The Janus Reprisal

45

Smith found himself once again in a drugstore, though not the same one he’d been in the last time when he bought first aid. He moved through the aisles collecting flashlights, batteries, and two pairs of rubber gloves, one for Russell and one for him. Russell was in a separate aisle looking for water bottles and aspirin. They met in the middle.

If anything, Russell looked worse under the drugstore’s fluorescent lights. Her skin remained pasty and slick from sweat, her lips were chapped, and her hair lank. She had pulled it into a ponytail and wisps fell around her face. She’d insisted on coming despite her weak condition, and Smith knew better than to try to stop her.

“What’s the tape for?” she said, indicating the duct tape in his grocery basket.

“To tape the lights to our waists. Allows for freedom of movement.”

She nodded. “Think Klein will be able to come up with some more weapons?”

Smith shrugged. “Maybe, but we can’t wait for it. Every minute that goes by, the bacteria spread.”

“If we’re right.”

“If we’re right, yes. And I’ve got to hope that we are. I don’t want to be the one who missed the ball so completely.” She turned toward the cash registers and he followed.

“We have it right. I can just feel it.”

He didn’t reply. The clerk behind the counter didn’t seem to notice Russell’s condition, or perhaps working the late shift meant that he was used to seeing dreadful-looking people buying aspirin. They left the store and climbed back into the rental.

Ten minutes later, Russell pulled within thirty feet of the 181st Steet subway stop and killed the engine.

“Klein’s going to orchestrate a partial blackout,” Smith said. “We’ll have thirty minutes from when it starts.” He had his bulletproof vest on, but Russell had none.

“We need better equipment. You take the vest. I’ll take the rifle.”

Russell shook her head. “Not a chance. You’re the one we need to address removing the bacteria. I’m just the hired muscle.”

“I hardly think of it in those terms.”

“Well, you should. We need your expertise to get through this thing. Mine, not so much.”

“I’ll make you a deal. When we get closer to the target, you walk in front. You draw their fire while I work on the track. For that, you’ll need the vest.”

She held out her hand. “Fine. Give it to me.”

They both opened their doors and slid out of the car. Smith shrugged out of the vest and handed it to her. As they did, a shadow emerged from behind two buildings. It was Howell.

“Out for a stroll?” he said.

Smith clapped him on the shoulder. “Glad to see you. Klein fill you in?”

Howell nodded. “All the gory details. Where’s Beckmann?”

“In FBI custody.”

“Shame,” Howell said. “So what’s the plan?”

Smith turned to the subway stop. “This is the next station down from the target. We go in, jump down to track level, and make our way to the 191st Street platform.”

“Subway crawling.”

Russell nodded. “Beats dying.”

“That it does,” Howell said. He showed them his sniper rifle. “I’m armed and ready to take someone out. Lead on.”

Before he did, Smith spotted a black man in his early thirties with long braids and a soft-sided guitar case slung over his shoulders like a backpack. He kept a steady eye on Smith and Russell as he walked toward them. He stopped when he reached Smith.

“Nice night for some rat hunting. Special delivery. My friend, Mr. Klein, asked me to give you this.” He shook one shoulder out of the pack’s straps and then the other. Smith took it from him and nearly dropped it in surprise at the sudden weight.

“Heavy for a guitar,” Smith said.

The man smiled. “I agree but it’s the best. Good luck.” He nodded at Russell and Howell and sauntered off.

“What’s in it?” Howell said.

“My weapons, I presume. I asked for an AK-47, two Berettas, and some tear gas bombs. You know, just in case.”

Howell nodded. “Of course. May I suggest a pincer movement? I will approach from the Dyckman station, you approach from this one. They try to run through the tunnels at least then we’ll catch them. Drive them toward me. I’ll be up on the platform ready to ambush them when they come even.”

“Good. We’ll give you twenty minutes to get into place. That work?”

“Yes, it does.”

“The streetlights will go dark first. Remember, that doesn’t affect the third rail, which is on a different system. I’ll wait until you’re in place and then give the signal to cut power to the third rail. Good luck,” Smith said. Howell jogged away and as he did, the streetlights went dark. Smith kept a close eye on his watch. After twenty minutes, he sent a text to Klein.

“Thirty minutes,” Smith said. He headed down the stairs.

Smith was surprised at the depth of the blackness, both on the street and in the subway. He dodged a woman heading upstairs and mumbled an apology that he doubted she heard. Two more people slogged up the stairs with resigned looks on their faces. A young man wearing skater pants and a graphic T-shirt and carrying a backpack with a skateboard lashed to it waved at him.

“Lights went out. Don’t think the trains are coming.”

“I’m MTA and you’re right. Many people waiting?”

“Nah. Only me, those two, and that lady.”

“Good. Hope you don’t have too far to go to get home.”

“I got the board. It’ll be cool.”

Smith joined Russell at the bottom.

“New Yorkers are a resilient group, aren’t they?” he said.

“Yes, they are.” She headed to the turnstile and vaulted over it. Smith followed, jumping up onto the support, swinging his legs, and landing on the other side. He switched on his light and kept moving. The light was taped to his belt at his hip and faced forward, throwing a beam that was easy to follow. The platform was empty.

“Let me get the AK out of this guitar case.” Smith carefully removed the case from his back and unzipped it halfway. He felt around inside and his fingers closed on a metal weapon. He pulled out an AK-47 with a carry strap. He felt around again and found a pistol that he shoved into his waistband. He reached back inside and pulled out a small bulging nylon bag. It had carry ropes to make it a backpack. He ran his fingers over it, found the opening and pulled it wider so that he could put his hand inside and figure out what was there. He felt a cylindrical portion that held the filter of a gas mask. He smiled when he realized that it contained two. He transferred the tear gas from the larger pack to the smaller and left the guitar bag on the ground. He put the smaller nylon bag over his shoulders. They jumped down onto the tracks, and water splashed upward.

“The flooding’s going to slow us down.”

“Wish we could fan out. I hate to be stuck single file if we come upon Dattar and his crew,” Russell said.

“I’m equally afraid of the third rail. It’s mostly covered, but there are small open sections. If somebody gets the idea to switch the electricity back on, I don’t want to be anywhere near it,” Smith said.

He continued forward, with Russell behind him. The tunnel smelled of mildew and dust, but overall it wasn’t as foul as he’d expected. The tunnel’s ceiling was made of jack-arch concrete and the walls were tiled. The sound echoed, as if he were in a shower, so they maintained silence.

Smith figured it would take them 15 minutes to walk it. The water, with its tendency to splash and make noise, slowed them a bit, but they still kept a brisk pace. Smith felt the dirt beneath his feet begin to suck at his shoes, and his feet and calves were soaked. He felt something squish under his sole. It felt dense, like the body of a small animal.

Mouse or rat, Smith thought.

After ten minutes they came upon a recessed opening. Smith turned his hips so that the light shone into the area, but he found nothing. He waved Russell on. After another five minutes, he thought he heard a sound ahead of him. He stopped and switched off his flashlight; Russell did the same. Smith stayed perfectly still. The sound of another soft splash, this one closer, made his skin crawl and his heart start racing. Someone or something was in the tunnel with them.