Vortex

Chapter Twenty

“The death of Professor Metzencroy came as a shock to all of us. Please accept our regrets, Colonel,” the President offered from Washington over the high security conference line.

Chilgers was glad for this method of meeting. It spared him the necessity of keeping his features as composed as his voice. “Your thoughts are most appreciated, Mr. President,” he said humbly.

“Then please accept our concerns in the same light. Mr. Brandenberg, Mr. Jorgenson, and I are curious as to how the professor’s unfortunate passing affects Project Placebo?”

“Not in the least, sir,” the colonel reported confidently. “Please understand that the professor has been sick for some time. He had more or less removed himself from the project actively as of six weeks ago. His participation from that point became advisory or instructional in nature. So he will not be missed on this project in any tangible sense, though with him, sadly, has passed the kind of intangible contribution to the field of science that is not easily replaced.”

“I understand,” said the President.

The deep voice of Secretary of Defense George Brandenberg, filled the room. “But the point now is that Project Placebo can go on as scheduled.”

“I can say yes in all confidence.”

“That’s good,” said the President, “because after going over your report we’ve decided to accept your proposal verbatim, including activating Project Placebo’s final stage, a full-scale Red Flag alert, to coincide with delivery of the doctored missiles from COBRA.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Colonel. If anything goes wrong here, there’ll be hell to pay. The Senate Armed Services Committee will want to put somebody’s ass in their witness chair and, excuse my frankness, but it’s not going to be mine.”

“I understand fully.”

“See that you do, Colonel. When are the doctored missiles scheduled to arrive at Bunker 17?”

“Sunday afternoon, sir.”

“Then following your scenario we should bring the base to Yellow Flag some hours before then. You understand, of course, that all-alert status signaling will be handled from our end. We control the pace and can choose to abort the exercise at any time.”

“Certainly, Mr. President. That’s precisely what I proposed. Technically, I know of no other way it can be handled.”

There it was, Chilgers thought as he hung up the phone minutes later; he had done it. Project Placebo would go into effect sometime tomorrow and from that point it would be unstoppable. Vortex, too, would be unstoppable. Everything had worked out even better than he had let himself hope.

Metzencroy was out of the way and within the next few hours all the remaining holes would be filled.

Chilgers clamped his hands triumphantly together and smiled.

Bane had visited four more of the passengers from Flight 22 with no further results when the feeling struck him. A dread fear crept up his spine and he knew immediately something was wrong. He had lost his COBRA tails one hour into the morning, sick of worrying about them. Now he found himself missing their presence and their actions at any given time as a barometer for the opposition’s intentions.

He had to get to a phone.

“Josh, thank God you called!” The Bat had answered his phone before the first ring had ended.

“Harry, what’s wrong?”

“The King called a few minutes ago, talking crazy and swearing his head off.”

The fear tightened around Bane’s spine. “What about?”

“He wouldn’t tell me, but he wants you to call him as soon as you can.”

“Thanks, Harry.”

Bane plunged another dime down the slot and pressed out the number of the King’s gym.

“Josh boy?” the King rose tentatively. He did not bother to say hello.

“It’s me, King.”

“I lost him, Josh boy, I lost the kid.”

King Cong unlocked the door to his gym twenty minutes later just long enough for Bane to enter.

“It was crazy, Josh boy,” the King explained, following Bane toward the back room where Davey had been staying. “All of a sudden all the lights went out. I was movin’ toward the fuse box when I felt somebody real close by. Shit, he must a been in the same league as you and me — may be better. Anyways, I got a fix on his outline and was movin’ for him when somethin’ that looked like white smoke shot into my face and the next thing I know I’m wakin’ up with a head twice normal size.”

Bane caught the scent of a faint odor in the air. “Panodine,” he announced. “Highly toxic poison, especially in a gaseous state. Fatal even in small inhalations.”

“I’m still breathin’.”

“You wouldn’t be if you were six inches shorter and a hundred pounds lighter.”

They had reached the entrance to the back room.

The King fumbled for the right key.

“Soon as I come to,” he continued, finally finding it, “I checked back here where two of my boys were handlin’ the baby-sittin’ chores.” The King swung the door open. “Somebody blew their heads off.”

Bane stepped inside and saw for himself. The two fullback-size blacks lay face down in a pool of blood and brains, the rear of their skulls blown totally away. He couldn’t help but shudder.

“Who could a done this, Josh boy? Who coulda pulled it off?”

Bane was asking himself that same question. A single devastator bullet in the back of the head was Scalia’s trademark as a killer. Could this be Scalia’s work?

Bane shuddered again and at once knew it was. Scalia was in New York and now he had Davey! But the boy wasn’t dead. Otherwise, his body would be lying here with the others. He’d be on his way to COBRA by now. Worse, Trench and Scalia were both in the city, both working for the opposition.

“How long, King? How long ago did this happen?”

“I don’t know for sure, Josh boy. I was out maybe a half hour so figure ’bout twice that or a little more.”

King Cong took a deep breath. “I let you down, Josh boy, I let you down real bad.”

“My fault, King. I should’ve known they’d link you to me.”

The King looked at him with sorrowful eyes. “Yeah, well the dude they sent iced two men like they weren’t even there, Josh boy. And when he came at me I could tell he was quick, quick like a cat.”

Bane started from the back room, froze in his tracks. Suddenly COBRA’s strategy was clear to him. With hard, cold fear he realized the next stage of their plan: the boy was theirs; it was time to clean up the rest of their tracks.

Bane rushed into the gym office and grabbed the phone. He dialed the Center’s number. It started ringing.

Come on, come on! Answer! Somebody answer!

No one did. The receiver slipped from Bane’s fingers and he charged past the King toward the exit.

Trench watched the passenger door open and the tall man slide in. He had only met Scalia once previous to this day and that occasion had found them on different sides, each resolutely trying to kill the other. Now they were working together and their eyes revealed the knowledge that this time any lapse would mean death.

