In this chapter, I introduce a new PoV character that will be helping Booker with Tsao and his airport poisoning plan.
____
New York City, New York
Mark Stanley sprinted down the subway stairs, the loosely strapped chest holster thumping against his chest in steady cadence with his heartbeat. It felt foreign and awkward there. The reaper's scythe – holding the power to give and to take – could be hidden underneath his jacket, near his heart, a little down and to the left. But he couldn't shoot at anybody, much less kill them. His training at the academy had included cardboard target practice and basic know-how. That's all. Pulling the trigger on a living being was another story. But he was in the FBI, after all, no matter how cerebrally. And a gun was as much a badge as a bit of metal and a certification slip.
The fact that he might have to use it today stared him in the face.
Aim. No, no, not like that. Aim with your fingers. With instinct. Eyes have nothing to do with it. Feel the gun, Mark. Will the bullet to the target. Don't think about it, just shoot. Try again. That's better.
Much better.
“The tip came in fifteen minutes ago,” Mark said to the field agent running beside him, David Butler. “The caller said the target would plant a package in the five-thirty Bronx.”
“Five-thirty?!” Butler swore, whipped out his badge as the reached the turnstiles and swung himself over.
“We got five minutes.”
“Why the hell couldn't he have called sooner? He might already be on the train, for God's sake!”
“Serin gas, too.”
David swore again. “Keep your eyes open and stay of the way, rookie. This is my territory. Your place is behind a desk in a swivel chair.”
Mark frowned and slowed as they reached the Bronx transit station. Up yours, you conceited ass. This was why Mark hated the field. The badge jockeys were condescending and arrogant. Anyone who had a masters degree and used a laptop instead of a Beretta 9mm was subhuman in their eyes, lowly, superficial. They did the paperwork. They drew up the reports and psychoanalyzed the criminals. Side stuff. The real work was putting an escaped parolee in a headlock or playing cat and mouse with home grown terrorists. Stake 'em out, shoot 'em up.
The air inside the subway was hot and greasy, with coffee shops and delis adding smells into the mix. People watched Butler and Mark carefully as they skirted around the group waiting for the five-thirty Bronx, eying the bulges under their jackets suspiciously. The two looked like cops, moved like cops, felt like cops. Mark knew they were being everything but discreet by being there. They needed to find the target fast, before he got nervous and decided to bolt.
Mark scanned the crowd quickly, looking for suspicious packages or faces. The gas bomb would be the size of a briefcase – similar to what the Japanese terrorist group Aum Shinrikyo used in 1995. The caller hadn't said anything more. They had been vague and frantic. Five-thirty Bronx, Serin gas bomb, briefcase. Mark swore inwardly. There were at least ten briefcases scattered around the benches and at the feet of the commuting businessmen and women on their way to Bronx.
Three minutes.
Mark spotted a shabbily dressed man, suit worn and patched at the elbows, his face unshaven, sitting on a bench clutching a silver attaché case. Mark glanced over the crowd again. It had to be him. The man's eyes were sunken, his face gaunt, fingers trembling. He looked like a terrorist. At least compared to the rest of the commuters. Mark glanced at Butler who was still surveying the scene. They had to act.
Two minutes.
Mark drew his gun and strode over to the man. “Hands up, behind your head!” He roared. “Away from the briefcase!”
Several of the commuters gasped and stepped back. Behind him, Butler swore. “Stanley! What the hell are you doing!”
The shabby looking man's eyes lit up with fear, his face paled – contrasting the dark five-o'-clock shadow lacing his chin - dropped the attaché, and began trembling violently. “What'd I do?! What's going on?”
“Stanley!”
“On the ground! FBI! Keep your hands behind your head!” Mark shouted.
“I didn't do anything!”
Mark felt Butler grab his elbow and spin him around. “Stanley, you ass! I told you to leave this to me!”
“What'd I do? What'd I do?” The man was frantic now, kneeling on the ground his hands wrapped around the back of his head, cowering like a guilty child. The commuters were backing away slowly, collecting their briefcases. Mark looked around wildly. He had been wrong. This wasn't their guy. But he kept his gun trained on the shabbily dressed man, his palms sweating, swaying on the spot.
One minute.
“Handcuffs. Butler, give me some handcuffs!”
“No, Stanley. Your not getting handcuffs. Your not getting anything. Get over here.”
Butler wrenched at Mark's arm attempting to drag him away from the crowd, but Mark pulled back, lost his balance and stumbled backwards. He fell into a well dressed businesswoman and they collapsed to the ground, his face in her stomach, and her briefcase skittered away on the granite flooring. He swore again. His job was history. It had been nonexistent the minute he pulled out his gun.
