Assassin (John Stratton) (32 page)

The broad street opened up as he approached the large intersection that was fed by four other main roads – Chrystie, Canal, Bowery and the Lower Roadway – and led directly onto the northern mouth of Manhattan Bridge. The intersection was a complete zoo of machinery and humanity, every inch of it taken up by vehicles, the gaps between filled by pedestrians, all heading for the bridge and over into Brooklyn. Precisely what Wheeland had planned for. He craned as he walked into it, looking for his men.

He looked where Chrystie Street entered the intersection and saw one of the black Suburbans. As he closed on it, he saw one of the large troop trucks immediately behind. The teams were climbing out amid the chaos, and pedestrians were pushing through them to get to the bridge. Two of the men were hauling an M60 machine gun onto the roof of the Suburban, where it was fitted into a robust tripod, its legs secured by clamps. They loaded it with belt ammunition. Anyone who noticed the hardware showed little interest in knowing why.

‘Everything OK, boss?’ one of the men asked Wheeland as he arrived.

‘It will be,’ Wheeland muttered, taking his rifle off his back. ‘Are the others in position?’

‘Yes, sir. The bullion’s heading down Bowery right now.’

Wheeland stepped onto the side of the Suburban to get a look at the large intersection. He placed an earpiece over his ear that was connected to the radio in his pouch. ‘This is Wheeland. Give me a sitrep.’

‘Air cav and cranes are maintaining their position,’ a voice chirped.

‘HSBC convoy on Bowery towards Canal and Lower Broadway,’ said another voice. ‘Traffic is heavy but it’s moving. Convoy should be at the intersection in less than a minute.’

Wheeland used a pair of high-powered compact binoculars to scan the bridge. He moved slowly across the entire intersection. Bowery was to his right and, although anxious to look for the convoy, he remained concerned about Stratton and the device.

‘Sir, this is air cav,’ another voice boomed over the radio. ‘We’re looking at six, maybe seven air serials towards Manhattan Bridge. Blackhawk troop carriers. They’re taking the north side of the water. You should have them visual in three to four minutes.’

Wheeland adjusted his view to the skies. Much of the south-west side was blocked by skyscrapers and he couldn’t see the described flotilla. However, he could see the lone white radiation detection bird hovering several blocks west of the intersection.

‘All stations stand by,’ Wheeland said into his radio. ‘There’s every possibility this place is going to get hot very soon. Understand this. It’s nothing we can’t handle. We own this intersection and no one’s gonna take it from us until we’re ready to leave.’

‘I’ve got a visual on the bullion convoy, boss,’ one of his machine-gunners called out from the roof of the Suburban. ‘The lead vehicle’s entering the junction now.’

Wheeland could make out the top of a plain white armoured bullion truck. ‘Let’s get this job done,’ he said.

The twenty men in their black SWAT overalls, helmets and goggles divided up into four teams and spread out into the intersection, pushing their way through the vehicles and crowds. Every man, woman and child, in vehicle or on foot, was focused on the bridge and how soon they could get across it.

The twenty men from the other troop carrier parked on the south side of the intersection also spread to take up control positions. Two of the teams converged on Bowery
Street where it met Canal. Four of the men were carrying a couple of hand-held rocket launchers on their backs.

Wheeland watched the lead bullion truck gradually move into the intersection, closely followed by another. ‘Wait until they’re all exposed within the intersection,’ he said into his radio.

The distant thud of a helicopter reached him and he looked to the skies to see the white Bell turning in a curve from where he saw it seconds ago. He told himself that the bomb was now superfluous. It had done its job. The bullion had arrived. Stratton nevertheless remained an untidy loose end that niggled him.

He focused his attention back on the gold and watched the fourth and last truck turn the corner. ‘Now,’ he said.

The men carrying the rocket launchers climbed onto the roofs of the nearest vehicles while their colleagues ordered the drivers at gunpoint to keep stationary. The curiosity of some pedestrians grew as they noticed the men taking aim. Those who had figured out what was about to happen pushed to get away.