“I’ve taken care of the phones. The people are yours.”

“How many?” Scalia asked, his eyes on the Center’s brownstone.

“Three since noon, just as the colonel informed us.”

“The girl?”

Trench nodded, reluctantly.

Scalia pulled back the sleeve of his overcoat. “Quarter past. I’d better get moving before the others dribble back from lunch. Don’t want to run up the colonel’s bill now, do I?”

He pulled an Ingram machine pistol, a close cousin to the Uzi only more powerful, from the back seat and fit it snugly under his overcoat. Scalia was thin to the point of being gaunt. His straight combed hair was black, as were his eyes. His body was taut and coiled, prepared at an instant’s notice to spring into violent action. He wore tight leather gloves over his hands, perfect for the unusual cold snap, but Trench knew they would have been there even on the hottest summer day.

Scalia looked over at him, turning his mouth into a twisted smile. “You don’t like this work much, do you?”

“I don’t see the point.”

“You don’t get paid to look.”

Trench hesitated. “The girl, Scalia.”

“Yes?”

“You’ll make it fast for her, of course.”

Scalia smiled one last time and climbed out of the car, moving toward the Center.

Charlie, the security guard, heard the bell ring and looked up from his magazine at the TV monitor which showed a sleek, well-dressed man at the front door. He depressed the intercom button.

“Yes, what can I do for you?”

No response. The man just stood there in the cold, hands tucked in his pockets.

“I said, what can I do for you?”

Still no response.

Damn thing must be on the fritz again, Charlie thought, and he hit the access buzzer atop his panel and waddled over to greet the visitor in the anteroom.

“Now, what can I do for you?” Charlie asked, swinging the inner door open so it was still held by the heavy chain.

He saw the black, perforated cylinder jamming toward him but was powerless to do anything but gape. It wedged through the slim opening and a burst burned into his stomach, killing him before he struck the floor.

Scalia tossed his strength behind a thrust at the chained door and sent it reeling inward. Millie the receptionist had just grabbed the phone when Scalia fired a silent volley through her head, blowing her backward.

His primary target was on the third floor. Scalia took the carpeted steps quickly, soundlessly.

Janie heard something downstairs. Immediately, she felt unsettled, but she pushed aside the knobs of fear forming in her stomach. She picked up the phone and buzzed Millie. No answer. She buzzed twice more, then decided a call to the police was in order.

“Put it down.”

The voice came from the doorway. Janie looked up to see a tall man in a dark overcoat standing before her, a small automatic rifle in his hands. A thick tubular extension projected from its barrel. A silencer, she realized. Oh God …

“What do you want?” she managed, knowing.

“Move away from the desk,” Scalia told her.

She did as she was told, clinging to whatever hope she could muster.

Scalia switched the Ingram from automatic to semi.

Janie caught the motion, watched his eyes narrow, and opened her mouth for a scream that never emerged.

The two bullets pounded her stomach. A pair of kicks to her belly, then hot raging pain spreading inside her. She felt herself crumbling but never felt the floor. The agony was everywhere, was everything.

Scalia watched her body twist and writhe, fingers clawing the floor, blood pooling underneath her. Then there was another silenced spit and her head rocked sideways, split open. Her eyes locked, dead.

“I told you to make it quick,” Trench said with restrained anger, gun still pointed at Janie’s head.

Scalia looked at the pistol smoking in Trench’s hand and raised his Ingram enough to make sure Trench saw it.

“You’re a butcher,” Trench said. “I ought to kill you now.”

Scalia raised the Ingram. “Go ahead.”

Trench flirted briefly with chancing a shot. It would take only one but there was the hair-trigger Ingram to consider. Scalia could fire the whole clip with a simple touch even a head shot wouldn’t preclude. So it was a stalemate and both of them knew it.

Trench backed away slowly, wordlessly, eyes speaking for him. He reached the stairs and started down, never shifting his gaze from Scalia, pistol tilted up. Scalia was out of sight by the second level but Trench was still leery, hoping for an attack now and disappointed when it hadn’t come by the time he’d moved outside and walked away from the Center.

Despite it all, Bane held his calm.

His response was programmed, a reflex reaction. He double-parked his car, dashing across the street with no regard for traffic. Horns honked. Brakes squealed. Tire rubber jammed against concrete, bumpers rammed each other.

He knew he was too late even before he found the door was open.

Bane saw Charlie first, a heap of bleeding flesh, head and shoulders held upright by the wall, eyes gazing down emptily at the unloaded gun he wouldn’t have had time to draw anyway.

Bane turned toward the reception area but didn’t go in. The blood-streaked walls informed him of Millie’s fate. His eyes moved to the stairs, knowing what lay up there for him. It was lunch hour. Scalia would have had the Center’s operating schedule and personnel duties down pat. Bane climbed the steps, his stomach fighting its way up his throat.

Janie’s blood had reached the doorway to her office. She lay on her side, face twisted up, eyes still open and gazing at him accusingly.

It’s your fault I’m dead….

Bane leaned over and closed her eyes, though not to hide their accusation because he knew it was justified. This was his fault, all of it. She was dead because of him, because he had involved her and left her alone unprotected.

He made an instinctive mental note of her wounds and felt tears forming in his eyes. Two shots in the stomach would account for just about all the blood, the one to the head — different caliber maybe — had been the killing shot. The first two, by themselves, would have made her linger in agony indefinitely, her death inevitable but slow in coming. What kind of bastard would—

Bane cut off his thoughts because he already knew: Scalia.

He wanted to take Janie’s head in his lap and cradle it but held back. He hated himself for not loving her fully or enough, an empty, bitter feeling spreading in the pit of his stomach. But it was rage that swelled with it more than grief, a rage he recognized from the murder of his father over twenty years before. Again the thirst for vengeance rose in him. People would pay now as they had paid then. He would make them pay.

