Chimera Page 10

  His voice came from much closer than Chapel had expected. He couldn’t be more than ten feet away.

  “Thanks to you, I know what it feels like to be shot.”

  “Yeah? How was that?”

  “It woke me up pretty good. Made me not want to get shot again.”

  A sense of humor. Not what Chapel had expected. The detainee’s voice was deep, but not gruff. It had no accent as far as Chapel could tell—which meant the detainee probably wasn’t of Middle Eastern descent, nor Russian. He had considered the idea that the detainees might have been foreign combatants, al-Qaeda or Taliban who had been brought to the States for questioning, but the voice sounded altogether wrong for that.

  “How are we going to play this?” Chapel asked.

  “Why don’t you step out where I can see you. Then we’ll figure it out together.”

  The voice was calm. There was no fear in it. No rage, either. Chapel had seen what this man did to Julia’s apartment—and to Dr. Bryant’s body. That had taken real anger, blinding fury. But this man sounded about as angry as if he was trying to solve a difficult Sudoku puzzle.

  “You sound like a reasonable man,” Chapel said.

  The voice laughed, with genuine mirth.

  “You don’t know anything about me,” the detainee said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t make that mistake.”

  “I know you killed Helen Bryant, and that she was just the first name on your list. I know you went to Julia Taggart’s apartment, probably to kill her, too—even though she isn’t on your list at all. Care to tell me why you did that?”

  “Bryant had to see. She had to understand what she did to us,” the detainee told him. There was an undercurrent of anger in the words, now, and Chapel knew he’d struck a chord. “As for the daughter, well. Her child—the person she made to love. To really love. I wanted to show her, show her how that hurt!”

  So much for reasonable. It sounded like every word the detainee spoke now was making him angrier.

  “Look, calm down; I’m actually here to help you,” Chapel said.

  “They have to die! They all have to die for what they did!”

  Damn. Chapel had really set the guy off. He was screaming now, his words slurring with rage. Who went from calm and collected to homicidally angry that fast? “Just talk to me—explain it to me,” Chapel called out. “Please! I want to understand!”

  “Understand? You can’t fucking understand this!”

  “I want to—”

  Chapel didn’t get to finish the thought. The detainee hit the pillar Chapel hid behind, then, hard enough to shatter it into chips of concrete and twisted rebar. Hard enough to send Chapel sprawling forward, right into the pool of light coming in through the door.

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK: APRIL 12, T+9:14

  Chapel nearly dropped his pistol as he fell forward. He barely managed to get his hands under him as broken concrete pelted his back and smacked into his head. He felt blood slicking down one side of his face, and his ears were ringing. Slowly he turned around to look behind him.

  The detainee came at him roaring like an animal, arms outstretched, big fingers reaching for Chapel’s flesh.

  Chapel rolled out of the way, scrabbling to get his feet underneath him. He dashed into the darkness beyond the pool of light. Instantly he was blind, and he stumbled as his foot caught on a pile of two-by-fours. He went sprawling again, but this time caught himself a little better. He rolled onto his good shoulder, then onto his back. Blinking rapidly he fought to gain some kind of night vision so he could see through the murk. The daylight coming in through the broken door dazzled his eyes and kept him from seeing anything.

  He heard concrete shattering again, vaguely saw pieces of acoustic ceiling tile come cascading down from above.

  “I see you there,” the detainee said, his voice thick with rage.

  Damn—Chapel couldn’t see his attacker at all. He pushed himself backward with his feet, trying at least to get a wall behind him so the detainee would have to come at him from the front. He lifted his handgun, pointed it into the darkness.

  For a second the detainee was visible in the pool of light, moving so fast he was a blur. He was headed right for Chapel. Could the bastard see in the dark?

  Chapel got to his feet and jumped to the side just in time. The detainee hit the wall where Chapel had been, and metal clanged as a stack of rebar went falling and clattering across the floor.

  Chapel desperately tried to make out anything in the dark. There were shadows—vague shapes. He took a wild guess at where the detainee would be. He raised his weapon, aimed as carefully as he could since he didn’t know what he was shooting at. It could have been a wheelbarrow or a pile of buckets.

  But this shadow moved.

  Chapel took the shot. The muzzle flash ruined any night vision he’d gained.

  But the detainee screamed.

  “Stop doing that!” the detainee bellowed. “Just give up and die already!”

  Not a chance, Chapel thought. He backed away from the detainee, his artificial hand held out behind him so he wouldn’t stumble over anything too big. His eyes stung with dust and darkness, so he clamped them shut.

  He felt air moving over his face and his good hand. He heard broken concrete settling, heard rebar creaking as it took the weight of the building above.

  The detainee was stumbling in the dark now, too. Either his night vision wasn’t as good as Chapel had thought or he had lost enough blood to slow him down. Thank heaven for small favors. Chapel’s artificial hand felt a pillar behind him. He pressed his back up against it. He listened.

  He could hear footsteps. Coming closer.

