The Solomon Effect

73

Turning the wheel hard, October slammed the side of the Speedboat into the U-shaped wooden walkway that curved out into the bay at Chopin Plaza and cut the engine.

“Hey,” shouted a dark, stocky bellboy, starting toward them. “You’re not allowed to tie up your boat there!”

“Catch.” Jax tossed him the bow line and grabbed October’s hand to haul her up onto the boardwalk. “It’s yours.”

They sprinted across the pavement and burst through the hotel’s massive glass entrance doors into a soaring space of tan marble turned to gold by the subtle gleam of light. A swashbuckling pirate in a black eye patch careened into them, said, “Excuse me,” and stepped back into an Arab in flowing bisht and a ghutra and igal. The Arab was real. The pirate wasn’t.

“What the hell?” said Jax, turning in a circle. The lobby teemed with curvaceous Little Bo Peeps and Naughty Nurses, Orthodox Jews with black slouch hats and curly ringlets, Klingons and Vulcans, caped vampires and hairy werewolves and Catholic priests in white collars and befuddled expressions.

October touched his arm and pointed to a discreet black sign with white letters that read, HIGHGATE HALLOWEEN CHARITY BALL, RM B12; PEOPLE OF THE BOOK BANQUET, GRAND BALLROOM. “Where’s the ballroom?” she shouted over the roar of voices and the splash of the fountain.

“We don’t want the ballroom,” he said, pushing though a coven of witches. “We want the floor above it. That’s where the HVAC unit is. According to the plans, the building’s entire system runs next to the service-elevator shaft. This way.”

They found the service elevator in a quiet hallway to their right. The indicator was stuck on the third floor, and it wasn’t moving.

“They’re probably holding it there,” said Jax, punching open the door to the nearby stairwell. “Come on.”

They raced up the bare concrete steps, the only sounds the clatter of their footfalls and the echoing rasp of their breath. At first, she kept pace with him. But as they were turning toward the second flight, he heard her let out a gasp as she hunched over to brace one hand against her knee. He slowed. “You okay?”

“Don’t wait for me! Keep going.”

He was maybe five seconds ahead of her when he slapped open the heavy firedoors on the third floor, his Beretta in his hand.

Rigged out in a Crusader costume with fake chain mail and a white surcoat marked by a giant red cross, General Gerald T. Boyd stood in the center of the hall, his hands on his hips, his attention focused on a closed gray door marked MAINTENANCE. A second man-younger, leaner, with a military buzzcut that clashed badly with his medieval squire’s costume-had one foot wedged in the partially open doors of the service elevator.

At Jax’s catapulted entrance, both men jerked around. The squire had a 9mm Glock half out of the holster hidden beneath his hauberk when Jax pumped two bullets into his chest.

The force of the impact knocked the squire back into the elevator. The doors slammed shut and the elevator whirled away with a ding.

“You bastard,” roared Boyd. Arms spread, he plowed into Jax and enveloped him in a deadly bear hug, just as October burst through the firedoor from the stairs.

With the General’s beefy arms squeezing the air out of his lungs, Jax wheezed, “The HVAC room. Quick.”

Arms pinned to his sides, lungs bursting, Jax pointed the Beretta’s muzzle vaguely in the direction of Boyd’s foot and pulled the trigger. He heard the bullet ricochet off the floor and smelled burned leather, cloth, and flesh. Boyd roared again and squeezed harder.

Jax pulled the trigger again and missed. The pressure on his lungs tightened. He could hear his ears ringing. His vision dimmed. He looked up into the General’s furious red face and knew a moment of disbelief. He was being crushed to death by a giant crazy general just feet away from where a mad scientist was unleashing a plague that could wipe out a good quarter of the world’s population.

Bending one knee, he braced his foot against the wall behind him and pushed. The General staggered back just enough to enable Jax to shift the angle of the Beretta’s barrel and fire again.

This time, the bullet found a more sensitive portion of the General’s anatomy. The steely gray eyes widened in shock and pain and disbelief. The pressure on Jax’s chest eased and he slammed the top of his head into the General’s face.

Boyd staggered back. Jax brought up the Beretta and fired point-blank into the red Crusader’s cross.