F Wilson - Fatal Error

Damn. Same leg that Valez had gouged.

The failed tackler was on him before he could regain his feet. In the glow of the bike's headlamp, he saw a boot flashing toward his face. He managed to block it and keep rolling. The move caused a stab of agony from his hip, and then a second kick caught him in the ribs-a glancing blow because of his roll, but it still hurt like hell.

Continuing to roll, he spotted the Buford Pusser wannabe approaching, two-by-four raised. He found the handle to the slapper-still attached by its thong-and took a wild swing, putting as much arm and wrist into it as he could manage from the ground. Nearly a pound of whipping lead connected with the tackler's knee. The guy let loose a cry of pain as his leg gave out. He pitched forward, landing next to Jack. With a howl of rage he made a gouge move at Jack's face, going for the eyes. Jack grabbed his wrist and rolled him atop him just as his buddy took a fence-buster swing at Jack's head. The board caught the tackler across the back; ribs cracked like twigs as the air went out of him in a strangled whoosh.

Jack took another wild swing with the slapper and caught the batter's ankle. With a surprised yelp he hopped backward, grabbing at his lower leg. Jack lashed out with a kick from his uninjured leg, hooking the good ankle and unbalancing him. He landed hard on his ass with a pained, stunned look.

Jack rolled the grunting, gasping tackler off him, struggled to his feet, and hobbled over to the batter before he could recover. The guy took a wild swing at Jack's legs with the board but missed. Jack stepped in and backfisted him in the nose, snapping his head back, then dropped on him, planting a knee in his ample gut. The guy gave out an agonized grunt. He rolled back and forth, groaning and writhing as he clutched his belly. He bent a knee and as Jack saw it rise he swung the slapper, putting his back, arm, and wrist into the blow. The lead weight caught the kneecap dead center. He was pretty sure he heard it shatter before the guy's echoing scream blotted out all other sounds.

After making a quick full turn to see if the immediate area held any more surprises, Jack limped back to where the tackler lay on his side, trying to catch his breath as he struggled to rise. Jack flipped him over onto his back and disabled him the same way-another scream, another shattered knee.

He straightened and stared at the two writhing, groaning figures. He wanted to say something to them but his hip hurt like hell and his brain was stuck in a nonverbal gear that wanted to kill instead of speak.

He pulled the Glock and worked the slide to chamber a round. The tackler looked up at him, fear widening his eyes.

Not for you, Jack thought. Just insurance.

No need for something so final. No threat to him now-or to anyone else. Chaos might reign in the city over the next few days, but these two oxygen wasters would not be part of it.

He put the pistol away and turned to where the bike lay on its side. On the other hand, if the bike was disabled and he wouldn't be able to get to LaGuardia tonight, he might revisit the kill option.

The bike had stalled after the fall. He righted it, and in the backwash of the headlight, checked it out as best he could. No major structural damage he could see, no odor of leaking gas. He got on, put her in neutral, kicked the starter, and felt a flood of relief as she sputtered to life.

Before he got rolling again, he checked his watch: ten after eleven. Already late and these jerks had slowed him even more. He called Gia's cell with little hope of hearing her voice.

Yep. No answer. No surprise. If she'd landed she'd be calling him as soon as allowed.

He found the American Airlines number in his call history from earlier and hit that. Went all the way through the damn voice tree again only to be told that no flight information was available. He thumbed 0 until he reached a living, breathing human being who told him what he'd already guessed: The airline's computers were down.

"So, you don't know if the plane landed or is still in the air or crashed?"

"No, sir."

"Do you know the gate number?"

"I would need the system up for that, sir."

He noticed the batter rolling onto his belly.

"Well then, how about calling one of your gates at the airport and asking them to check if three forty-six is in?"

"I can't do that, sir."

"Even if I say 'Please'?"

"I'm sorry, sir."

He noticed Buford trying to rise onto his good knee.

"Uh-uh!" Jack told him.

The guy ignored him and kept rising.

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"You've got two knees. Nature deplores asymmetry. Want me to even them out?"

Buford blasted him a look of pure hatred and lowered himself to the ground.

"Sir?"

"Sorry. Talking to someone else. Look, how about giving me the number and I'll call."

"Sorry, sir."

Jack felt steam rising. She couldn't help the computer snafu, but she could do something about this.

"Hey, look-"

The phone went dead. Had she hung up on him?

He checked the cell's display: no bars… no service. But just a moment ago he'd had a strong signal. That could only mean Shit. Ripples from the botnet were seeping into the communications systems.

He resisted an urge to fling the phone and pocketed it instead. Service would be back up sooner or later. Probably later. But this meant no contact with Gia until he reached the airport.

If then.

He realized with a start that her flight might have been diverted. Well, that didn't change anything. Until he learned otherwise, he had to assume she was landing at LaGuardia, and so that was where he had to be.

He gunned the engine and got rolling again. He followed the Triboro viaduct above onto Ward's Island, which used to be separate but had been joined to Randall's by landfill. He rode across a soccer field and found a path that dead-ended near a baseball diamond at the water's edge. At no point had he seen an access ramp back onto the roadway that coursed directly above.

Jack sat on the bike and cursed as he stared across the water at the lights of Astoria… the northwest corner of Queens. And along Astoria's eastern border lay LaGuardia Airport.

Narrow here. Not a thousand feet across. The far shore looked close enough to swim to, but not here, not even in summer. This strait, a branch of the East River known as Hell Gate, was famous for its treacherous currents and occasional whirlpools. Jack didn't know how much of that was real and how much myth, but even if it were all myth, here and now he'd never make it across that frigid water.

Still cursing he began to turn the bike. He was halfway around when he saw lights in the sky to the east… a plane… coming in for a landing.

All right. The airport was still functioning. Gia could be waiting there now, wondering where he was. Trouble was, she'd have to go on wondering for a while. Because Jack was going to have to go back and find a way past that pile-up-even if he had to pick up the bike and carry it over those jammed cars.

He glanced left and saw another bridge. He gunned in that direction and stopped under it. Above, silhouetted against the light pollution from the city, were what looked like slats.

Then he realized what they were.

Train tracks.

A train trestle. Couldn't belong to any of the mass transit lines. None of them ran this way. So it had to be a freight line. Of course. Trains ran all the way from New England into Queens across the Hell Gate trestle. If he could find a way onto those tracks, he had a route across the river.

He just had to hope the tracks stayed empty.

He raced back toward the on-ramp to the viaduct. As he was approaching the spot where he'd been jumped he noticed a sign that brought him to a skidding halt. Queens Pedestrian Ramp