Dark Prophecy (30 page)

But he couldn’t leave. Not when he was the only one who knew what the Maestros were up to.

They would be close to the action; they’d want to observe, firsthand, the tower falling. They might even be fine-tuning preparations inside the building somewhere. Dark should go inside, start looking for devices . . . something. That idea was also insane, of course. Even a fifty-man security team could scour the premises and not find a single suspicious device or package . . .

Dark’s cell buzzed.

“Martin Green supposedly used his AmEx Black at a mail-it-yourself place in Nob Hill. Kind of odd for a guy in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. There are a load of other similar purchases in the Greater San Francisco area.”

“Shit.”

Package, Dark thought.

Or
packages.

“But what—he’s going to hide a bomb in a box?”

Dark’s eyes swept over the lobby again. There wasn’t just one delivery guy. There was an armada of them, constantly coming and going, carrying boxes and bags and trays and containers and overnight envelopes . . .

“If I were doing this,” Dark said, “I wouldn’t plant just one bomb, I would send multiple bombs. And I’d study the layout of the building so that I knew exactly where to send them, like a controlled demolition.”

“Fuck,” Graysmith said.

“I’d even err on the side of overkill,” Dark said, “so even if a percentage of the packages didn’t show up, then I’d still have plenty of destructive power to bring this tower down.”

“And nobody screens packages—hell, we’re not even screening ninety-nine percent of the shipping containers that come into U.S. ports.”

Dark looked at all of the people waving their badges over the security turnstiles. Dozens and dozens headed in, almost nobody headed out. Monday morning. Everyone reporting to work, jacked up on Starbucks and thinking about the long week ahead.

“You have to get a team to this building now, Lisa.”

“I’m trying. You don’t understand the shitstorm I just stirred up when I told my supervisor what’s been going on. The intelligence world is not too different from the Justice Department. Slow, suspicious, stupid.”

“Then I’ll start searching.”

“You might force Roger to trigger these bombs now.”

“He can’t have eyes on the entire building.”

All of these people, all of these floors.

“Look, can you send me credentials to get me into this building?” Dark asked.

“What are you going to do?”

“Anything I can.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“At the very least, you’ll have plausible deniability,” Dark said. “You can blame it all on the crazy rogue ex-FBI agent.”

Graysmith didn’t respond. Dark stood up and started moving across the lobby floor, weaving his way around the crowd. A few people glanced in his direction, curious. Was that because he looked like he didn’t belong to any of the professional tribes here? Or because they recognized his face from CNN?

By the time Dark reached the counter, the phone in his hand buzzed. One new e-mail message.

“You’ve got it,” Graysmith said.

“Thank you,” Dark said, leaned forward on the security desk, and showed the face of his phone to three jacketed men stationed behind it.

“Gentlemen,” Dark said, “I need your help.”

chapter 77

The only thing the Niantic security force could do: attempt to remove all packages delivered this morning. Every. Single. Last. One. This was no easy task. Total manpower on the morning shift: fifteen men, including the three at the front desk. (Cutbacks, the supervisor explained.) That meant fourteen men for more than forty floors, multiple businesses on some floors. And good luck convincing an administrative assistant to hand over the mail to people they perceived as nothing more than rent-a-cops. If this was a real bomb threat, then why wasn’t the FBI or Kevlar-clad members of Homeland Security sweeping through the offices? Why weren’t the floors being evacuated immediately?

“Once we get these packages, what are we supposed to do with these damned things?” the supervisor asked.

Dark thought about it. “Do you have mail chutes?”

“Yeah. But they’re meant for envelopes, not boxes.”

“Then tell your men to load whatever won’t fit into the freight elevators and send them down to the basement as fast as possible.”

The basement and foundation were designed to withstand earthquakes; they would hopefully absorb the worst of the blasts, just like the World Trade Center did during the original bombing in February 1993.

“Go
now
—spread the word to your men. Nab as many of those packages as possible.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to help.”

