Lockdown

Eighty-six

‘So who d’you think’s gonna take the bragging rights?’ asked Ty as the chopper cut low and left across the East River towards Manhattan.

‘What the hell are you talking about? What bragging rights?’ Lock asked, struggling to be heard above the thud of the rotor blades.

‘Judgement Day, fool. The Jews think they’re the lost tribe, right? And then you got the Protestants. They’re the elect. Ditto the Catholics. Mormons think it’s them. Muslims. Damn, wouldn’t that be a kick in the nuts after all the shit they’ve pulled recently? Hindus? Can’t see it myself. Jehovah’s Witnesses? Hmm, done some hard lobbying. Gotta factor that in. Buddhists think they’re gonna be coming back as butterflies or some shit. But it stands to reason, they can’t all be right. Wanna know who my money’s on?’

‘Nation of Islam?’

‘Nah, the hell with them, never been the same since they lost Farrakhan. My money’s on the Irish.’

‘Being Irish isn’t a religion.’

‘You try telling them that. No, something big as Judgement Day is gonna come down to dumb luck. And you don’t get any dumber or luckier than the Irish.’

Ty sat back, apparently content with having slammed the world’s main religions and the homeland of at least a tenth of the country’s population in one burst.

Frisk swivelled round in his seat. ‘Is he always like this?’ he shouted to Lock.

‘Unfortunately, yes. You get used to it.’

‘Don’t you think it’s just a little disrespectful?’

Ty looked hurt. ‘You think of a more appropriate time to ask this stuff, let me know. Oh, and before you get into any 9/11 guilt trip bullshit, I lost a brother in Tower Two.’

Ty’s brother had been in the Fire Department, one of the guys who was walking up when everyone else was walking down. He and Ty had been close. Ty had joined the Marines in response, judging action more productive than mourning. Now, in the back of a chopper, flying into a city where any sensible person would have been flying out, Lock hoped history wasn’t about to repeat itself.

‘So can we return to the matter at hand?’ Frisk said as the copter made its final approach to the landing pad.

‘Let’s,’ said Lock, the pilot signalling for them to stay put for the next few seconds.

‘If your hunch is right, and we haven’t stopped her getting inside the cordon, she’s going to head for where she can do the most collateral damage.’

‘Which, in her head, is going to be here,’ said Lock as they unbuckled, got out, and two JTTF snipers took their place.

Lock started towards the edge of the building, Ty on his shoulder, both clicking back into their respective roles of team leader and second-in-command.

‘So how many people we got down there?’ Lock asked, reaching a three-foot-high concrete plinth which demarcated roof from air.

‘I’d ball-park it around eight hundred thousand.’

‘No, not in the city, down in the square,’ snapped Lock.

‘Look for yourself if you don’t believe me.’

Lock peered over, a sudden heart jolt almost taking him, head swimming, over the lip. Ty grabbed at Lock’s jacket, pulling him back. Still Lock stared. Frisk wasn’t lying. Times Square was crammed with a mass of humanity that stretched as far as the eye could see.

‘What the hell are all these people doing here?’

Times Square was busy late at night, always had been, even after its sleazier residents had been pushed out, but this was insane. It wasn’t just the sidewalks, every single inch was occupied.

Frisk gave him a puzzled look. ‘You don’t know?’

‘That’s why I’m asking.’

‘You don’t know what date it is?’

Lock didn’t. And then, as he stared across at the gigantic crystal ball standing ready to descend from atop the One Times Square building, and the television gantries with their brown dots of celebrity presenters, alien from the masses even at this height, he did. He knew exactly what day it was. Or rather, what night.

‘It’s New Year’s Eve.’