Nate Kenyon - Day One

So that had been what Weller meant about playing chess. He’d been baiting her while setting up his next move, one he had to pray she wouldn’t see coming: a loop that replaced the real thing as they raced for the exits. But was she really that gullible? And was baiting her a smart thing to do? Because once she found out what he’d done, Hawke thought, there would be hell to pay.

He figured he had only minutes before that happened.

Hawke stopped where the overpass swept downward as if burrowing into the earth. To his right was a sad-looking dog park and an open lot, work cranes standing silent and still over steel storage containers and stacks of giant metal girders. To his left, the tunnel emerged from darkness into light, rising up to street level and crammed with more abandoned cars, and beyond that was 39th Street and a hulking old concrete building with construction scaffolding clinging to it.

An idea was forming, born from the glimpse of freedom he’d gotten while racing down Tenth Avenue in the old pickup truck. There was another way off this island, a way that didn’t depend on an open tunnel or intact bridge. A way that was free of security cameras and tracking devices.

He just had to stay alive long enough to get there.

As he worked his way toward the 39th Street side of the underpass and the concrete barrier that separated him from the tunnel exit ramp, Hawke heard a noise and glanced back. Vasco stood right behind him.

“All that stuff about me being a part of this,” Hawke said. Anger surged within him. “Even while you were accusing me, you were working for Eclipse.”

“It was a good distraction. Kept the focus off me.” Vasco shrugged. “Look, I’m just a low-level grunt, a freelancer they hired to keep tabs on Jim Weller. I was supposed to report in three times a day, relate what was happening in the office. That’s all. I didn’t know anything about this… system he had created. I swear to God. I didn’t know what was going to happen. They told me about you, though. A reporter supposedly covering Weller for a profile, but you had another agenda. They thought you were after them—after Eclipse—told me to stay away from you. Keep my cover.”

“And you kept up the charade this whole time, even when the world was falling apart?”

“I figured it was better to stay quiet until I figured out what was really going on.” He took a step closer. “I think I’ve got a pretty good handle on it now. I gotta say, it’s even crazier than I thought.”

“Stay away from me,” Hawke said. “I’m getting out of New York, and nobody’s going to stop me.”

A gun had appeared in Vasco’s hand. The same gun Hawke had tossed his way during their run-in with the men in black suits. “Can’t let you do that,” Vasco said. “You leave this overpass and we’re both dead.”

Hawke glanced back toward where they had left Weller. He was out of sight behind the cars and thick trunklike supports of the overpass. “Don’t be stupid, Jason,” Hawke said. “If we don’t leave now, we’re dead for sure. This place is going to be rubble any second, once she figures out what Jim’s done.”

“My name’s not Jason; it’s Tom. And I’m not stupid. At least we’re out of sight. As soon as you break cover, she’s going to find you. Satellites, security cams, whatever it takes, she’s going to see you and target this spot. Much better to hide and wait for the troops to come in. They’ll lock the city down eventually, stop this madness.”

“They’ll kill us. They have orders.”

“You, maybe. Me, on the other hand, they have no beef with at all. This game is over. I just want to get out of here in one piece.”

“What about your wife? You just going to wait here and hope she’s okay?”

Vasco’s face darkened with anger. “Don’t you talk about her—”

A small red mark appeared on the man’s forehead a split second before Hawke heard the soft bark of the rifle. Vasco (or whoever he was) crumpled without a sound, a look of surprise frozen on his face, his hand still clutching the gun. Hawke dove for cover behind the half wall, waiting for the second shot, knowing that he’d likely be dead before he heard anything.

Sniper. Military. It had to be. They were on the ground already, and Hawke’s time had finally run out.

6:01 P.M.

THE SHOT MUST HAVE COME from somewhere near the old building with the scaffolding. It had been incredibly accurate. The marksman was almost completely hidden under the overpass; there wasn’t much space to hit the target between the top of it and the concrete wall that ran along the lower edge of the space, and it was dark inside here, difficult to see.

Hawke scrambled behind a support pillar, slowly lifted his head and peered around it. How was he supposed to avoid a bullet from a shooter like that? He saw nothing at first but lines of blank windows between red brick and worn gray concrete. Then he saw movement, a flash of camouflage slipping behind the far corner, another shifting on the roof. More than one, impossible to tell how many.

He looked for security cameras, saw nothing visible, but he knew that they could be anywhere: inside the lobby of the building, hidden in doorways, the parking lot next door. Satellites could scan the earth and find him, anytime, anywhere. It seemed hopeless. But what choice did he have? He had to run, and trust Weller now to keep her eyes off him for a few seconds longer.

He was so close. Freedom was a couple of blocks away. A way back to his family, or what was left of them. Hang on, Robin. Please. I’m coming.

Hawke looked back at where Vasco lay still, blood oozing from the hole in his forehead, his mouth slightly open, as if he were about to speak. The gun was still in his hand. Hawke slipped from behind the pillar, crawled on hands and knees, wrenched the gun away and stuck it in his pants, then crawled low to the wall and sat. If he could get over and through the gap without being shot, he had a chance. The ramp was about ten feet below ground level here. He’d have to risk it.

He took a deep breath, then stood and vaulted over the top of the wall, rolling down a steep, grassy slope. He bounced off the slope and hit the roof of a car, his shoulder stinging from the impact, rolled again and dropped to his feet between a minivan and a hatchback.

Hawke knew he was below the shooter’s line of sight now, and temporarily shielded from view. The ramp was cluttered with vehicles and smelled of oil and dust. He glanced into the gloom of the tunnel entrance, saw nothing and turned toward street level. Directly before him was open space where the tunnel passed 39th Street before diving back underground.

Hawke ran full bore up the ramp, darting left and right to try to make it more difficult for the shooter, his shoes pounding on the sidewalk. He didn’t know how long he could go before a bullet took him; he was fully exposed now, nothing but a few thin trees between him and the sniper. Someone shouted what sounded like a command to halt. He would have to make a choice, either head left into more open space or go down again, toward the second tunnel entrance that was hopelessly jammed with cars and black as pitch inside.

Open space was dangerous, but the tunnel was worse. There was no way he could navigate through the darkness and stopped traffic all the way to New Jersey. He had a better way.

Hawke ducked and dodged, but no shots came. A familiar noise came from somewhere far away, growing rapidly louder. He clapped his hands to his ears as the rocket roared and the ground exploded behind him. He stumbled and almost fell, the pavement shaking like an earthquake had hit, and he looked back to see the overpass where he had just been lying in ruin, a small mushroom cloud of dust rising up from below.