For now, though, it was time to follow procedure. He was alone, yet he wasn’t alone. He had the whole United States government on his side against the forces of one corporation. The problem all along had been how to convince them COBRA was up to no good. Now that problem was taken care of, three murders at the Center forming the proof he needed.

Bane retraced his steps, heading out of the building now, Browning drawn and ready in case Scalia had left someone in the vicinity. A phone was his first need, a clean line in a booth or box. He moved back outside and down the Center’s steps, his eyes scanning about him. He held the Browning at hip level, just under the flap of his sports jacket to keep it from view; an old, established trick.

He found a pay phone close enough to a building to make him feel safe from that side. It was the box variety instead of a booth which was good because Bane planned on avoiding cramped, difficultly maneuvered spaces at all costs now.

The dime rang through and he pressed out a number locked in his mind from the past.

“Central dispatch,” a voice droned.

“Bane. Disposals.”

“Hold please.”

Then another voice came on. “Disposals.”

“This is Bane. The—”

“What is your designation?”

“Winter Man, dammit!”

A brief pause. “I’m sorry. I have no such designation. If—”

“Search under inactive,” Bane broke in.

A longer pause. “I have you, Winter Man.”

“Then stow the bullshit and listen to me. The Center’s been hit.”

“Level?”

“Three. All dead.”

“Survivors?”

Bane figured rapidly and the bile bubbled against his stomach linings. “Five. Imminent return expected. You’ve got to act fast, and I want an immediate patch-through to Arthur Jorgenson, director of Clandestine Operations, designation — Hercules.” He could trust Jorgenson, his former boss at DCO. Jorgenson would understand.

“Negative, Winter Man. Time limit on this line has elapsed. Surface again in thirty minutes and call Relays. Patch-through will be effected then. Jorgenson will be waiting. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“Signing off.”

Bane hung up the receiver, scanned the area more routinely. If Scalia had left someone to take him out, the attempt would have come during the phone call while he was reasonably distracted. Feeling safer, he started to move from the phone, swung swiftly back. Harry the Bat! COBRA was filling in the holes: Davey, the Center. They would know about Harry too. He’d be next on the list! Bane dialed the Bat’s number and felt his heart thunder more with each ring. Five passed and still no Harry.

Come on! … Come on!

“You’ve got the Bat. I’m all ears.”

“Thank God …”

“Josh? That you? What the hell’s going on? What did the King want?”

“The boy’s gone, Harry.”

“Shit! They didn’t … ice him?”

“No, just made him disappear.”

“Well, at least—”

“Harry, they hit the Center.”

“They what? Janie?”

Bane’s silence answered for him.

“Lord fuck a duck, Josh,” Harry moaned, “we got us some scores to settle on this one.”

“I’ve got a call into Jorgenson. He’ll bring us in. We can’t—”

“Hold it, Josh,” Harry whispered. “There’s someone outside the door.”

“Stay away from it, Harry. Scalia might still be lurking about.”

“Scalia? No shit! Hold it, they’re working on the knob now. Just hang on there, Winter Man.”

Bane heard the receiver meet the wood of the Bat’s coffee table.

“Harry? … Harry! … Harry!”

The blast was muffled by the phone line, still clear enough for Bane to figure it came from a twelve-gauge shotgun. Then silence.

“Harry! … Harry!”

No response. Bane felt frustration and helplessness claw at his spine. They had shot Harry. The poor guy was lying dead or close to it and all Bane could do was listen. He let the receiver drop from his fingers and bolted toward the street. Half a minute passed before a taxi answered his whistle, and he gave the driver the Bat’s address along with a crisp twenty and instructions to make it fast.

The driver made it in eight minutes and Bane was upstairs on Harry’s floor in just over one more. He snapped the Browning from its holster and pressed his back tight against the wall, sidestepping quickly toward Harry’s apartment.

Then he saw the door, what was left of it anyway. The shotgun had torn an irregular splotch big enough for a basketball to squeeze through from the wood. The still strong smell of sulphur and cordite burned his nostrils. Double-aught buck for sure. Trench maybe. Or Scalia.

He poked his head in through the hole and saw Harry’s wheelchair lying on its side with the top wheel still spinning. Somewhere nearby, he reasoned, the Bat lay blown to pieces. Only there was no blood Bane could see, a fact that had just struck him as strange when the distinctive click of a pistol hammer froze him stiff.

“One move and I’ll — Jesus Christ! It’s you, Josh! Lord fuck a duck …”

Bane turned to the right and saw Harry propped up against the wall, magnum in hand and bleeding rather badly from the forehead.

“Sorry I can’t get the door for you,” Harry said.

Bane pushed his way in. “How bad, Harry?”

The Bat dabbed at his forehead and scalp with a handkerchief. “This? Nothing. Damn splinters got me more than anything else, ’cept maybe the fall.”

“Splinters?”

“I got lucky, Josh. The killer must’ve fired when he caught my shadow under the door. Only he fired at where my head should’ve been instead of where it was. Lord fuck a duck, there are times when having your head only four feet off the floor is a plus.”

“Apparently.”

“He must’ve looked in just long enough to see me sprawled against the wall and figured I’d bought it. He wouldn’t have wanted to stick around too long under the circumstances.”

“You see him?”

“Nah. I was out cold. Must have a hundred wood chips stuck in my head. I crawled over here soon as I came to. Knew you’d be coming. Figured if it was somebody else I’d be able to take them by surprise.”

“You certainly did that,” Bane said and helped the Bat back into his wheelchair. He wheeled him into the living room and swabbed his forehead and scalp with alcohol pulled from the medicine cabinet.

“Ouch! Be a lot easier if I just drank that stuff.”

“Get me a tweezers and I’ll get to work on the splinters.”

