Andrew Klavan - The Final Hour

“Move it, Charlie!” Mike shouted.

He was on his feet, dodging over the tracks with his body bent low. I did what he did, hopping over the third rail, moving quickly toward the cover of one of the columns.

I got behind the column just as another round of shots went off on the far side of the arcade. Tiles and stone flew off the column in a white blast as I ducked behind it. Then I peeked out again and fired into the dark. To be honest, I was too pumped full of adrenaline and fear to take careful aim. I just sort of fired blindly. I knew I hadn’t hit anyone.

Mike fired, ducking from one column to another. The three gunmen fired back.

Then the train shot out of the tunnel to my left-and it was heading right for me.

I had only a second before it ran me down. I rushed to get out of the way-and as I did, I came out from behind the column, exposing myself to gunfire. Sure enough, the three gunmen spotted me and their guns cracked through the arcade. I thought I felt something whistle by my arm. Then the train went roaring by, towering over me, its windows flashing bright above me as they went past. The huge machine cut me off from the gunmen. I took advantage of that, running along beside it, changing location while I couldn’t be seen.

Then the train raced out of the arcade and disappeared into another tunnel. I crouched and leveled my gun at the place where the gunmen had been. I hesitated. In the sudden dark, I couldn’t see much of anything. I expected them to start shooting again any second. But they didn’t.

Then Mike was right beside me. “They’re on the move,” he said, breathless. “This way.”

He raced off across the arcade. I raced after him, leaping the tracks. We reached the far side and there was the gunman Mike had shot. He lay on his side in a pool of blood, dead, his eyes open and staring into the underground darkness.

I hesitated a second, staring at the fallen man’s face. I recognized him-remembered him from my days of training in the forest compound. He was one of the Homelanders, for sure.

I stepped over the body and moved after Mike. I caught up with him in a long corridor, a broader tunnel this time in which four tracks ran side by side with columns between them. I peered ahead through the darkness, trying to make out the remaining Homelanders. I didn’t see them.

But they were there all right. As we moved farther into the tunnel, there was another round of gunshots. There was a whine and spattering cracks as bullets smacked into the tunnel wall. The guns were off to our left now on another set of tracks. Mike and I stayed low, moving toward the columns. I positioned myself behind one. He got behind another.

I leaned there, my heart beating hard. The situation felt surreal, like a nightmare. Above us in the city, millions of revelers were laughing through the chilly night, celebrating the New Year. Here, right below them, we were trading bullets with a bunch of terrorists moving toward their target over the train tracks. Some part of me thought I would soon wake up, find myself back in my cell in Abingdon, or, better yet, find myself at home, the entire experience of the Homelanders a dream.

Another shot blew that idea away in a big hurry. The bullet smacked into the side of the column I was hiding behind and threw up another blast of chips and dust.

I felt a wind wash over me again. Heard a rumble. Looked to my left and saw a train heading into our tunnel. It was traveling on one of the tracks between me and the Homelanders. I glanced at Mike, hiding behind the column next to me. His eyes were bright with the reflected headlight. He saw the train coming, too, about to cut us off from the gunmen on the other side of the tunnel.

He rolled out from behind the column and fired in the direction of the Homelanders. Three gouts of flame answered back and the bullets zinged past us. Mike ducked back behind the column again and nodded at me, his face growing brighter as the headlight came near.

“These guys were stationed to pin us down,” he called to me over the noise of the train. “Prince and the poison are moving to their target while we shoot it out. We gotta end this, Charlie. Now.”

Just then the train fired into the tunnel, cutting us off from the Homelanders-and on the instant, without another word, Mike moved. He curled out from behind the column and started running across the tracks, heading straight for the train as it barreled past.

I went after him. The earth shook under my feet as the huge beast of a machine stampeded through the tunnel, its glowing windows right above me, its flashing sides inches from me. Mike knelt down, his gun leveled. I knelt down too. I leveled my gun too. I didn’t know the plan, but I figured if I followed Mike I couldn’t go far wrong.

Then the train flashed past and the Homelander gunmen were right across the tracks from us. Mike and I started firing at the same moment. A man screamed. An answering gun went off. I saw the flame pointed toward the ceiling. I saw the man’s silhouette as he reeled backward, hit.

Then, to my absolute shock, Mike leapt forward, firing as he moved. He pumped bullets from his gun rapid-fire and the gunmen fired back. Then I heard the trigger click and I knew Mike’s 9mm was empty.

But by then, Mike was right on top of the two remaining gunmen. One lowered a gun at him and Mike kicked it from his hand. The other shot at him-so close I didn’t see how he could miss. But Mike seemed unhurt. He grabbed the guy’s wrist and twisted it. I heard the bone snap where I was, heard the man let out a shriek of agony before his body crumpled to the tracks.

I ran toward Mike. But before I was anywhere near, the first man-the last Homelander gunman in the tunnel-leapt on Mike and the two struggled together.

I saw their shadows intermingle as the Homelander moved in for the kill. Then I saw their shadows fly apart as Mike knocked him back.

Then Mike went at him in a flurry of sweeping strikes, his feet shooting out in a series of kicks so quick I could barely see them, his hands sweeping around to chop at the attacker even as the attacker was reeling back. Then Mike let out a loud “Kee-yai!” and his fist smashed into the gunman’s chin so hard, the guy actually flew up into the air like something in a movie, leaving his feet and landing on his backside before tipping over sideways onto the track, where he lay still.

It was over so quickly that I was just reaching Mike as the last man fell.

Then I was beside my old sensei in the tunnel. He stood there, breathing hard, looking around.

He lifted his chin, pointing along the tracks.

“That way,” he said. “I don’t think there’ll be many of them left. You’ll be all right.”

I gave a breathless laugh. “Yeah, well, seeing as you just took out two guys with guns, I’d say we have them outnumbered.”

There was a little quirk in Mike’s mustache: a barely visible smile. “Good thing I taught you so well, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

“Looks like you’re gonna be on your own from here.”

I started to smile. I figured it was some kind of joke. Then I caught the look in Mike’s eyes and I realized: He wasn’t joking at all. I stood there, staring stupidly. Finally, I got it. My eyes went down to where Mike’s hand was pressed against his side. His fingers were already dark. With grime, I thought, and then I realized-no. There was blood pumping out of his side, pouring over his hand.

“Mike-Mike, you’re hit,” I said.

“No kidding. Pretty sharp observation for a chuckle-head, chucklehead.” He gave a grunt of pain and staggered where he stood. He reached out and took hold of my shoulder. I grabbed on to his arm, trying to hold him up. But before I could get a good grip, he sank down to his knees, too heavy for me to hold.