The first rocket shot from its launcher across the busy traffic above the heads of pedestrians and slammed into the cab of the lead bullion truck, exploding with a deafening crack and blast, sending flames and burning debris skyward and into the crowds. Several of those nearby were killed or seriously wounded. The men in the cab were killed instantly and fire spewed out of the front. The truck rolled on, its engine dead, and came to a crunching halt against a line of cars.

People nearby erupted in hysterical panic. Fire, death and destruction was what they were all fleeing from and, although it hadn’t been an atomic blast, it was possibly an overture to what was to come. Those in the distance looked to see what had happened.

The other shooters loosed their rockets, each finding its own target. The remaining three bullion truck cabs exploded as the missiles hit. The hysteria only multiplied, as did the surge of humanity forcing its way towards the bridge.

Vehicles were abandoned as occupants joined the wave of stampeding pedestrians heading towards the bridge and traffic came to a complete standstill. Many of those who fell were trampled.

Wheeland’s men climbed onto vehicles to avoid the rush of humanity. None had envisaged the kind of insane panic they were witnessing, and the intersection wasn’t emptying. If anything, it was getting fuller. Despite the numbers fleeing for the bridge, many more were coming from the adjoining streets.

Smoke from the burning trucks spread across the intersection into the skies, adding to the confusion. The sound of machine-gun fire sent another shockwave through the intersection – the team on the roof of the Suburban had opened up with short aimed bursts at the bullion trucks, intended to keep up the noise and violence and clear as many people from the vicinity as possible, as well as dissuade any guards inside or out from trying to save the gold. Like a herd of wild bison, pedestrians changed
direction in reaction to the new threat, running away from the loud staccato but all the time focused on getting to the bridge.

‘Move in!’ shouted Wheeland. ‘Air cav and transport proceed to acquisition RV,’ he said into his radio.

He stepped off the SUV at the head of his men, who were firing into the sky to scatter the pedestrians.

Stratton was a couple of blocks away when he heard the first salvo of rockets and broke into a run, pushing through people as best he could. The heavy sound of machine-gun fire joined in, echoing between the buildings.

He scrambled up onto the roof of a car and jumped from one to another to make better headway. When he arrived at the corner of a street that led directly into the intersection, he saw the bridge to his right and the flaming trucks with black smoke billowing from them straight ahead. The air was filled with screams as people pushed towards the bridge and the ground was littered with abandoned baggage, shoes, clothing. And occasionally those who had been trampled.

Stratton headed across the grain of the stampede. He jumped onto a car to avoid a mass of people but at the same time to look for Wheeland. He saw several men dressed in black, standing on vehicles, wearing helmets.

Wheeland’s men.

The machine-gun fire opened up again and Stratton quickly found the source – the gun team on top of a black Suburban. He couldn’t identify Wheeland but the man had
to be in there somewhere. Even if he did find him, it was going to be difficult to engage him with his men around him. Stratton needed the response teams to arrive. The problem was, they’d be going for the bomb, which was several blocks away.

There was another short clatter of heavy machine gun and Stratton decided it was the greater threat and that it had to go.

Chandos was growing more frustrated as he listened to the distant sound of machine-gun fire. Once again the RDA helicopter zoomed low overhead. More and more people were abandoning their cars and heading for the bridge despite the gunfire coming from that direction. A family hurried past, the father shouting at two young children who did not seem to be taking their evacuation seriously.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Chandos said, partially to Hetta but mostly to himself. ‘If the response teams land here, they’re not going to be of any bloody use to Stratton four blocks away.’

She was looking into the distance, thinking.

Chandos looked as far along the line of traffic as he could to see if it was moving. It wasn’t. He walked over and kicked the side of the taxi.

‘What would Stratton do?’ she asked.

He looked at her, still not at all comfortable talking to her in a casual manner. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, thinking. ‘He usually breaks all the rules.’

‘What are the rules about driving on the sidewalk?’

He looked along the sidewalk to the end of the road. Other than pedestrians, there were no obstacles. He looked at her. She seemed to be waiting for him to make a decision.