“Fat chance, Josh. I’d rather chance the buckshot again.” The Bat bit his lip. “Sorry about Janie. I spoke to her just a couple hours ago. She called to tell me that COBRA’s Professor Metzencroy died of a heart attack last night … Why her, Josh, why?”

“She knew … too much. I dragged her in.”

The Bat’s fingers clenched into fists. “You really figure it was Scalia who hit the Center and King’s?”

“Along with Trench maybe,” Bane nodded.

“Lord fuck a duck, if those two are working together, the worst is on its way.”

“The worst ended at your door fifteen minutes ago, Harry. It’s time to let the big boys bring us in.”

“Jorgenson,” the Bat muttered. “You trust him?”

“I don’t have a choice. But he’s always played clean with me and this whole mess is right up DCO’s alley.”

“Yeah, except you haven’t seen the man in five years,” the Bat moaned.

“Relax, Harry, I’ll have Jorgenson order up a couple medals for us as soon as I reach him.”

“To pin on our chests, Winter Man, or our coffins?”

Chapter Twenty-one

Five minutes later Bane called central dispatch from the Bat’s apartment and was channeled immediately to Arthur Jorgenson.

“Josh,” the DCO chief’s voice began, sounding strangely familiar after all the years, “I’m on my way to the White House right now. I’ve got a pretty clear picture of what happened but not why.”

“You send a removal team to the Center?”

“Just got their initial report. Three dead, just as you told central. We rerouted the rest of the personnel when they returned from lunch. Whoever was behind this had things timed perfectly. They knew the workings of the Center inside and out.”

Right up Chilgers’ alley, Bane thought. “Anything else?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not. It looks clean, Josh, strictly professional all the way. I’m just having trouble figuring why someone would hit a bureaucratic branch of the government.”

“Bring me in and we can discuss it over dinner tonight.”

“You read my mind, Josh, but it might turn into a late supper. Picking you up is going to take a while to set up and I don’t want to take any chances. We’ve got to hit every angle. Choose a spot.”

“Perm Station. I like crowds.”

“So do I.” Bane heard papers shuffling on the other end. “Now follow me closely, Josh. The Metro-liner leaves New York for Washington from Track 10 at 4:45. We’ll pick you up there.”

“How many men?”

“Four’s still the standard. Let’s keep it at that to eliminate confusion. Should be strictly routine from here.”

“How will I know them?”

“Newspapers under the arms too mundane?”

“Too easy to spot and too common at five o’clock in the afternoon, Arthur. Have your men dress in business suits with their shirt fronts out. White shirt fronts.”

“I like it. Makes spotting them from a distance a bit easier for you.”

“My point exactly.”

Jorgenson sighed. “I’m almost at the White House, Josh. If you listen hard enough you’ll be able to hear the wind ruffling the marines’ dress uniforms. I need to give the President more than we’ve already got. Why was the Center hit, Josh?”

“The people behind it have a long reach, Arthur. This line may be untraceable but that doesn’t mean somebody’s not listening.”

Jorgenson hesitated. “I understand. I’ll cover for you with the White House until we bring you home.”

“The President’s been informed?”

“The Watergate age is long over. He’s the first to learn everything now. You called the right people.”

“I hope so.”

“It’s just past one-thirty. We’ll talk as soon as my men pick you up at Penn Station.”

“Shirt front out.”

“Right. Stay on your toes, Josh.”

“Count on it, Arthur.”

There was no reason for Bane to arrive at Penn Station too early. In fact, doing that might prove the worst security measure possible because it would give the COBRA forces more time to spot him. A shootout between Jorgenson’s men and Chilgers’ was not what he had in mind. So he waited until four-fifteen to leave the Bat’s, allowing an extra fifteen minutes for rush-hour traffic and not worried about Harry because he had the best camouflage possible: the opposition thought he was dead.

As it turned out, Bane’s timing was perfect. He cut a sharp, direct route through Penn Station, relieved to be in the presence of thousands of commuters. It would be impossible to spot one face in the crowd, even his. He reached the entrance to Track 10 just as the red light flashed its boarding signal and a moderate throng of people began to descend a staircase into the bowels of Penn and the tracks that ran through them like intestines.

He quickened his pace slightly to join the crowd at its center, sneaking past the man checking the Metro-liner tickets and already scanning for men with their shirt fronts out.

Two of them were mingling with the passengers at the bottom of the steps, businessmen in no particular rush to board the train after an extremely hectic day that had left them unkempt and not concerned about it, nor too eager to make a three-hour journey to Washington at speeds exceeding one hundred miles per hour. The men were good, nonchalant enough to make Bane wonder if perhaps he had chosen the wrong signal. How many other men about to board the Metro-liner might have lost track of their shirt fronts as the day drew to a close? Bane stopped himself from considering the question further.

He noticed a third man with a freed shirt front conversing with the conductor. That still left one, probably behind him now guarding his rear. Jorgenson wouldn’t have left anything to chance.

Bane passed the two DCO men at the bottom of the steps without exchanging so much as a glance. Contact was up to them at this point, everything routine. He was home free. Washington might not be able to find out precisely what Metzencroy had been up to, but they could certainly put a stop to it. Chilgers’ operation, whatever it was, would be finished by tomorrow.

Bane neared the train. Still no contact from the DCO escorts. Should he risk boarding it? No. That would represent a deviation from the stated plan, at least an addition to it, and all DCO operatives worked within a narrow rule plan. Bane slowed his pace.

His eyes met those of a man standing by the entrance to one of the cars, saw a professional spark in them he recognized immediately. Surely this was the fourth operative, except he didn’t have his shirt front out which made no sense unless he didn’t want Bane to pick him out. The man looked away, his eyes darting back toward the two men standing at the bottom of the main stairway.

Bane sensed the message in them and swung at the instant the two operatives by the steps were drawing their guns. By the time their pistols were ready to fire, Bane’s already had. Twice. The men were tossed backward, the bullets tearing half their chests away.