What have I done?
Seven years of college shot by an unfired gun.
The subway thundered into the station filling the air with a monolithic roar, and braked to a stop at the feet of the commuting group. It filled the empty tracks like an overstuffed serpent. Wordlessly, the woman beneath Mark heaved him off of her and dove for her briefcase, which had flown a few feet away. Mark rolled over and began groping for his gun, gritting his teeth and willing tears of frustration away.
The commuters began boarding the train.
Where was the terrorist, for God's sake!?
Somewhere behind him, Butler yelled. “Stanley! She's got a - !”
A gunshot shattered the air and Mark turned around – still on the ground – to see Butler jerk around like some grotesque pirouetting rag doll and collapse to the ground. He looked over his shoulder to see the woman sprinting for the subway train, shedding her heels as she ran, a gun and her briefcase clutched in her hands. She barreled her way through the shocked and oblivious commuters and into the train. Stunned, Mark stared for a moment, swore, and then scrambled to his feet, fumbling for his gun which had slid underneath a bench.
A woman?
Those feminists and their I-can-do-anything-a-man-can mentality. They were everywhere. In the corporate world, in the hard labor world, in the sports world.
And in the underworld.
Leaving Butler and the cowering man on the sidewalk, whose hands were still behind his head, Mark shouldered his way through the wall of human bodies, with his gun visible, stifling any shouts of anger and protest. He saw the terrorist shove a man out of her way at the end of the car, fling open the door leading into the next train compartment, and dart in.
His entire body hunched over his gun, sweating freely from every pore like some atoning government-employed Christ, Mark ran down the car, wedged his body in the closing door and squeezed through. This compartment was less occupied and the aisles were free. Passengers stared at Mark as he rushed after the well dressed businesswoman clutching a gun.
Kids these days.
The terrorist had almost made it to the opposite end of the car.
The subway began moving, gaining speed rapidly.
This ends now, Mark thought.
“Freeze! This is the FBI! On the ground now!” Mark jerked up his gun and aimed it at the woman's head. Passengers gasped and screamed and ducked down. Without even looking over her shoulder the woman spun around in response, dropped to the ground and fired once, twice, four times at Mark. Grunting, he threw himself onto a polyester clad compartment bench – avoiding the bullets by seconds, which carved through the air by his ears – and crashed into the wall. He pushed himself back up, palms sticky on the bench seats, and dove back into the aisle, gun up. She was gone again.
He swore and scrambled to his feet.
Where was Butler when you needed him?
He ran through the next door, legs pumping up and down uncontrollably, and instantly saw a fist appear out of thin air, from behind the door. He gasped, shards of glass erupting behind his eyes, blinding him, and collapsed like a stringless puppet into a bench. The woman was suddenly straddling his chest, punching his face repeatedly with the butt of her gun. He felt blood gush from his mouth and nose – hot and coppery – and threw his arms up to defend himself. Each blow was like a brick in the face.
“Get off of me!” Mustering every ounce of strength and adrenaline, Mark heaved himself up and pushed the terrorist violently off of him. Staggering into a standing position, blood pouring down his face in sheets, everything red, Mark glanced around for his gun.
Butler, you bastard, why did you have to be shot? This isn't my territory. I'm a biochemist, for God's sake.
He wanted his desk. Badly.
Mark caught sight of his gun underneath one of the benches and dove for it, ignoring everything else around him.
Without a weapon, you are nothing, Mark. You had two months of training. Two. You wouldn't stand five seconds up against a hardened criminal. Always keep ahold of your gun. Go to your grave with your gun.
Fumbling with the weapon, Mark turned around, blinked coagulating blood out of his eyes and centered on the terrorist. The woman was holding the briefcase triumphantly, raising it up like some twisted trophy. Her gun danced from passenger to passenger, who were all eerily silent, and then fell on Mark.
“It's no use,” she hissed. “It's over. The American dream will end. Everyone wakes up eventually.” She laughed a hollow laugh, which echoed coldly in the silence. “May we all live in peace.”
Shoot her!
She dropped the briefcase to the ground, the bomb sequence activated.
Aim. No, no, not like that. Aim with your fingers. With instinct. Eyes have nothing to do with it. Feel the gun, Mark.
But I've never killed anyone before!
There's a first time for everything.
The woman lifted her gun and aimed at Mark, who was sitting in the middle of the aisle like a crippled animal. Everyone was staring at him.
