Nate Kenyon - Day One

This was huge, a story to end all others, and he was one step away from it.

Weller . Weller had let him in for a reason, and the things the man had said this morning made it seem as if he’d known something was coming. Hawke wanted to shake the man until something came loose. His wind was up, he was hungry to chase leads, and he hated himself for thinking about that instead of the reality of their situation. The city was falling apart around them, and his wife and son and unborn child could be in terrible danger. But even as Hawke’s skin crawled with the need to run, to fight, to get home, his instincts made him want to figure out the answers and get at the truth.

The helicopter, the explosions, the madness on the streets. The SUV, and the OnStar voice recognizing him. And Weller’s invitation in his office, like a ticket to the dance. Hawke had the pieces in his hands, and now he wanted to fit them together.

You use technology to tell a story. I want you to tell a story now. The biggest one of your life.

“Gone?” Vasco stared at Hanscomb, shook her once and then released her and slowly stepped back, stunned. “The GW? That can’t be right.”

She nodded, her face crumpling again. “The radio said it was a coordinated attack. All the bridges—some kind of missile strike or other weapons, I don’t know—at the same time…” Something like a whimper escaped her mouth before she bit it back. “They said it was happening all over the place. Wall Street is a war zone. People are trapped and panicking, going at each other like animals. My husband, he’s never even had a fistfight in his life. What is he going to do ?”

“All the bridges?” Young said. She had remained sitting next to Weller on the floor. He was still unconscious, head leaning against her shoulder. “Are you sure?”

Sarah Hanscomb nodded. “That’s what they said, before the broadcast stopped. Then it was just a recorded loop, telling people to get to the security checkpoints.” She wiped at her running nose, smearing more makeup. “All those people on the bridge, there were hundreds of cars….”

“You tried to run us over,” Vasco said. Hawke could feel the violence rising up in him, the heat and sweat and crackling energy. “I saw you swerve right into us.”

“I didn’t, the car just jumped, I’m telling you—it went crazy, all my lights going on, tire pressure, engine, oil light, and then… I—I wasn’t even touching the wheel!”

Vasco was on the verge of losing control. He moved back toward Hanscomb, and Hawke stepped in between them before anything else could happen, putting a hand gently on Vasco’s chest, just enough to stop his momentum. The touch released something in the other man and he grabbed Hawke by the collar with both fists, his arms trembling and rigid, his mangled finger bleeding again and wetting Hawke’s shirt.

“What the fuck are you doing, huh?” Vasco said. “Protecting this crazy bitch?”

“Don’t,” Hawke said. “We all just want to get home—”

“My wife is in Jersey,” Vasco said, his eyes shimmering now, and Hawke could see his panic about to spill over, could smell it on his breath and skin. “I went through this before, September eleventh. My brother was in the city; I was home with my mother. It took him six hours to get back. I had to watch her waiting…. I thought he was dead. I can’t do that to my wife, you understand? I can’t.”

“I get it,” Hawke said. His legs nearly buckled as an image of Thomas as a baby flashed through his head, little round face all squeezed up and red, a squalling mass of infant fury. “I have a family there, too. I know how you feel, but we have to stick together here, because one wrong move could get us killed.”

“Talking to this crazy…,” Vasco said. He shook his head. “We should throw her back out there to fend for herself. Hell, I don’t even know you people. No job is worth this. Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do, anyway?”

Hawke glanced at Hanscomb, who made another small, helpless noise. “Look, it doesn’t matter how we all got here,” he said. “What’s important is what we do now. We need to put our heads together.”

Vasco stared at him, looked at Hanscomb. “Security checkpoints,” he said. “You said they were on the radio. Where’s the closest one?”

Hanscomb nodded. “Yes, right, there was… I don’t know; I’m trying to…” She started trembling, tears starting again, glancing back and forth between them.

“Lenox Hill Hospital,” Hawke said. “I heard it on the radio. That’s the closest one to where we are.”

Vasco looked at Hanscomb, who nodded again. “I… think that’s right,” she said. “It’s hard to remember. Everything was so crazy.”

A noise from behind the closed inner doors made them all freeze. Someone was inside.

Before Hawke could say a word, Price turned the handles, swinging the doors wide.

The main sanctuary was deep and filled with flitting shadows, paneled in dark wood and carpeted with a deep red Berber, with rows of simple pews marching in straight lines toward the reader’s platform and curtain that hid the Torah Ark. Low ropes ran along inset portions of the walls, and narrow vertical lines of windows let in a little watery light. Candles flickered from candelabras on both sides of the bimah, where a group of people had gathered.

A man was talking in a low voice; Hawke thought it might be a reading from the Torah. The man wore a tallith draped over his shoulders. None of the people acknowledged their arrival.

Vasco spread his arms out and walked up the aisle. “Hello!” he shouted. “You know what’s going on outside? Wake up, people. We’re all looking down the barrel of a gun! You want to wait around until it goes off?”

The words were explosive in the quiet room. But the small group at the front didn’t seem to react, the man in front of them still droning on as if nobody had spoken. Vasco continued up the aisle, wheeling around and walking backward for a moment, then spinning to face the front again, arms still spread wide: a welcoming, open gesture sharply at odds with the barely contained rage held in his body and quivering voice.

“ Hey, ” Vasco said. “Are you people deaf? Or just stupid?”

He’s going to lose it, Hawke thought again, and he wondered how it would come, an all-out lumbering assault or a more carefully designed, surgical attack.

A man stepped abruptly in front of Vasco just before he reached the front. The man was short, bespectacled, wearing a kippah, his olive skin partially hidden by a thick black beard. He held a copy of the Torah in his hands. Uh-oh, Hawke thought.

“I’m sorry, this is a house of God,” the man said. “Please be respectful—”

Vasco didn’t even slow down, just shouldered past the man on his way to the bimah. “Who’s in charge?” Vasco said, addressing the man in the tallith. “You? This your temple?”

Hawke moved down the aisle, following the action. He saw the small group part and turn as the man sighed slightly, set down his readings and finally looked at Vasco, like a patient father at an interrupting child. Candlelight flickered across his face. “I have come here to welcome anyone who feels the need to pray,” he said. “The house of worship belongs to no one except God.”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Vasco said, gesturing toward the front doors, “while you’re all sitting in here staring at the Torah, the world is going to hell, and that includes this place. You might want to consider finding an escape route.”

“God will decide who lives and who dies,” the rabbi said. He was taller than the rest, in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair cropped short and a close beard streaked with gray. His voice was calm, but it held a commanding power that filled the large room.