The shots sent panicked passengers scurrying everywhere. One woman darted across the path of the fourth man whose eyes had betrayed him. She took a bullet in the throat that otherwise would have found Bane. Confused, the man lost sight of his target at the same instant the last of the exposed shirt fronts ripped an Uzi machine pistol from under his coat and sprayed the area where Bane had been.

In fact, Bane was still there, but hugging the cement now, smelling hot tracks and the terrible stink of fear as the Uzi spit its fury and bodies fell writhing near him.

Bane’s next bullet carved a neat hole in the butcher’s forehead and roared from the back of his skull carrying fragments of brain with it.

The fourth team member had turned to flee by this time. Bane’s bullet was off the mark, a bit low, hitting the hamstring area and pitching the man sideways, feet flying, down onto the tracks where a combination of live juice and an oncoming train finished Bane’s job for him.

The screaming had intensified as he pushed himself to his feet. People trampled over each other as they rushed for the stairs, clawing at whatever their fingers could find. Others clung to the cement platform, frozen by fear, not even feeling the feet that stumbled over them.

Bane joined the chaos, forced himself to moan, to tremble, to waver. He pressed up against a hesitant group to better cover the holstering of his Browning, then joined the mad rush up the stairs past city and transit police, screaming with the crowd, pushing back when he was pushed. His calm had not deserted him, but he knew that nothing stands out more in a panicked crowd than one calm face. Bane forced fear onto his features, uncertainty.

And a measure of it at least was genuine. Either Jorgenson had betrayed him or the men he’d sent had been given a kill order by someone else. Bane didn’t particularly like the prospects of either alternative. In both cases, escape from the city would now be a difficult task, more so because he wasn’t sure he had anywhere safe to go.

Penn Station felt hot and steamy to him, not unlike the bug-infested jungles he had spent ten years of his life in, and suddenly he felt at home. They were on his turf now, and he welcomed any attempt at taking him out. Just let them try. Bane fingered the two spare clips within his jacket. It had all come back to him, not just the rage but the sharp senses and ice-cold thinking that fueled his desire. Word of the shootings had preceded him up the stairs and an already hectic Penn Station was now heading toward utter chaos. Only the track announcer’s booming voice coming from a booth well removed from the violence and terror remained as a calm and routine counterpoint. Everything else was bedlam.

Bane steered clear of it, down a less congested corridor and past a natural-snack booth, starting to relax.

A tall man sprang out in his path, gun leveled.

Bane knew it was Scalia, had barely touched his own pistol when the shot came, just a spit to the ear, and it was over just like that. I’m dead, he thought, looking up one last time at his killer.

Crimson painted Scalia’s face red, running from a hole in his forehead. The killer wavered, a drunk devoid of balance, and then dropped facedown to the Penn Station floor.

A hand grasped Bane’s shoulder. He turned and found himself staring into the liquid gray eyes of Trench, silenced pistol still smoking by his side.

“Let’s get out of here,” Trench whispered.

Chapter Twenty-two

“My car is just around the corner, Winter Man,” Trench told him when they had made it outside.

“You saved my life,” Bane managed lamely, not fully believing this was the same man who had killed Jake Del Gennio and who had wanted to kill Davey.

“We’re even. You spared mine in the hotel room two nights ago.”

They had reached Trench’s car, a maroon Cutlass. Seconds later they were in traffic, both breathing easier.

“Who were the men at the station working for?” Bane asked.

“Chilgers.”

“COBRA …”

“Chilgers is COBRA, Winter Man. One does not exist without the other.”

“Then Scalia was working for him too.”

“As well as myself. Until today, that is.”

“You changed sides.”

“I don’t keep sides, Winter Man. I work for who pays me until they reach their limit or I reach mine.”

“Which is it in this case?”

“Both. Chilgers has gone too far. He must be stopped.”

“And who’s paying you to do it?”

Trench tensed as two taxis pulled up on either side of him. They sped away as soon as the traffic light turned green. “I’m working for myself on this one, Winter Man. If I don’t get Chilgers, he’s sure to get me now that I’ve disrupted his plans. It’s a question of survival.”

Bane’s eyes grew cold. “What was it a question of when you paid a visit to Jake Del Gennio?”

Trench looked over briefly. “I had no choice. You should understand that better than anyone.”

Bane shook his head. “I’ve been through with this kind of life for a long time now,” he said trying to mean it. Hadn’t his return to the Game cost Janie her life? Weren’t Nadine and Peter dead now because he had made a similar return five years ago?

“Yes,” Trench responded, “because the damned Americans decided you couldn’t hack it anymore.”

That brought Bane’s eyebrows up. Trench’s phrasing had just eliminated America as one possible point of his origin. Bane had always been curious about the killer’s roots. This was hardly the time to probe further, though.

“I made that decision on my own,” he said instead.

“And now circumstances have forced you back into the Game, the same circumstances which have forced me to become independent.”

“COBRA and Chilgers …”

“The important thing now is that they must be stopped. It won’t be easy. Of all the men I’ve worked for over the years, I consider Chilgers to be the most dangerous, the most ruthless. He’s not about to let anything stand in his way.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about him, Trench, including no doubt what he’s been working on.”

“Not necessarily. I was a soldier to him, called in only when a soldier’s duty was required. I never concerned myself with the scientific aspects of what was going on around me. But there were bits and pieces concerning Vortex I couldn’t help picking up.”

“Vortex?”

Trench turned another corner. “The operation which cost your friend Del Gennio his life, Winter Man. It’s centered around making objects disappear and then appear again. Other than that, I’m afraid I know nothing.”

“But you’ve finally confirmed that Flight 22 really did disappear. Jake was right.”