It's a bomb, Mark. You can diffuse a bomb.
Like hell, I can.
Feel the gun, Mark. Will the bullet to the target. Don't think about it, just shoot.
Mark felt as if something heavy had punched him in the stomach as he pulled the trigger. The physical gravity of the bullet leaving the chamber made him gasp and he fell forward, gun clattering under the benches once again. He averted his eyes as fragments of bone and blood painted the wall behind the woman, her head snapped back, and she fell like a stone into the lap of a commuter. The man screamed and pushed the still-warm corpse off of him. His scream was like a catalyst. Everyone in the car burst into complete hysteria, yelling for help, clawing at Mark, beating on the windows, running for the door.
That's better. Mark heard someone say.
Much better.
Numb everywhere, Mark crawled forward on hands and knees, drew the briefcase toward him and flipped the catches. A jungle of wires and LCD screens and fat black ominous looking boxes nearly sprang out. It was a crude time-bomb. The LCD count down screen read 3' 00".
Three minutes.
Another deadline.
Mark stared at the bomb for ten seconds, totally dumbfounded, unsure of where to start. The screams from the passengers were clouding his thoughts. He just couldn't concentrate. Swearing, he closed his eyes and willed the sound of the uproar into the back of his mind, amplifying the pin-drop ticking coming from the timer inside the bomb. He groped in his mind for information on bomb disposal. This was a conventional time bomb. Made up of a fuse, a battery, a charge, a detonator, a timer, and the Serin gas. The fuse. Mark smiled in spite of the situation. He had to pull the fuse. Mark scanned the jungle of wires and noticed a thick yellow wire attached to the main bomb body with electrical tape.
If that wasn't it, he didn't know what was.
Mark wrapped his hands around the fuse, closed his eyes, desperately praying to god - if there was one - and took a deep breath.
Here goes everthing.
He yanked the wire out of the bomb as hard as he could and flung it away from himself quickly. He stared down at the timer. 2.39...2.38...2.37...
It was still running.
Mark gritted his teeth and slammed his fist against the floor of the subway. A security guard had finally arrived on the scene and was shaking Mark roughly, yelling for him to stand up and step away from the bomb. Fumbling in his jacket, Mark produced his badge and shoved it into the man's face, who took it shakily and then began yelling louder.
“What the hell is going on here!”
Mark whipped around, his face contorted angrily. “Leave me alone, for God's sake! I want everyone out of this car, now! Lock the door behind you. Get out now!”
The guard dropped the badge and turned to the passengers. Run, run as fast as you can. Can't catch me I'm –
2.00
Mark suddenly wanted to punch himself. A failsafe. The terrorist had put in a failsafe. A decoy wire that would act as a faux fuse, buying the bomb more time. Mark ran his fingers over the wires. But which one could he pull now without gassing himself out of his skull? On impulse, he gently lifted the bomb up out of the briefcase and looked at it's underside. There was a single thin black wire taped firmly against the bottom of the main bomb body, hidden away from sight. Mark bit his lip. Could that be the fuse? He wondered vaguely if Butler knew anything about bomb disposal and swore at him for not being there by his side whether he did or not.
1.20
He turned the bomb over again and studied the rest of the wires, which were all different colors and sizes. Some of them could be for the LCD screen, some of them for the detonator, some of them for the gas release mechanism. And almost every wire would cause the bomb to go off prematurely if pulled. Mark's neck muscles tensed and he closed his eyes. Choosing the fuse wire was like choosing a wife.
Till death do you part.
0.58
It didn't really matter now which wire he pulled. The chances of him pulling the wrong wire and being killed versus letting the clock run down and being killed were only slightly better. He had to choose and choose fast. His fingers trembled over the bomb. Which one?
0.27
Ignoring any doubts he might have had, Mark flipped over the bomb, closed his eyes again, slipped his fingers under the thin wire taped to the bottom of the bomb and pulled up. He braced himself for the explosion, his knuckles white as he clenched the black wire. 0.20...0.19...0.18.
The timer stopped.
Mark Stanley stared in shock at the LCD screen for several seconds more, unsure that the bomb had really stopped and then sagged against a bench, his eyes staring forward, staring nowhere in particular, and didn't move until the bomb squad arrived on the scene.
I bet my broomstick it's a typo. ^^ Just one of them will do. ^^
I don't think anyone will think that word. Try...egotistic or selfish...maybe conceited? 
However, rethinking the events, you're timing it pretty well.
Gender:
Points: 27175
Reviews: 387