Chapter 97 - Fire in the Catacombs
The sound of the glass shattering was lost beneath the instantaneous, roaring hiss of pressurized gas vaporizing into the stale subterranean air.
"Gas! Mask—!"
The warning died in the throat of the first contractor. The pale amber vapor bloomed in an instant, expanding like an angry yellow ghost through the narrow confines of the vault room. The two private military contractors didn't even have time to bring their submachine guns to bear; their weapons clattered against the concrete as their hands clawed desperately at their throats, their eyes rolling back into their skulls as their nervous systems collapsed under the lethal neurotoxin.
Cole shrieked, stumbling backward toward the iron grille, dropping the electronic detonator into the muck. He shoved his silk handkerchief against his mouth and nose, coughing violently as he scrambled up the concrete steps leading to the service tunnel.
I had dropped flat into the trench, pulling the emergency MTA respirator—a standard fifteen-minute charcoal escape hood I had grabbed from the track-master's locker—over my face. The rubber sealed tightly against my skin just as the fringes of the toxic cloud rolled over the trench.
My lungs burned with the heat of the filtered air, but the poison was kept at bay.
I vaulted out of the trench, grabbed the fireproof briefcase from Locker 84, and scooped Beatrice’s letter and the child's birth certificate off the floor, stuffing them into my tactical vest.
Cole was twenty yards ahead of me, stumbling through the dim maintenance tunnel beneath Track 34, his boots splashing through oily puddles of standing water. He was hacking blood, his legs rubbery from secondary exposure to the fringe vapors.
"Cole!" I roared through the rubber diaphragm of the mask, my voice echoing like a mechanical demon through the cavern.
He turned, panicked, dragging an antique snub-nosed revolver from his jacket. He fired two wild shots into the dark. The bullets ricocheted off the iron support pillars, throwing bright orange sparks into the gloom.
I didn't stop running. I lowered my shoulder and slammed into him like a freight train.
We hit the concrete floor hard. The revolver clattered away, falling through an open drainage grate into the flooded sewer lines beneath the tracks. I pinned Cole’s throat against the rail tie with my left forearm, my Glock pressed firmly beneath his chin.
"Where is she?" I growled, ripping the respirator off my face now that we were clear of the gas pocket. "Port of Newark? Which pier? *Which pier, Cole?!*"
Cole choked, dark blood oozing from his nostrils, his pupils dilated to pinpricks. The residual gas had already begun shutting down his respiratory tract.
"Pier... Pier 17..." he wheezed, a grotesque, bloody smile stretching across his purple lips. "You... you can't stop them, David. The manifest... is signed by the State Department. She’s... she’s not Emma Vance anymore. Her name... on the passport... is Yulia Petrova. She’s gone."
"Who has the master key to the shipping container?" I demanded, pressing the barrel harder until the steel indented the soft flesh beneath his jaw.
"The captain..." Cole gasped, his eyes beginning to glaze over. "Captain... Vane. On the bridge. He has... the remote unlock. If anyone tries to cut the seals... the container vents nitrogen. She suffocates in three minutes."
His body suddenly spasmed violently. His hands gripped my forearms with terrifying, frantic strength, his spine arching as the neurotoxin finished its work. Then, with a long, wet rattle, his muscles went completely slack. His head slumped sideways against the iron rail.
I stood up, wiping the cold sweat from my eyes.
I checked my watch. 04:12 AM.
Sunrise was at 05:45 AM.
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I had ninety-three minutes to cross the Hudson River, breach the high-security perimeter of the Port of Newark, board an armed container ship, and take down an entire syndicate crew before they suffocated my little girl.
***