“But there were complications, beginning with engine trouble, that threw the timing of the experiment off. And then that boy escaped and gradually revealed the newfound powers he’d acquired on his ride on that plane. At that point, it became a soldier’s problem. After Del Gennio, I was assigned to bring the boy in.”

“But you elected to try to kill him instead.”

“An independent action on my part,” Trench explained. “My parting with Chilgers was already inevitable and I couldn’t tolerate him controlling the kind of power the boy possessed. Besides, I had no intention of allowing the boy to use his abilities on me. I know my limitations, Winter Man, and whatever this boy has well exceeds them. Killing him was the only alternative.”

“Except now Chilgers has him, thanks to Scalia.”

“All the more reason for us to work fast. Chilgers will be after us both when he learns of his failure at Penn Station. Together, we might just prove a match for his army, though it might not be a bad idea for you to contact your old friends again.”

Bane frowned. “Only I have no idea who I can trust anymore, Arthur Jorgenson included.”

“Jorgenson had nothing to do with what happened this afternoon.”

“But one way or another, those were his people who tried to take me out. And by your own admission, Trench, you were never aware of everything afoot at COBRA. Jorgenson, the entire government even, could have been in on this from the beginning.”

The car became stuck in traffic. Trench tensed again. Horns blared maddeningly around him.

“No,” he insisted, “Chilgers planned to activate Vortex without government knowledge. He has controlled this operation on his own. For twenty years, he has personally supervised Professor Metzencroy’s work.”

“Metzencroy’s dead.”

Trench’s eyebrows fluttered briefly. “I’m not surprised. Chilgers’ displeasure with Metzencroy’s attitude had become obvious of late. And with Chilgers, displeasure often leads to elimination.”

“You’re saying he had Metzencroy killed.”

“Almost certainly.” Trench hesitated, squeezed the wheel tighter. “There’s something else you should know, Winter Man.”

“I’m listening.”

“In Berlin, five years ago, my target was supposed to be you.”

“I know. Someone else went in my place.”

“You don’t understand. I was hired by … certain elements of your government to do the job.”

“What?”

“After all these years, I thought you would have suspected.”

The shock hit Bane like a kick in the stomach. “Who?” he asked bitterly. “Who gave the order, Trench?”

“Such men have no faces, Winter Man. Someone high up wanted you killed or neutralized, taken out of the Game. You insisted on returning to the field. The risk of that was too great. You knew too much if captured.”

“Jorgenson,” Bane muttered.

“No. It would be someone considerably higher in the government, beyond Jorgenson’s level, buried too deep, perhaps, after all these years to uncover. But there’s always a chance. Perhaps Jorgenson can even help you. He can still be trusted more than the others. All the more reason to see him,” Trench said in an almost fatherly tone, and the difference in age between them made it acceptable.

“How have you done it?” Bane asked him. “How have you stayed in the field so long?”

Trench started to chuckle but gave way to a sigh. “I never align myself with countries or causes. Politics are good for nothing but developing a conscience, and a conscience in our business is an ill-afforded burden. You were the best, Winter Man, but you let it get to you. You played for only one side because you genuinely cared and eventually that ate you up. East, West; Communism, democracy — they’re all the same. See them all or don’t bother to see any. Either way, morality for me never enters in. As soon as it does, emotion takes over. You hesitate, doubt, think too much. Times don’t change, only politics do. Eliminate politics and you become ageless. The demand for our kind of work is always present if one does not choose his employers on conscience.”

“Was it conscience that made you save my life back at Penn Station?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe it was the same thing that stopped you from killing me in the hotel room. We provide each other with scale. Each of us justifies the other’s existence. We’re different yet the same, both anachronisms who’ve lived far beyond our allotted time. We’re the best but the best craves competition, rivalry.”

“We’re not rivals anymore.”

“You have a place to regroup, of course.”

Bane nodded. “The best kind. A dead man lives there.”

“There’s one problem,” Bane said when they reached the Bat’s apartment building. “The man putting us up is the man you made a cripple in Berlin.”

“Harry Bannister?”

“That’s right. Someone tried to take him out today but the job was botched. The shooter didn’t know the Bat lived out of a wheelchair.”

“He’s not still in the field, is he?”

“No, he’s moved on to computers which means he might be able to help us learn more of what Vortex is all about.”

Harry the Bat regarded Trench with vague recognition as he followed Bane into the apartment. Then his eyes bulged and his head snapped back against the wheelchair’s rest. His hand grasped his magnum.

“Jesus Christ…”

Bane was upon him before he could get the gun from his lap, pinning his hand where it was. “Listen to me, Harry, he’s on our side now.”

“Yours maybe, not mine!” And the Bat’s left hand was moving toward another of his pistols.

Bane pinned that one too. “He saved my life today, Harry.”

“And fucked up mine five years ago. You expect me to forget that?”

“Not any more than I expect you to forget that Janie was killed today and Davey was kidnapped, and Trench can help us get the people behind it.”

The Bat’s eyes filled with tears. “That fuckin’ son of a bitch killed my legs, Josh. I’ve got to nail him. You’ve got to let me nail the fucker!”

Bane kept the Bat’s arms pinned. “Listen to me, Harry, and listen good. They tried to take me out at Penn Station today and they came damn close. I’m only alive now because this man put a bullet between Scalia’s eyes. Do you hear me, Harry? He saved my life! That’s what we’re down to now, life and death. Real bullets and real bodies. The stakes are different and I don’t plan on losing. The only people I care about right now are the ones who can help me stay alive and that makes you … and him … the only two. Don’t force me to make a choice.”

Bane felt a hand on his shoulder and then a gentle tugging as Trench pulled him away. “Leave him his guns, Winter Man, let him to do what he must.”

Harry raised his magnum in a trembling, sweat-soaked hand and aimed at Trench’s head.

The killer held his ground, looked down at him distantly.

The Bat cocked the magnum.

Trench kept looking.

