Michael Walsh - Early Warning

“Over here, Mom!”

“Rory sees something.”

“Hurry.” She could hear the worry, and the urgency in his voice.

Hope ran to the spot where Rory was staring down. Much of the other building had collapsed. But there, just as Danny had predicted, was an old fire escape that had managed to survive the restoration and retrofitting. It had vanished into a disused air shaft, like the ones in the old dumbbell flats that used to populate this area, and if Hope had had time to think about it, she might have realized that it made perfect sense.

Originally, it would never have reached this high. But, in a fit of building-code observance, somebody-or, more likely, somebody’s brother-in-law-had gotten a contract to extend the redundant fire escape up the side of the new addition, and then sealed it off. The contractor billed the owner for twice his costs, probably billed the city for some give-back that only a lawyer could love, kicked back to his relative, and walked away with some nice money for building something nobody would ever use.

Until now. Thank God for honest graft.

“I see it,” she breathed to Danny. There was a slight roar in the background of wherever he was calling from.

“Then use it.” His voice was raised, loud.

“What if it won’t hold us?”

“It’s got to. It’s your only chance. Now go.”

Hope looked at her children. They were braver than she; they knew what to do. “I’ll go first, Mom,” said Rory. “It’ll be just fine.”

And then he was over the side and gone. Hope looked at Emma. “Your turn, young lady,” she said.

Emma hesitated, but only for a moment. “Well, I guess I’ve been through worse,” she said, and then she, too, disappeared.

Now it was Hope’s turn. She threw one leg over the side. “Where are you, Danny?” she said. “Please, after this is over-”

“We’re on our way,” he said. “All you have to do is stay safe for a few more hours.”

Hope thought she would cry. But she didn’t. Instead, she went over the side and down, into the smoke and darkness.

Byrne was on his feet now. The hot-dog vendor was hopping around, open, vulnerable. Byrne ran toward him, closing the distance fast.

Byrne had learned a lot on the streets of New York, streets he had known practically since the day he was born, since the days when he and Tommy had crawled around in the sewers of Queens, under the streets of Woodside and Middle Village when they were kids, playing hide-and-seek, playing sapper, playing city-bombing bad guys, playing the cops that had to hunt them down, the cops of The Taking of Pelham One Two Three. There was no scenario he had not rehearsed a million times in his mind, no spot no matter how tight in which he had not imagined himself, no moment that he could not rise to.

He fired as he ran, emptying his father’s.38 into the man in front of him. Every shot found its mark. Each one tore through the gunman’s body in a pattern that even Byrne would have been hard-pressed to duplicate at the firing range.

His first shot hit Ben Addison, Jr., in the side, not enough to kill but plenty enough to hurt. The second bullet hit him square in the chest, the center of mass, just like they taught you at the Academy, and just as Byrne had learned to do on the streets many years before. The third hit the shooter a little lower, in the groin, and Byrne knew from experience watching gut-shot men die that it would be the killing blow, only just not fast enough. The fourth shot took off most of Addison ’s left hand, leaving only a single finger and half a palm, while the fifth slug caught him in the right shoulder, forcing him at last to drop the weapon. But not before he got off one last shot.

Byrne sensed it coming and threw his body to one side. He may not have been as fast as he once was, but his instincts were honed and his reflexes sharp. He felt the sear as the slug tore across his left shoulder, taking a chunk of flesh and a piece of his suit with it. That was what worried him-if he survived this encounter, he was going to have to get any material out of the wound quickly before it infected him. That was how 18th-century soldiers died, not necessarily from the ball or even the bloodshed, but from infection. That was why accounts of the old battlefields were always replete with the cries of the wounded, the screams of paralyzing agony, the gradual loss of the mental faculties, men being driven mad by the fever was that eating them alive from the inside.

He hit the pavement hard, landing on his wounded shoulder and striking his head against some of the rubble. He yearned for a breather, a brief respite from the shouts and screams and the din of war. But it was not to be.

Unbelievably, the hot dog man was still coming toward him.

“God is great,” the former Ben Addison, Jr., kept repeating to himself as he dragged himself toward the cop. Even surrounded by the stench of death, he could always smell a cop, and nothing spelled martyrdom to him more than this pig’s death. All his pent-up resentment-at the white man, at the law, at the Man-fueled him, fed his rage, and kept him moving. That and his faith. The Brothers had been right: this faith was more powerful than any drug, stronger than anything he had ever encountered on the streets. This was a thing of beauty, a synthesis of love and hatred, the nexus of life and death, the portal to paradise.

The killing blade was sharp, and if, Allah willing, he had the strength, he would carve the cop’s head off like the leg of a Thanksgiving turkey. Thanksgiving had always been Ben Addison, Jr.’s, favorite holiday and even after accepting the call to Islam, he had found no reason to change his opinion. Carving was fun.

Byrne tried to clear the cobwebs, but even with the adrenaline rush, it wasn’t going to be in time. His father’s.38 lay several feet away, out of reach, and he wouldn’t be able to get to it before the hot dog man would be upon him. Were he still a detective he would have carried an unauthorized piece in an ankle holster, or maybe even a drop 9 mm down the back of his pants, but Francis Byrne had been off the streets for nearly a decade. He was going to have to fight a wounded but crazed and still-powerful man, fight him long enough for his bullets to take effect, survive long enough that the man would finally die the way he was supposed to.

Funny what goes through your mind at a time like this. Everything was happening in slow motion, which gave Byrne plenty of time to think. His right hand reached out for a piece of brick or paving stone or whatever it was: this was the way his Irish ancestors had fought when they first came to the Island of the Manhattoes, with bricks and sticks and stones and lead pipes and beer bottles, whether they had been crooks or cops, pitched-battling on the west side, under the docks, in the railroad tunnels beneath the streets or on Death Avenue itself.

As shot up as the hot dog man was, something was still driving him forward, some combination of PCP and angel dust and religious fervor and God or Allah only knew what else, but whatever it was it was good enough, powerful juju, stronger than his God, and there was nothing left for Byrne to do but make a good act of contrition and get ready to meet his Maker.

The man was close to him now. Byrne rolled to face him. A knife had never looked so big. He gripped the piece of urban detritus tightly: get it over with, he thought.

He braced himself-

And then the man disappeared.

No valedictory, no trash talk, no last words. He simply vanished.

No time to think about the miracle; the whole point of miracles was that they were inexplicable, so there was no point in thinking about them. There would be plenty of time for reflection later, back in his flat at 50th Street and Tenth Avenue, assuming he got out of this alive. Which was still at this point not at all a sure bet.