“That’s right.”

“So he’s also the same person who’s been following us all day, knows our exact location, and has a team of expertly trained soldiers at his command?”

Leopold paused a moment before saying anything. “I see your point,” he said eventually.

“So, what the hell do we do now there’s a small army on our tail?” said Albert.

“May I make a suggestion?” said Jerome quietly.

“Please do,” said the tour guide, trying to remain calm.

“Tactically, we still have one advantage. Stark isn’t aware of how much we know, which gives us time to formulate an offensive strategy that will catch him off guard,” said Jerome.

“Sounds risky. What if they get away with Christina, or she gets hurt in the process?” said Mary.

“Stark won’t risk hurting Christina – she’s his only bargaining chip. Our priority has to be getting the police and FBI on our side,” said the bodyguard.

“What’s the first move?” said Mary.

“We need to get back to Hank’s apartment and collect any evidence we can find before Stark gets a chance to destroy it. That should give us leverage with the FBI if he decides to make a run for it. We’ll need their resources to track him,” said the bodyguard.

Leopold and Mary both nodded in agreement, while Albert fiddled nervously with his shirt sleeves. Leopold wiped the board clean and drew a crude map of NYC, marking their current location at the University in red and Hank’s apartment in blue.

“Hank’s apartment is just a couple of miles away, maybe ten minutes in the car if we don’t hit traffic,” said the consultant, tapping the board. “We know that Stark has spotters throughout the city who’ve been tracking our movements, so we’ll only have a few minutes to get what we need from inside.”

“What about the nutty professor in there?” Mary jabbed her thumb at the door.

“Bring him. He’s the only one who knows all the details about the senator’s scams with the fake charities, so as far as I’m concerned, he’s our star witness. Let’s get moving.”

Leopold pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, leading the group back to Professor Locke’s office. The door was ajar, and the consultant pushed through without knocking. He stopped dead as he saw what was waiting for him.

Professor Locke was slumped face-down over his desk, with the hilt of a large knife protruding from the back of his neck. Blood pooled around his head and dripped slowly onto the carpet. Mary stepped forward to examine the body as Leopold stood in the doorway. She reached down and felt for a pulse.

“So much for our star witness,” she said.

Somewhere behind him, Leopold heard a soft metallic click and wheeled around to see the barrel of submachine gun staring him in the face.

Leopold felt Jerome yank him backward just a split second before he saw the gun’s barrel flash and heard the deafening bang of the first rounds just inches from his face. From what Leopold could tell, the rounds whistled harmlessly over his head and smacked into the wall at the far end of the room.

As Leopold felt himself fall to the ground, he saw the bodyguard kick out with his right leg, slamming the door in the shooter’s face.

“Get down!” yelled Jerome, and the others hit the carpet.

Just as Mary drew her weapon and covered the top of her head with her free hand, the sound of splintering wood his Leopold’s ears as more bullets ripped through the door, shattering it from its hinges. Jerome gestured silently and the others all rolled to the left, out of the way. The bodyguard crouched just to the side of the door frame and waited.

Nothing.

What remained of the battered door flew from the frame as a heavy black boot smashed through. In the doorway stood a man dressed in dark body armor, complete with helmet and visor, holding a submachine gun with both hands. As the armed soldier stepped into the room he saw a reflection in the glass of one of the cabinets and wheeled around. As he did so, Jerome rose quickly and aimed his elbow at the soft, exposed area between the man’s collar and helmet. Leopold heard a damp crunch followed by a muffled whimper as the bodyguard followed up with a heavy punch to the ribs, knocking his opponent to the ground. Jerome grabbed either side of the helmet and yanked the man’s head backward and to the side, breaking his neck. He checked for a pulse and got back to his feet, eyes sharp and alert.

“Who the hell was that?” asked Mary.

“One of Stark’s men,” said Leopold, breathing heavily. “Sent in to tie up any loose ends. Stark must have tracked us here.”

“That means he knows we’re coming for him.”

“We’re screwed!” said Albert. “How are we supposed to get the evidence we need now?”

“We still need to go to Hank’s apartment,” said Leopold. “It’s our only option. This just means getting there’s going to be a little more difficult, that’s all.”

“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” said the tour guide. “There’s no chance we’re getting there alive.”

“I don’t see how we have a choice,” said Mary, “We need that evidence. The alternative is to wait here until we get picked off one by one. Are you coming, or would you rather stay here by yourself?”

Albert gulped and nodded feverishly as Jerome headed for the door. “I’m coming! Wait up!”

Jerome took the lead with the others close behind. The group proceeded slowly, while the bodyguard checked ahead for danger, and soon passed through the doors into the rare manuscript section. Jerome motioned for everyone to crouch.

“We’re not far from the elevators,” hissed Albert, pointing ahead. “Looks like the path is clear.”

“Negative,” replied the bodyguard, his voice barely audible. “They’ll have the elevators covered. We need to get to the stairwell, which should be narrow enough to funnel everyone into single-file. No advantage in numbers that way.”

“But -”

Jerome put his finger to his lips, and gestured in the direction of the reading room, just past the glass doors ahead of them. The room stretched the entire width of the library and was stacked to the ceiling with leather-bound books, scrolls, and manuscripts all arranged neatly on shelves behind glass cabinets. The floor space was mostly filled with desks and chairs, and in the middle of the room stood an antique printing press, protected by a silk rope.