The Edge of Armageddon

CHAPTER SIX

Drake dashed out of the building, Alicia, Mai and Beau at his side. Sweat already soaked the four of them. Determination sprang from every pore. Beau fished a state-of-the-art GPS out of a pocket and pinpointed the Edison.

“Times Square area,” he said, studying the route. “Across third and over Lexington Avenue. Make for the Waldorf Astoria.”

Drake raced into plodding traffic. There was nothing like trying to save the life of a New York cabbie as he tried desperately to break your legs at the knees, inching forward as best he could. Drake jumped at the last second, sliding over the front of the closest yellow cab and landing in full flow. Horns blared. Each member of the team had managed to commandeer a handgun on the way out and brandished them now whilst wishing they had more. But time was already wasting away. Drake checked his watch as he hit the sidewalk.

Seventeen minutes.

They crossed Lexington and then ran alongside the Waldorf, barely stopping as the cars along Park Avenue crawled along. Drake fought his way through a crowd at the traffic signal, finally confronted by an angry, red face.

“Look, buddy, I’m crossing here first if it kills me. Bosses’ bagels gonna get cold and that’s a damn no-no.”

Drake skirted the angry individual as Alicia and Mai burst past on the outside. The signals changed and the road was clear. Now with guns concealed they headed hard for the next main street — Madison Avenue. Again the crowds thronged the sidewalk. Beau skipped out onto 49th, hopping between cars and gaining a lead. Luckily, the traffic was now moving slowly and afforded them clear spaces in between rear bumpers and front fenders. The women followed Beau and then Drake fell into line.

Drivers shouted abuse at them.

Twelve minutes left.

If they were late, where would the terrorist cells strike? Drake imagined it would be in proximity to the Edison. Marsh would want the team to know his orders had been carried out to the letter. A car door opened ahead — just because the driver could — and Beau leaped over the top just in time. Alicia took hold of the edge of the frame and slammed it back into the man’s face.

Now they cut to the left, approaching 5th Avenue and even more crowds. Beau slipped through the worst of it like a pickpocket at a pop concert, followed by Alicia and Mai. Drake just shouted at everyone, his Yorkshireman’s patience finally running out. Both men and women blocked his path — men and women who didn’t give a rat’s shit whether he might be rushing to save his own life, one of his children’s, or even theirs. Drake muscled his way through, leaving one man sprawling. A woman with a baby glared at him hard enough to make him feel guilty, until he remembered what he was running for.

You’ll thank me later.

But, of course, she would never know. Whatever happened.

Now Beau shot left, running down the Avenue of the Americas towards 47th Street. A Magnolia Bakery passed by on the right, making Drake think of Mano, and then what the Hawaiian might have gleaned from Ramses by now. Two minutes later and they were blasting up 47th, Times Square suddenly visible to their left. The customary Starbucks sat to their right, bustling and queuing out the door. Drake scanned faces as he dashed by, but didn’t expect to come face to face with any suspects.

Four minutes.

Time was spinning away faster and even more precious than the last moments of a dying old man. The hotel’s gray façade and golden entrance appeared to the left, fronting the sidewalk, and Beau was the first to swing through the front doors. Drake skirted a luggage trolley and a dangerously reversing yellow cab to follow Mai inside. A wide foyer and patterned red carpet greeted them.

Beau and Alicia were already pressing the call buttons for separate elevators, hands close to concealed weapons, as a security guard watched them. Drake thought about producing the SPEAR team ID card, but it would only lead to more questions and the countdown was already inside the final three minutes. A chime announced that Alicia’s elevator had arrived and the team piled on. Drake stopped a young man from joining them, warding him off with an open palm. Thank God that worked, because the next gesture would have been a closed fist.

The four-strong team gathered themselves as the car rose, shaking off the run and drawing weapons. Once the door opened they piled out, searching for room 201. Instantly, a whirlwind of fists and legs was among them, shocking even Beau.

Somebody had been waiting.

Drake flinched as a fist connected above his eye socket but ignored the flash of pain. A foot tried to sweep his own but he sidestepped. The same figure moved away and beset Alicia, slamming her frame into the plastered wall. Mai stopped blows with raised hands and then Beau struck fast, a one-two that stopped all momentum and drove their attacker to his knees.

Drake leapt up and then punched downward with all his strength. Time was ebbing away. The figure, a chunky man wearing a thick jacket, shuddered under the Yorkshireman’s blow, but somehow managed to deflect the worst of it. Drake fell to the side, unbalanced.

“A punching bag,” Mai said. “He’s a punching bag. Positioned to slow us down.”

Beau drove in harder than before. “He is mine. You go.”

Drake jumped over the kneeling figure, checking room numbers. Their destination sat only three rooms away and they had one minute left. They were down to the final seconds. Drake paused outside the room and kicked at the door. Nothing happened.

Mai pushed him aside. “Move.”

One high kick and the wood splintered, a second and the frame collapsed. Drake coughed. “Must have weakened it for you.”

Inside, they spread out, guns ready and searching quickly but the object they sought was terribly obvious. It lay in the middle of the bed — an A4 size glossy photograph. Alicia approached the bed, staring from side to side.

“The room is immaculate,” Mai said. “No clues, I will bet.”

Alicia paused at the side of the bed, looking down and breathing shallowly. She shook her head and groaned as Drake joined her.

“Oh God. Is that a—”

The ringing telephone interrupted him. Drake leapt around the bed to the nightstand and snatched the receiver from the cradle.

“Yes!”

“Ah, I see you made it. Couldn’t have been easy.”

“Marsh! You crazy bastard. You’ve left us a photograph of the bomb? A fucking photograph?”

“Yes. Your first clue. Why, did you think I’d let you have the real thing? So stupid. Send it to your leaders and your eggheads. They will verify the serial numbers and all that other rubbish. The canisters of Plutonium E. The fissionable material. Boring stuff, really. The next clue will be even more telling.”

At that moment Beau entered the room. Drake was hoping he would be dragging Punchbag Man along with him but Beau drew an imaginary line across his carotid. “He killed himself,” the Frenchman said in a bemused voice. “Suicide pill.”

Shit.

“You see?” Marsh said. “We are very serious.”

“Please, Marsh,” Drake tried. “Just tell us what you want. We’ll do it right bloody now.”

“Oh, I’m sure you would. But we’ll save that for later, eh? How about this? Get running for clue number two. This chase is getting better and more difficult. You have twenty minutes to reach the Marea restaurant. It’s Italian, by the way and they make a mighty mean Nduju calzone, believe me. But no stopping for that, my friends, because this clue you will find placed under a toilet bowl. Enjoy.”

“Marsh—”

“Twenty minutes.”

The line went dead.

Drake cursed, turned, and ran like hell.