A helicopter thundered overhead. It wasn’t the white Bell but a military Blackhawk. He watched it disappear above a rooftop. Then he jumped into the driver’s seat and started the car as Hetta climbed in. He crunched it into gear, turned the wheel hard over, powered up the kerb onto the sidewalk and tooted his horn continuously to warn the pedestrians ahead, who scattered to let him pass.

When Chandos reached the end, he remained on the sidewalk and turned the corner. It was clear ahead to the next junction. He wound down his window. The machine-gun fire sounded louder as it bounced between the tall buildings and echoed down the street. He spotted a gap in the traffic just large enough for the taxi to squeeze through and didn’t hesitate, swerving the vehicle through the gap and up onto the sidewalk the other side.

The Bell helicopter turned sharply between tall buildings in an effort to fly closer to the streets. Inside it the technicians were working hard to recapture the readings they had minutes before.

‘I think I have it,’ one of them called out.

In the RDA operations room the director and his team were glued to the giant screen. Computer operators and
analysts on the operations floor coordinated the readings to try to vector the Bell onto potential sources.

‘Why are you having so much goddamned trouble?’ the general asked the operations director, growing frustrated with the lack of accurate information.

‘Locating a static radiation source is difficult enough from a ground vehicle,’ the operations officer said. ‘It’s even tougher from a helicopter. Tracking a moving source is, well, not easy at all. By the time we’ve run the data through the algorithms and produced any kind of a result, the source has moved on and we can’t reliably point to the original.’

‘Reacquired!’ a voice from the helicopter boomed over the speakers. ‘There’s a lot of traffic down there but not much of it’s moving. Our source is.’

The NYPD’s assistant at a computer console looked around at his boss. ‘Sir? There’s a major incident taking place at the Lower Roadway intersection and the north Manhattan interpass.’

‘That’s two blocks from the radiation source,’ the operations director said.

‘There are reports of heavy machine-gun fire,’ the police assistant said. ‘An officer at the scene has come under fire from what he described as a SWAT team. He believes they’re robbing bullion trucks.’

A live feed from the intersection CCTV came up in a window on the big screen. Smoke and flames billowed among hundreds of abandoned vehicles. People were running across the screen.

‘I don’t give a damn if the Treasury is being robbed,’ the senior NYPD officer shouted. ‘This is my city. I want that bomb!’

‘Readings have gone static at the intersection,’ the helicopter technician’s voice boomed.

‘Put my men on the ground. Now,’ the general said to his aide, who responded immediately by grabbing up a phone.

Stratton hurried between vehicles towards the north side of the intersection, where the machine gun continued to fire sporadic bursts. There were fewer civilians running towards the bridge than a few moments before but still enough to make his diagonal move across their path more difficult.

He jumped over a low concrete road boundary and headed into an open space where other bollards prevented vehicles from entering. Pedestrians were still in abundance, but none were in the adjoining space that led to a blocked archway before the bridge.

As Stratton made his way across the space a voice boomed out at him from behind. ‘Stop! Right there!’

Stratton stopped and looked for the source of the command. Two of Wheeland’s men stood by the archway covering the route to the bridge, M4s in their hands.

‘How come you ain’t going over the bridge like everyone else?’ one of them said.

Their faces were covered completely, nylon hoods hiding what little flesh was exposed by their helmets and goggles.

‘I need to find my family,’ Stratton said, pointing.

He might have been convincing, except that the grip of the Magnum was poking out of his trousers. One of the men mumbled as much to his colleague in Russian.

Stratton understood the word for gun and dived over the line of concrete bollards as the men levelled their M4s. He rolled, got to his knees, the heavy pistol in his outstretched hand, and fired. The report was massive and hurt.

The man howled as the round struck his hip, shattering the bone, which wasn’t where Stratton had aimed. But the size and power of the slug made up for the poor shot. The man crumpled to the ground, his gun clattering from his grip.

The other man, who was taken as much by surprise, fired but Stratton had ducked behind the bollard. He rolled a metre, came up on aim at the body mass and fired, hitting the man’s knee, exploding it, sending pieces of bone and cartilage flying out the back of his trouser leg. He screamed as he went down, grabbing his shattered limb.