 

 

Dark, along with the security team, raced through the building. In some cases, boxes were still in their metal rolling carts, waiting to be delivered to various offices and cubicles on the floor. That made it simple. Without a word, Dark took the cart, rolled it out to the hallway, loaded it onto the freight elevator, and sent it down to the bottom floor where a guard took all incoming packages and quickly shuttled them into a corner. Dark offered to take this part of the job, but the guard refused. “My building, my job,” the guy said. “These terrorist motherfuckers can kiss my ass.” Word quickly spread, and office managers began to voluntarily remove the morning’s packages from the premises.

Instead of waiting for the elevators, Dark used the fire stairs to travel between floors. Somewhere around the twentieth floor, Dark heard a loud clanging sound, followed by hurried footsteps on concrete. As he rounded the corner, Dark looked up into Roger Maestro’s face.

 

 

Maestro didn’t hesitate. He immediately pulled a pistol from his belt and opened fire on Dark, who leaped out of the way a second before slugs chipped away at the concrete.

Dark tried the closest doorknob, but it was locked from the other side. Shit. Dark listened—Maestro was creeping down the fire stairs for him. Dark looked around him. Just a few water pipes above. Nothing that could be used a weapon. Nothing that could serve as a shield. Nothing to protect him from one of the most decorated shooters in recent history.

The only way to go:

Up.

Stepping on the metal support railing, Dark jumped up and grabbed hold of the water pipes, then pulled himself up, curling the rest of his body until he was as compact as possible. If he were Sqweegel, he could no doubt figure out how to squeeze his little insectoid body into the tiny crevice behind the pipes until danger passed. Dark was not Sqweegel. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t rip a few pages from the freak’s playbook.

Maestro turned the corner, gun sweeping the area.

Dark pushed against the pipes—launching himself down onto Maestro.

The bottoms of Dark’s shoes slammed into his upper back, the blow tilting him off balance and sending him into the concrete wall. Maestro moaned. The gun dropped to the concrete. Dark rolled off, keeping his body as limber as possible, then dove into him again, unleashing a flurry of dirty punches meant to shatter face bones and snap his windpipe.

But Maestro was heavier, taller, and thicker than Dark. He absorbed the blows before reaching out and seizing Dark’s neck. Dark felt himself being choked, then lifted and driven into the opposite wall. Skull cracking on concrete. He lifted a knee—Maestro blocked the blow. He balled his fists, then smashed them against the sides of Maestro’s chest. If any ribs cracked, Maestro gave no indication. He just continued choking Dark, the man’s thick, rough fingers sinking deep into his neck.

A trained military man.

Expert in killing.

Most likely armed with more than a single gun.

Dark clawed at Maestro’s body and was starting to go gray when he finally found it—the hunting knife in the sheath, hanging from the man’s belt.

The moment the blade cleared the leather, Maestro realized he’d left himself vulnerable.

He released his grip and stepped back to defend himself, just like he was trained.

But Dark wasn’t going for a jab—he wanted to eviscerate the motherfucker.

The blade glided along Maestro’s side, slicing through skin and muscle. Maestro bellowed. Dark raised the knife to drive it into the man’s chest. Maestro blocked the blow, so instead, Dark tightened his grip on the handle and drove a jackhammer punch into Maestro’s face.

The blow didn’t seem to faze Maestro at all, who returned with a series of punches of his own that drove Dark to the corner. He tried to the block the blows, but couldn’t stop them all. After a while, they blurred together and then everything faded—the grunting, his vision, and finally, the pain.

chapter 78

After a few moments, Maestro realized his side was bleeding heavily. He took a step back, gingerly touched his wound. It would need to be patched. Sooner than later.

Then there was the matter of their pursuer, now unconscious on the floor.

Abdulia had fully expected Steve Dark on the scene. She said he was a savvy investigator; he’d followed the trail to Fresno, he’d likely follow the trail here. But she didn’t expect him to be inside, scrambling to undo their life’s work. All of their careful planning over the past year, all of the intricate details of their campaign . . . dashed to pieces by this lousy son of a bitch. Roger wanted to crouch down, wrap his hands around Dark’s scrawny neck, and twist until he heard bones snapping. Rip the man’s throat out, and squeeze the veins until his blood splatters on his dying face.