The Bat dropped the pistol back onto his lap, covering his face with his hands.

“That fucker killed my legs,” he moaned. “My legs!” And he slapped his thighs as if they were to blame.

Then Trench gave him his dignity. “I was wrong in the car, Winter Man,” he said, holding his gaze on Harry. “There are still three of our kind left, not two.”

Harry looked up, eyes sharper. “

I did what I had to do,” Trench told him. “I will not offer insulting apologies. Instead, I’ll only remind you that men like ourselves judge everything in the context of the moment. In the context of this one, we need each other.”

“And when it’s over, I’ll put a bullet through your brain,” Harry said with grim coldness.

Trench smiled, apparently satisfied. “It will not be so easy the next time. You’ve had your chance. Next time we start out even.”

“Fine by me, you fucker,” the Bat snapped.

“I believe we have arrived at a truce,” Trench told Bane. “For now at least.”

“Good,” Bane retorted, “because we’re going to need Harry’s computer.”

“I’m dead, remember?”

“I–Com-Tech has a service entrance and you’re cleared for weekend and evening duty.”

“What do you need?” the Bat asked, glad for the attention. His eyes never left Trench for more than a second.

“There’s got to be some connection here we’re missing. A link somewhere, a common denominator between Einstein and Metzencroy that will tell us precisely what COBRA’s up to with Vortex.”

“Vortex?” Harry quizzed.

“Project name for the operation Jake Del Gennio led us into. Meanwhile, I think a call to Arthur Jorgenson is in order. It’s time to go home.”

Jorgenson was on the other end of the line two minutes later. “Josh, where are you?”

“Do you really expect me to tell you?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“It’s been a long time, Art.”

“Should’ve been less, Josh. I’m sorry for what happened at Penn Station.”

“You were almost apologizing to my corpse.”

“It won’t happen again, you have my word. I’ll handle things personally next time.”

“How do you know there’ll be a next time?”

“Because we’ve known each other too long for there not to be.”

“We never knew each other.”

“Don’t go philosophical on me, Josh. We’re running out of time. I’ve got to know what you’ve uncovered.”

“One hell of a mess.”

“I know. Just name your terms for coming in and I’ll meet them.”

“You, Art, I want you face-to-face.”

“I already offered. Name the place and time and I’m yours.”

“The Washington Bullets have a game at the Capital Center in Landover tomorrow night. I’ll leave a ticket for you at the box office, a couple for your bodyguards as well near our section. If they try anything, they’ll be dead before they finish. You know that, Art.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You’ll also be interested to learn that I’m working with Trench now and we’ve developed a mutual insurance policy. If I don’t walk out of the Capital Center tomorrow night, my newest friend will take you out.”

“Can’t we meet sooner?”

“It’s been a long day, Art, lots of people dropping dead all around me. I need to collapse for a while and tomorrow I don’t plan on taking a direct route to the capital.”

“Nobody wants you to make it safely here more than I do, Josh.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Chapter Twenty-three

“Bane just called in,” Jorgenson reported, closing the Oval Office door behind him and moving to his chair.

“Did you trace the call?” the President wondered.

Jorgenson shook his head. “Couldn’t. He routed it through a sterile emergency exchange again.”

“Damn! … What the hell happened up there, Art?”

“It’s just as I expected when the initial reports arrived. Bane killed the four men I sent to bring him in because they tried to take him out.”

“Your men?”

“Strictly speaking, they’re not mine. DCO, CIA, NSA, DIA — none of us are permitted to run domestic operations but sometimes necessity forces our hand. Like this afternoon. On those rare occasions, we choose agents from a free-lance pool. Getting a DCO team together and briefed and on their way would have taken an extra five hours or so and we couldn’t spare the time, which left us with the pool. I never even met the men assigned to bring Bane in.”

“You making excuses, Art?”

“Just explanations; for Bane, not myself.”

“What does he want now?”

“A little more insurance that we’re not the ones who are out to kill him. Specifically, he wants me.”

“You?”

Jorgenson nodded. “He’s set up a meeting for tomorrow night on his own terms. He worked under me for seven years after Nam, so I guess he figures I’m still his best bet.”

“He gave you no idea of what he’s latched on to, I assume.”

“None whatsoever. Bane doesn’t trust phone lines, no matter how sterile they’re supposed to be. The only thing we can safely conclude is that the forces behind the hit on the Center have access to the same free-lance agent pool we do and rearranged things a bit this afternoon.”

“Only a government branch or department would have that kind of access,” the President pointed out.

Jorgenson looked at him grimly.

“You’re saying someone in Washington wants Bane dead.”

“At least someone with powerful connections in Washington. The question is who? And why?”

“There’s another possibility,” began George Brandenberg from his chair. “Bane could be behind all of this himself.”

“That’s ridiculous!” charged Jorgenson.

“Is it?” the secretary of defense challenged. “Consider first that we have no evidence that the Center was actually on to something, no evidence at all, other than Bane’s unsubstantiated word in the wake of the massacre.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

“I don’t see how it could be. I’ve been going over Bane’s file for the past two hours. His personality was listed as unstable five years ago and his psychological profile lists the possibility of ‘neurotic or manic behavior’ in addition to ‘repressed violent tendencies.’”

“There was never anything ‘repressed’ about his violent tendencies,” Jorgenson noted.

“Not until he withdrew from the field perhaps. What about after?”

“What are you getting at?”

“That Bane might have taken out his escorts without provocation. That we might be dealing here with a homicidal maniac.”

“I suppose you’d also like to suggest he was behind the Center hit as well.”

Brandenberg raised his eyebrows. “You said it, Art, I didn’t.”

“Bullshit!”

“I’m not so sure.”

“You’ll need more to support such a conclusion than you’ve put forth, George,” cut in the President.

