Greg Rucka - Critical Space

The corner was River Street, and I made the right, still following the fence. Fifteen feet or so along, the weeds thickened, spilling through the fence, and a large sign hung on the chain-link, stating that the area was slated for development, to be "reborn" as something called The South Waterfront. I'd read about it in the papers, but never actually been down here before. A lot of construction was planned for the area, Sinatra Park being only a small part of it. Office buildings and hotels were supposed to start going up soon, financed by the likes of Trump and Lefrak. There had even been talk of attempting to move the Stock Exchange from New York to the location, but it would never happen.

"What did you think of Dan?" Drama asked.

"Interesting fellow," I said. " 'Tasha?"

"Just a name. " She said it dismissively. "There's an opening in the fence another five meters or so from your position. You can make it if you crawl."

It took another minute before I found the gap, obscured by weeds. The ground nearby was deep with broken glass and trash, and I had to belly-crawl to get through the gap, and I took it slow. Even knowing that Drama was nearby with a rifle, I found myself more afraid of catching tetanus from a rusty nail. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been immunized.

When I was through I got to my feet, brushing myself off, looking around. A couple of towers for power cables stood nearby, anchored to concrete slabs. Past them were chunks of abandoned machinery, broken and rusted pieces. As I came around a tower, I got a good look at the space. There was almost no cover to speak of for at least one hundred yards, and even though the streetlights didn't do much to illuminate the area, anyone looking with Nightvision or infrared would have no difficulties picking me out.

"Walk forward, as if going to the water. "

I picked my way around the largest piles of junk. As I crossed out into the open, there was a rumble of thunder, and distant lightning jumped clouds. My heart was surprisingly steady in my chest, and my breathing was easy, and I wondered what I should make of that. Drama had to have line of sight on me, I had to be close to my principal, and I should have been very scared. But I wasn't.

"Stop. Turn left."

Looking past the scattered garbage, I could see the length of the shattered pier, all the way to the far fence on the north side. Beyond its edge, maybe half a mile away, a building sat just on the water, a road running between it and a sharp slope to the east. At the top of the slope I saw the nimbus of sodium lights, but not the lights themselves.

She had to be on the slope, on the high ground, and the odds were that I was looking right at her.

"There's an oil drum ahead of you, " Drama said. "She's inside."

I lowered the radio, saw the container, and walked toward it. As I approached I could see that the cover had been removed, but I was almost on top of it before I could look inside, and when I did I saw Antonia Ainsley-Hunter, shivering, bound, a black cloth bag over her head.

"Antonia," I said. "It's Atticus, I'm here."

She jerked at the sound of my voice, turning her head, trying to see me with her covered eyes. She made a noise, and I realized that she'd been gagged, too. The Motorola had a clip, and I hung the walkie-talkie from my belt before reaching for her.

"I'm going to touch you," I said. "I'm going to remove the hood."

She tried to nod, made another sound that would probably have been inaudible if not for the amplification from the metal that surrounded her. I touched her as gently as I could, knowing that she'd had unwelcome hands on her too much already, and got my fingers along the edge of the bag at her neck, feeling around until I found where it had been tied. The knot was easy, and I undid it, then pulled the bag off and threw it down.

The look in her eyes was desperate gratitude, but there were no tears. A ball-gag was in her mouth, but I decided that could wait, and reached in to take her beneath the arms. She tried to move to assist me, but there was nowhere for her to go, and in the end I had to almost fold my upper body in with her to get a grip. I pulled her up against the edge of the barrel where I was leaning, tipping it against my body, backing up a little at a time to ease her out. I had her mostly out when the barrel finally tipped all the way, and its hollow clang on the concrete was followed closely by another roll of thunder.

She couldn't stand, and I lowered her to the ground, stretching her legs out in front of her. Her hands and feet had been bound with cord, and again the knots weren't too difficult, and I freed her extremities, then removed the gag. When it came free she leaned forward, coughing dry heaves, and I crouched beside her, putting a hand on her back. She was choking and coughing and trying to speak all at once. I ran my hands over her body quickly, feeling for injuries. As far as I could tell, she wasn't hurt beyond the effects of having been held captive for almost thirty-six hours.

"Just breathe," I told her. "You're going to be fine, just breathe."

It took another minute before she could control herself enough to manage any speech at all.

"Get me the hell out of here," she rasped.

She needed most of ten minutes before she could compose herself, before she was willing to try to get to her feet. Drama remained silent the whole time, though I knew she was watching, and I knew the crosshairs were still resting on Her Ladyship. When Antonia finally was willing to stand, I had to help her to her feet, and when she tried her first steps, she almost fell, and I had to catch her.

"I'm all right." Antonia's voice was raw and disused. "I can do this."

"Take your time."

"No, I want to go now, I need to get out of here."

"All right," I said, and I gave her my arm and together we started to make our way to the fence.

"You're not going with her, " Drama said softly.

The voice had an immediate effect on Lady Ainsley-Hunter, and despite her fatigue and her pain, she recoiled from me, looking frantically for the source of the sound. Her ankle glanced off a piece of broken pipe as she moved back, but I caught her before she tripped.

"Walkie-talkie," I explained, helping her upright once more, seeing her confusion, her near-panic. "It's all right, I won't let her hurt you."

"Where… where is she?"

"No idea." Still holding her with one hand, I took the Motorola off my belt and keyed the transmitter, saying, "I'm going to walk her to the car."

"No. " She was stern, but her voice remained soft. A teacher instructing a rebellious student. "Tell her where it is, give her the key. You're not going with her."

I moved Antonia around so that I stood between her and the distant slope.

"Atticus."

"I've done everything you've asked," I said. "You'll get what you want. But I want this. I need to see her to the car, I need to see her drive away. It's my job."

The Motorola went silent.

"You'll get nothing," I added.

"She goes, I'll get what I want?"

"You have my word."

More silence.

"One condition. You make her promise that she goes straight to your apartment, that she stops for no one, she contacts no one, until she's there. "

"Done."

"I want to hear her say it. "

I held the Motorola out for Antonia. "I need you to tell her you'll do exactly as she asks."

"You're not coming with me?"

"I'll follow later," I said.

"I don't understand."

"I need you to promise."

"I promise," Antonia said, and then repeated, to the radio, "I promise."

"Then go ahead, " Drama said.

Halfway to the car there was a percussive clap of thunder and an almost instant flare of lightning, and the rain began to pour, hammering the ground with heavy drops that soaked us both, filling my new clothes with water. Antonia stayed on my arm, concentrating on putting one step in front of the other, and though I didn't ask her, she told me anyway.