The Darkest Day

THIRTY-EIGHT

The blackout made it harder to slip away, yet also gave him an advantage, but it was only temporary. At some point the power would come back on, and with it street lights and CCTV cameras and facial recognition and more efficient communication between police officers. There would be less chaos to hide within.

He asked to move past a couple arguing, switching his accent to sound like an American — a generic Midwestern lilt, like Muir’s, indistinct and commonplace. It was not hard to change his voice. He was good at languages and dialects and colloquialisms because he had to be. He had to be because he worked all over the world. He had to blend into and disappear within all manner of places and situations. He maintained his language skills in the same way he maintained his strength and endurance — with consistency and the continued dedication only possible when existence might rely on the result.

Everywhere he walked he saw people were using their phones, their faces up-lit by glowing screens, trying to make calls or to find out information via networks that were down because of the blackout or struggling to cope with the demand because everyone was doing the same thing at the same time. He carried no phone himself unless in specific circumstances. They were too easy to track. They presented too much of a risk. Now, he felt exposed without one. He stood out from the crowd because he was not staring at a little screen.

He saw no cops, but did not allow himself to relax. They were still looking for him, but the blackout was hindering their efforts. With the electricity down, emergency services were overstretched dealing with people trapped in elevators or on the subway system or in any number of problematic situations. Police switchboards would be jammed with calls. Dispatchers would be overwhelmed. Even slick and well-funded organisations as the NYPD, FBI and Homeland Security would be disorganised. They had not yet been able to coordinate their efforts to track him down, least of all with one another.

He kept to the ground floor of the shopping mall, seeking the far exit. Going up would mean trapping himself in the building. Some instinct buried deep told humans that higher ground was safe. In most natural instances, it was. But not in the artificial urban wilderness. Even if he made it to the roof unfollowed and unnoticed, there was nowhere to go from there. No other building would be close enough to leap to. He would be hidden from eyes below him, but trapped, and exposed to aerial surveillance that could relay his whereabouts to forces on the ground.

Hiding was never as good as escape, least of all when trapped on an island swarming with security services and hired guns.

His gaze, sweeping over the crowd, fell across a man with a moustache and wearing a uniform.

A rent-a-cop security guard was looking his way.

There was no ambiguity. The guard was looking straight at him, but he wasn’t yet acting. He must have received some information about a fugitive with a vague description that matched Victor’s, but he wouldn’t have access to anything more.

Victor did nothing. He maintained his composure. It required no effort because he needed to and was used to staying calm when others panicked. He had to fight the same physiological responses as the next man or use them to his advantage, but his mental reaction to danger was that of a problem solver, detached and emotionless.

When that very first bullet, years before, had zipped past his head he had remained in position because he knew his cover was good despite the incoming rounds, and had kept his head up as more shots came his way while his teammates had dropped to the ground, scared and overwhelmed. He had kept his head up to look for muzzle flashes so he could return fire, because he had known to survive the ambush meant fighting out of it.

He had known then that what he possessed was not normal, but he had known long before that he was different, that there was something inside him others did not have.

Victor did not jerk his eyes away or turn or stare at the security guard, but held the man’s gaze for a brief quizzical second, before blinking and continuing on his way as would anyone with nothing to hide but curious as to why they were being looked at.

The rent-a-cop’s gaze passed over him, searching the crowd for a more obvious suspected fugitive.

Men and women and children bottlenecked at the mall’s exit. Victor followed the masses, allowing himself to be shoved and guided along in the crowd until he was outside again.

There was a police presence outside, but far too many people spilling out on to the street for them to have any hope of detecting him. He headed in the same direction as the majority of the expelled shoppers. The crowd thinned out the longer he walked as they headed in different directions.

More cops lay ahead across the intersection at the end of the block. Flashing light bars lit the street to his left. He headed right.

Within a minute he had lost the guaranteed protection of other pedestrians. He felt alone and exposed. He maintained a casual pace regardless. Running would only draw attention.

A police motorcycle was cutting through the stationary traffic ahead. For an instant it seemed it was on its way somewhere else, but then it veered in a sharp line straight for him. The rider’s face was obscured by the darkness but Victor knew he had been spotted.

He ran.

The motorcycle siren blared into life. Light flashed. The 600cc engine revved and whined as it accelerated for him. He leapt over a bench and slid over the bonnet of a stationary coupe and carried on running.

More sirens from police cruisers sounded from behind in a chaotic chorus, piercing and violent.

He fled from them, his shadow propelled before him by chasing headlights.