“And I believe I have it. I’ve analyzed hundreds of these psychological profiles over the years and it’s not hard to see from Bane’s what we have here is a powder keg waiting for its fuse to be lit, for something to set it off. Anything, perhaps. We’ve seen what the sudden and total loss of combat can do to a man like Bane over the long term. The effect comes slowly, building up over time. Then one day he cracks.”

“He didn’t crack,” Jorgenson argued.

“We don’t know that, do we? We’re talking about a man who, in essence, developed a second personality he used for killing, a persona partially separate from his own. I ask you now who is loose in New York, Joshua Bane or the Winter Man?”

“They’re the same person, George.”

“Don’t be naïve, Arthur. For more than ten years Bane’s only job was to kill. Period. He did it better than anyone else we ever had, and he also did it longer. Most men like Bane run out of luck long before they find a different line of work. They’re not expected to live past thirty, not by any of the rules of the Game. Bane should have died in Vietnam. Our mistake was bringing him home in the first place.”

“My God,” Jorgenson hissed, “listen to what you’re saying.”

“Just consider the kind of values he would have had to develop to play the Game successfully for as long as he did. Consider in a general sense the kind of man he would have had to become. Now what happens to that man when Bane quits? Does he simply fade away and disappear? Or does he live under the surface waiting for his chance to rise up again?”

“As long as you’re talking about Bane’s past, “Jorgenson countered, “you’d better keep in mind that he might be the greatest soldier America has ever had. Oh, there were plenty through the years who could have matched or exceeded him physically. Bane’s edge was in his mind, wholly psychological. He understood what he had to do and he may have enjoyed it because that was the only way he could keep going. But if he was going to crack, the split would have been obvious a long time ago. Bane survived the Game as long as he did because of mental, not physical, strength. Clandestine Operations puts me near hundreds of men, not just files — men like Bane — and psychologically he’s the toughest of any I’ve ever dealt with.”

“This bickering isn’t about to get us anywhere,” the President interjected firmly. “There’s a point here you both seem to be missing: an installation of this government was butchered today, and quite possibly another installation was behind it. Three people who drew treasury paychecks are dead and I can’t buy madness as the motivation. And the implications of the episode at Penn Station have got me scared as hell. Whoever was behind it must want Bane out of the way pretty badly, which makes it imperative for us to find out why, if we’re ever going to get to the bottom of all this.”

“That means bringing Bane in,” concluded Jorgenson.

“At a level of risk I find unacceptable,” argued Brandenberg. “We’re talking about Arthur’s safety here.”

Jorgenson was unmoved. “That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

Davey Phelps woke up cold, yet in a sweat. Everything was dark around him and he was conscious of motion. But when he tried to move his arms, he found the way blocked in all directions. His feet probed about and found similar walls, then Davey had the sensation of being trapped in a coffin en route to burial.

His mind slowly sharpened and he guessed his eyes did as well, though there was no way to tell in the blackness. Blackness … That was how it had started. He remembered being in the back room of King Cong’s place with two guards. He was fiddling with the radio in the corner when all the lights went out. One of the guards told him not to move, but then The Vibes went crazy, telling him someone cold and evil had entered the room. He pushed for The Chill but without the use of his eyes he had no way to aim it. Davey heard two soft spits and then a blindingly bright light flashed in his eyes, taking his mind from The Chill for a second. A second must have been all it took for the tall figure he’d glimpsed to shoot a dart into his arm and strip his consciousness away.

And now he was here. It didn’t matter where because the sense of motion told him he was on his way somewhere else. He could have been traveling by plane, train, car — anything. It didn’t matter. Escape was the issue now.

Davey cleared his mind, fought to relax. He grabbed his cool in the blackness and took a series of deep breaths, focusing his mind on the dead-smelling box they had put him in. He saw it hinged, locked, chained. He saw himself breaking out of it.

Davey reached for The Chill.

The box creaked.

Davey pushed harder.

Metal stretched outside, scraping against wood.

Davey felt the sledgehammer switch on in his head.

The chains were beginning to give. Davey reached back for everything he had, tried to pull the locks apart.

The box trembled and he sensed it was almost ready to burst apart at the joints. He squeezed his eyes closed, fighting back the awful pain racking his head, and pushed for all The Chill could give him.

The box was really shaking now, rubbing against the floor and rattling the chains. Then there was a bright flash before his eyes and it all stopped. Davey felt nauseous. The agony in his head came and went like the ticking of a clock.

He took another series of deep breaths, trying to steady his stomach against the horrible outcome of puking in his miniature prison. He tried not to think about it. He was getting colder now, and he tightened his arms across his body, wrapped them round himself and wondered where his leather jacket was. The inside of the box was dank, and he caught the faint odor of the sweat The Chill had brought to his flesh. Finally he relaxed.

He tried for The Vibes hoping they could tell him where he was, where he was going. But he couldn’t find them, so he squeezed himself tighter and turned his thoughts toward Josh. Josh had saved him once. He wouldn’t let him down now.

Davey wondered if he made The Chill hard enough, pushed for it super hard, whether maybe he could grab Josh’s mind and tell him where he was. Except even if he could, he wouldn’t know what to say. He was in a box heading … somewhere. That was all. And just thinking about The Chill brought the pounding back to his head.

He tried for The Vibes again but only flashes of the ones he’d felt before came — some the horrible ones that had made him tell Josh something awful was coming. Again he saw destruction, death, darkness. Everything had been blown away. There were craters instead of buildings and flesh pools where people had been standing. The whole world seemed hot, smoldering, steam-baked.

Davey wanted to sleep but couldn’t. He found himself rubbing a sore spot on his right arm, where he figured the dart had jabbed home. The drug it carried had worn off, and now he was doomed to spend the rest of the journey awake.

Josh … Come and save me, Josh! …

Davey knew Bane couldn’t hear the words, but saying them in his head made him feel better and took his mind off the black box which enclosed him.

I know you’ll come, Josh. I know you will….