  He considered rushing for the light. In the dark like this he was clearly at a disadvantage. The light was coming from the street, though. He had to keep the detainee in the building where he controlled the situation. If the guy got out onto the sidewalk again, he might run for it, and Chapel knew he couldn’t run him down on foot.

  “You’re tough, for a human,” the detainee said.

  What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  Chapel had no time to think about it. A piece of concrete as big as his fist struck the pillar, just inches above Chapel’s head. If it had connected, it might have fractured his skull. Chapel ducked and lifted his weapon, just as another chunk of concrete smacked into his leg.

  He fired blind into the darkness, one shot, two. He had no hope of hitting the detainee.

  But in the muzzle flash he saw the detainee coming toward him, saw little snapshots frozen in time as the bastard leaped into the air, arms wheeling to smash into Chapel and crush him.

  Chapel jumped to the side and ran toward the windows at the front of the building. He kept well clear of the door to keep the detainee from getting any ideas.

  His leg hurt. Every step was a new flash of agony. Either he’d been wounded by the chunk of concrete that hit him, or he was just now feeling the effects of when the detainee had grabbed him back in Julia’s apartment.

  He made it to the windows, but he could already hear the detainee running at him again, charging. Chapel reached behind him and grabbed a handful of the brown paper that covered the window. Just before the detainee reached him, he tore it free, turning his head to the side.

  Bright light burst through the uncovered glass, a beam of it like a laser shining right in the detainee’s face. Chapel had hoped to blind the man—if his eyes were adjusted to the
darkness, the sudden light should be enough to dazzle him, at least for a moment, and let Chapel get a shot off.

  The detainee laughed. He squinted his eyes shut, then opened them again.

  Except—they were different now. Chapel was flummoxed by what he saw. The detainee’s eyes had turned black, solid black, from side to side. No white was visible at all.

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK: APRIL 12, T+9:17

  “What the hell are you?” Chapel demanded.

  The detainee didn’t answer. As Chapel watched, the detainee’s eyes changed again. The blackness slid away from his eyes, like an eyelid drawing back. Like an extra eyelid.

  Chapel thought of lizards and snakes—didn’t they have an extra eyelid like that? Some kind of membrane to protect their eyes from the sun?

  This made no sense. It made no sense at all.

  Chapel was so surprised he failed to take the obvious shot.

  The detainee grabbed up a piece of rebar from the floor. He wasn’t surprised, and he was more than ready to end this. The length of ribbed steel bar swung through the air, slamming into the window right by the side of Chapel’s good arm. Chapel managed to duck as it came around for a second strike.

  Damn, the guy was fast. Weird eyes notwithstanding, his speed and strength were beyond any limit of human strength. This just kept getting harder and harder to understand.

  Chapel had to jump to the side to avoid a third swing. The detainee switched his grip on the bar and jabbed at Chapel, hard enough to star the tempered glass of the window behind him.

  Before Chapel could even move, another jab came, and another. One clipped the side of his head and bright lights burst behind Chapel’s eyes. He lurched wildly, suddenly unable to stand up straight—which was all that saved him from being impaled as the bar came right at his chest.

  If this kept up much longer, Chapel knew he would be beaten to death, his bones crushed by that length of steel. He brought up his weapon and fired—they were close enough together now he barely needed to aim.

  A bright spot of blood appeared on the detainee’s chest, just a little to the right of where his heart should be. It was the kind of shot that might kill a human being or might just incapacitate him—either way it would leave him down on the floor, bleeding out.

  It knocked the detainee back maybe half a step. His arms went wide, the rebar whistling through the air, still clutched in one big hand.

  Chapel had bought himself a split second. His head was swimming and he really wanted to lie down, but his work wasn’t finished.

  He raised the pistol again, this time aiming at the maniac’s eye. He might have too many eyelids, but Chapel doubted they could stop a 9 mm slug.

  Before he could take the shot, though, the rebar connected with Chapel’s hand and sent the handgun flying. Pain lanced up Chapel’s arm as far as his shoulder, like a vein of magma had opened under his flesh. He cried out—he couldn’t help it—and brought his hand up close to his chest. It didn’t feel broken but it was starting to go numb, which was never a good sign.

  Not that it mattered, particularly.

  He was face-to-face with a superstrong madman. He was unarmed. The lunatic had a length of steel bar hard enough and heavy enough to stove in a human rib cage.

  Anyone else would have known that was the moment of his death.

  Anyone without Chapel’s training might have been forgiven for breaking down then and begging for his life.

  But Chapel had trained with the Army Rangers. Some of the most elite warfighters on earth. And that training had included an intense course in hand-to-hand combatives.

  “Bye, bye,” the detainee said, and he brought the rebar around in a swinging arc.

  Chapel shot out his good hand and grabbed the rebar in midair, not trying to stop it or even slow it down. Just getting a grip, letting his arm be carried along by its momentum. His artificial hand shot out and grabbed hold of the detainee’s elbow.

