Matt Hilton: Blood and Ashes

I was still standing in the same place a few seconds later when something erupted back through the flames. Something: that was the only way my mind could describe Gant now because very little of him was left that was recognisable.

When trained in Point Shooting, you’ve achieved mastery when your gun becomes an extension of the hand. No conscious effort is necessary to target and discharge your weapon. I lifted, squeezed and fired three rounds directly into the central mass of the thing approaching.

Maybe Gant was wearing a bulletproof vest like he had been back in the Alleghenies, because like before the rounds didn’t stop him. He came on, and he still had the machine-pistol in his hand. I almost fired again. But I allowed the gun barrel to drop.

Gant was sheathed in flames, his clothing burning, disintegrating and adhering to his body, his skin blistering, his gun fused to the flesh of his right hand. He had to be insane with agony. He came to a stumbling halt, opened his mouth in a silent scream. I fancied that there were even flames in his throat. Then Gant dropped to his knees, flopping back so he sat propped on his heels. He continued to burn. His entire face was turning the same blue, black and scarlet as the tattoo that decorated him. One eye was swollen shut, a blister filled with fluid threatening to pop, but the other was wide open and staring at me. The eye gleamed with hatred.

I lifted my gun and shot him through the skull.

Not out of anger or even a sense of justice, but in an act of mercy I’d never have offered the man before now.

He flopped down, arms twisting up towards his chest. I thought of Brook; if this bastard was the one responsible for burning her then he’d got everything he deserved. I turned away, unable to look at him any longer.

Gant was dead, and if I didn’t get out quick I would probably join him. I thundered down the stairs with the fire alarm whooping, as though urging me on. Molten drops still pattered around me, and a few times I slapped at my skin where they struck. It was as if I ran through a descent into hell, but every step I took was in the right direction. Above the flames still crackled and hissed and poisonous fumes collected in the head of the statue.

Coming to the lowest level, I found where the spilled fuel had gathered on the surface of pools of rusty water. Some of it had burned down now to a thick, oily smudge on the floor, but in the main it was still alight. I leaped the flames without stopping, experienced a split-second of intense heat, but then was through it and felt Rink dragging me down on to blessedly cold tiles. Rink rolled me, patted with his open hands and I was only then aware that my hair was smouldering and that patches of my shirt had ignited.

‘Holy Christ, brother,’ Rink panted. ‘If I knew there was gonna be a bonfire I’d’ve brought marshmallows.’

I pulled up on to my feet, smarting at the raw spots on my arms and face. There was a particularly raw spot on the back of my neck too. ‘Through here, quick.’

We pushed through a door and down into the observation gallery of the pedestal, the klaxon shriek lessened now that we were out of the reverberating statue. Apparently the fire-fighting system worked on separate units depending upon the individual floors. We thought about going out into the rain, but the deluge had chosen now to lessen. Something else was needed. I scanned the ceiling, saw what I was looking for and took aim with the SIG. There was more to this shot than those I’d put into Gant upstairs: this one was designed to save lives. I’d convinced Gant with my theory that Kwon had double-crossed Hicks, but I couldn’t be sure.

The bullet struck the sprinkler-head in the ceiling and water gushed out. An automatic override flicked into action and all along the hall and throughout the remainder of the building the fire-fighting system kicked into play and water blasted down on us. Klaxons here now joined the wail from above. I pulled off my clothing, stood there in the altogether and allowed the showering water to cleanse me of any of the plutonium particles that might have found a way on to my flesh. When I looked around, Rink was scrubbing his naked body similarly.

The beating water didn’t go on for ever. Soon it turned to a trickle and we forged a way down a staircase flowing with rusty-coloured streams. I wondered what kind of spectacle we’d make when we staggered outside, both as naked as newborn babies, our only possessions the guns in our hands.

There were too many other worries on my mind than if we’d raise a chuckle or two from the cops descending on the place, but I felt that stripped naked like this we were vulnerable to more than embarrassment. On the ground floor of the fort, I led Rink round the plinth displaying the original torch and towards rooms at the back. We went through one door marked private and found a locker room. Inside we took some of the beige uniforms the staff had been wearing. We searched through various items, and pulled on trousers and shirts. I was easily kitted out, but Rink had broader shoulders and thicker arms than most and the shirt he pulled on was stretched across the chest and back. He had to leave the buttons undone, but he didn’t mind. He just grinned, puffed out his pectorals, and said, ‘What do you think? Poster boy for the National Park Service?’

I laughed along with him as we made our way back through the foyer. We were still laughing when we were greeted by gun-toting FBI troopers who disarmed us and led us off, giving way to the fire crews that had arrived. Others had arrived too, mysterious figures wearing hazmat suits, ready to clean up the fallout.

As we were marched across the sward, I looked back up at Lady Liberty. I’d like to say that she winked in approval, but it was probably just the play of flames and smoke behind her eyes.

I made the drive to Bedford Well in a rental car paid for by the bogus Danny Fisher credit card. I felt I’d earned the right, seeing as it had been supplied as expenses to help bring down Carswell Hicks’ outfit. I enjoyed the drive this time. The rain was a memory, and now the hills were backed by a clear sky and hazy sunshine. I drove with the windows open, taking pleasure in the breeze ruffling my hair and snapping at my jacket collar. It was good to be outside again.

It was a full week since the events at the Statue of Liberty, but it felt more like months. Both Rink and I had spent time in cells, then in interview rooms where we were interrogated about our part in the horror that had struck Manhattan. We told our tale over and over again, but neither of us mentioned Arrowsake or its inclusion. Not through loyalty, but through necessity. In a cell we were sitting ducks for an assassin. We would deal with that problem ourselves. Another time, I promised. Special Agent Vincent was conspicuous by his absence. I wondered if Arrowsake had already deemed the young hothead a liability and had him terminated. There was always that possibility, but I doubted it: Vince had the instincts and the ability to disappear if he wished. I thought the young man might just make a reappearance somewhere down the line. A quote came to mind. A seventeenth-century author called Francois de la Rochefoucauld once wrote: ‘Absence diminishes little passions and increases great ones, as wind extinguishes candles and fans a fire.’ The author’s words could be true of Vince’s disappearing act, meaning when he showed again it would reignite a firestorm. Let him come, I decided, just not while we’re penned in a jail cell.

Deals were struck on Capitol Hill, favours cashed in, warnings levied: whatever occurred, we were kicked loose from jail and into the waiting hands of the CIA. Walter Conrad met us, suggested we take a vacation for a while until he could straighten everything out. He wasn’t referring to the screaming and accusation coming his way from the senators and congressmen who made up the Judiciary Committee, but to the lack of contact from his overseers at Arrowsake.