But no.

That wasn’t possible now.

Abdulia had explained that Dark’s life had intersected with theirs, just like that other lawman—the boy, Paulson. Now they needed Dark to finish the sequence. Killing him now would jeopardize everything.

Steve Dark would die when fate commanded.

Roger ambled down one flight, took a deep breath, then opened the door with a stolen passkey. He made his way through the elevator bank silently, passing two office workers who were flirting with each other while waiting for the next car to arrive. Roger remembered when he was that young, invulnerable, and could afford to ignore the dangers all around him. Like these two people. Early twenties and no idea that death was literally passing right by them. Why would they notice? Death was wearing a custodial uniform. If you were a janitor, it was proof you had fucked up somewhere along the way, that you deserved to be in that position.

When Roger reached the second set of fire stairs, he finally exhaled, then took the cell phone attached to his belt and pressed 1, speed-dialing a programmed number.

“It’s me,” he said. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, Roger. I’m across the street, waiting for you.”

“See you in a few minutes. Dark was here, inside the building.”

“Oh God,” she said. “Is he ...”

“He’ll make it to the end, don’t worry.”

“Do you think he knows about the packages?”

“Doesn’t matter. There are enough of them.”

“Come out now.”

“Soon as I can finish dialing,” Roger said.

“I don’t know why you can’t do that from out here.”

“I told you,” Roger said patiently. “I have to make sure the first wave goes off. If not, I may have to do some improvising from inside.”

Abdulia was brilliant in so many ways—Roger was routinely dazzled by the way her mind worked. But she hadn’t been in the military. She didn’t fully understand bombs, gases, poisons. Not like Roger did.

“I understand,” she said. “I love you, Roger.”

“You, too.”

Roger had memorized the list of numbers. All of them: old-fashioned beeper numbers, assigned to defunct beepers he’d picked up cheaply a few weeks ago. Each beeper was attached to an explosive device he’d sent to certain mailrooms in particular companies. Back in Iraq, he’d helped provide security for a crew of freelance reconstruction teams. Among them were some of the best demolition men in the business. Over beers, they talked about how easy it was to bring down a building, as long as you had the right amount of explosives in the key structural places. Roger listened to that, filed it away. He spent a lot of his time in Iraq filing things like that away. Nerve agents they’d discover in some stockpile, then have to destroy. Ways to bring down buildings. Roger figured such knowledge would come in handy in the future. Maybe he could work for one of these outfits, even—stateside. He’d impress them with how much he’d retained.

Of course, that hadn’t quite worked out. Roger had been left with a head full of knowledge and not much practical application for it.

Until now.

Roger dialed the first number.

Time for the tower to start tumbling down.

Somewhere, distantly, something went
boom
.

chapter 79

When the Niantic Tower explosions began, everyone in the immediate vicinity thought it was another Big One. Workers scattered under conference room tables, perched themselves in doorways, and waited for the worst. Earthquakes, though, have a unique sound. They start with a rumbling—like a planet-size tank running over an endless field of speed bumps. It’s a sound unlike anything you’ve ever heard, unless you happened to have experienced an earthquake before. This rumbling is followed by a shaking, back and forth, back and forth, which is both longer and more severe than you’d imagine. Finally comes the desperate and fervent prayer that the building’s designers were doing their job, and had indeed prepared for the worst temblor that Mother Nature had to offer.

But the occupants of the Niantic Tower quickly realized that the noise and the vibrations were not caused by an earthquake.

chapter 80

Dark’s eyes snapped open when he felt the blast pulsing through the concrete floor. A few seconds later, the screaming began. God, no. Was he too late? Pressing his hands on the ground, Dark pushed himself up to his feet. Blood splatter trailed across the floor and down the stairs right to the door. Roger Maestro had made his getaway, set the charges. Dark prayed that the security team was able to remove some of the packages and send them down to the basement.