  The Rangers had taught Chapel that when he had a pistol in his hand, that was his best weapon. But when he didn’t have a pistol, his best weapon was his enemy’s own weight. Swinging the rebar forced the detainee to commit to the bar’s inertia, shifting his own center of balance away from his feet. Chapel yanked him forward, adding all his own strength to the moving bar.

  The detainee went somersaulting forward, carried along by his own follow-through, and went down face-first into the floor. Chapel heard the peculiar wet snap of cartilage breaking and knew the detainee’s nose had shattered on impact.

  The detainee moaned like an injured cow.

  Maybe I got lucky and cracked his skull, too, Chapel thought. Maybe I got really lucky and dazed him for a second.

  Chapel had never been that lucky. “Are you ready to talk?” he asked the detainee, just in case. He moved around behind the fallen maniac, his eyes scanning the floor.

  “I’m ready to kill you,” the detainee said, his voice distorted by his broken nose. “I’m ready to tear you a new asshole, you little—”

  “Yeah. I kind of thought you’d say that,” Chapel said. He found his pistol on the floor. He picked it up, took careful aim, and put two bullets in the back of the lunatic’s head.

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK: APRIL 12, T+9:19

  Chapel’s legs felt like they were made of Jell-O. He really wanted to sit down.

  He wanted to close his eyes and go to sleep.

  “Uh-oh,” he said. “I think I might have a concussion.”

  He was suddenly on the floor, looking up at the dark ceiling. He couldn’t remember how he got there. His head was ringing like a bell. The detainee had smacked him in the head with the rebar, he remembered. He’d taken a blow to the head.

  That didn’t fill him with confidence.

  “Chapel!” Angel shouted in his ear. “Chapel! You have to stay awake, honey. You have to! If you go to sleep now, you won’t wake up!”

  “I’ll be okay,” Chapel told her, not because he believed it but because he wanted to reassure her. “Don’t you worry about me, sexy ghost voice.”

  “You’re losing it,” Angel said. “Your pulse is all over the place, and your blood pressure is falling. I’m calling the paramedics.”

  “No!” Chapel said. “This is a secret mission. No para . . . no doctors, no hospitals. They’ll have too many questions. I just need to walk this off.”

  “Captain Chapel?” someone asked. Someone new.

  This voice wasn’t in his head.

  “Captain Chapel? Can you open your eyes?” A soft hand was on his cheek. Fingers pried his eyes open. He looked up into a beautiful face, the face of . . . well, not an angel. He didn’t know what Angel looked like. He knew this face, though. It was surrounded by red hair.

  Voices were clamoring near his ear, but he could barely hear them. The earpiece had fallen partially out of his ear, he realized. He tried to reach to put it back in, but his arms felt like they were made of lead.

  “Captain Chapel, you need medical attention,” Julia Taggart said.

  “You should see the other guy.”

  “The man who killed my mother? He’s dead. Definitely dead. Not much left of his cerebrum, it looks like. I suppose it’s funny to say this, but thank you. I appreciate it.”

  “Sure thing,” Chapel told her. “Will you help me up? I’m having trouble standing, and I need to get out of here.”

  “You need to go to a hospital.”

 
“I can’t do that. Just get me into a cab or something.”

  He saw Julia bite her lip. “Maybe I can do better than that,” she said.

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK: APRIL 12, T+9:31

  Arash Borhan did not need this shit. No, not at all.

  Earlier that day he’d gotten a call from some sexy-sounding woman who said his cab was needed for a special fare, and that he stood to make a lot of money if he went to some address in Brighton Beach. Normally he didn’t work that far south in Brooklyn, but the money the woman promised him would more than make it worth his while. So he drove down there, he picked up a man and a woman who were arguing on the sidewalk, and he drove them to Bushwick. That had all been fine. The man got out to go into a house there, while the woman stayed in his cab and the meter kept ticking away.

  Then everything had gone to hell.

  Some crazy mother had come rushing out of the house and jumped in the back of the cab, and when Arash demanded to know what was going on, the maniac had nearly ripped his ear off. The maniac told him to drive, to break so many laws. And then this other maniac, the man who was his original fare, had driven him right off the road.

  Now his cab was wedged into a wooden construction barrier. The paint was scratched to hell, and he was missing a wing mirror. He would be lucky if the front fender could be saved at all.

  He touched the side of his head. He was still bleeding, too.

  “Motherf—” Arash shook his head. He would not say the swear out loud. He was a decent man. But this was just too much.

  Arash had come to America in 1979 to escape the Iranian Revolution. He’d thought he was getting away from violence, that he could be safe in the States. He’d worked hard to get this cab, to become a naturalized citizen. He loved America and everything it stood for.

  Except—everybody here had guns. And he had seen more violence in New York City than he’d ever witnessed in Tehran. Twice he had been robbed at gunpoint, just because he was a cabdriver and had some cash on him. This was the first time he’d actually been hurt. He found he did not like it at all.