Times Square! I thought.
Of course. Times Square, where the New Year’s ball came down, where the greatest concentration of people would be. If Prince was going to release gas into Times Square, he’d have to go somewhere with an opening onto the street.
I started to run. I crossed the arcade and headed for the tunnel.
It was a narrow passage with only one set of tracks running through it. The minute I stepped into it, I saw what I was looking for.
Up ahead, there was a narrow platform. Tiled walls, illuminated by dim lights. It looked as if they had begun to build a station here but never finished it.
The colored lights blinked and shifted on the walls and I lifted my eyes. There, above the platform, there were two grates in the high ceiling. Through the grates, I could see—the city. A solid mass of people was passing overhead. I could hear noisemakers and shouts and an enormous whisper of human motion. I could hear music in the distance, as if a live performance was in progress. And I caught glimpses of lights: big lighted signs, jumbo TV screens, massive shifting images that sent their moving, blinking glow down here into this dark, underground world.
And finally, I saw Prince.
He was dressed all in black so that he blended into the shadows of the station. But a track switch clicked somewhere and a red signal light in the tunnel turned green and the green light picked his moving silhouette out of the surrounding darkness.
Prince was at the far end of the station platform. He was at a ladder embedded in the wall there, a long, long workman’s ladder leading up to the high ceiling and the grates maybe ten stories above. He was just about to begin the climb. As he took hold of the ladder, I saw he had a knapsack on his back. I knew he must have the Cylon Orange device in there.
A breath of foul wind blew over me. A rumble sounded in the near distance. A train was coming, headed for the tunnel.
“Prince!” I shouted.
He glanced over and saw me. His eyes flashed as they caught the light from the oncoming train. He didn’t hesitate. He started his climb.
I ran over to the platform, grabbed hold of the edge, and hauled myself up. I leveled my gun at Prince.
“Prince!” I shouted again. “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”
He didn’t stop, not even for a second. He kept climbing.
The rumble of the train grew louder. The glow of its headlight started to spread over the tracks below me.
I took aim.
Then a man stepped out of the shadows and pressed a gun to my head.
I spun even before the barrel touched me, sweeping my gun hand around to knock his gun away. Good thing I was fast. He was already pulling the trigger. The gun went off with a deafening blast, but the bullet went wild as his gun went flying. I lowered the barrel of my gun to his face, ready to shoot, ready to kill him then and there so I could stop Prince.
But he was fast too. He spun away and back-kicked me in the gut. I staggered and he kicked again—a high kick at my wrist this time—knocking the gun out of my hand.
He was a big man, blocky, blond, and stupid-looking, but he moved like a bolt of lightning. He jabbed his stiffened fingers at my throat. I dodged to the side and grabbed his arm. I elbowed him in the face, crushing his nose in a blast of blood. But it barely slowed him. He wrapped his arms around me and charged to the edge of the platform, carrying me with him.
We both went over the side together, falling down to the tracks and into the path of the oncoming train.
The impact of the ground broke the big man’s hold on me. I jumped to my feet—and saw the headlights bearing down on me, seconds away. The Homelander was up just as quick, his shadow blocking the light. The rumble of the train filled the tunnel. A warning whistle screamed, deafening.
Desperation filled me. All I could think was, If I die here, a big chunk of the city dies with me.
I leapt for the platform. It was a bad move. The Homelander threw himself at me, grabbed me. I elbowed him again. He wouldn’t let go. The train bore down on both of us as we struggled.
I twisted around, hit the big man with the web of my hand, right under the chin. He gagged. His arms lost their strength. With the power of terror, I hurled him away from me. He staggered back a few steps—and suddenly stood bolt upright. Caught in the glare from the onrushing train, he froze in position, trembling as if in fear.
But it wasn’t fear. He had backed into the third rail. It was the voltage that had frozen him there. He was staring at me, trembling. But in fact, he was already dead.
The train punched into the station, heading straight at me. I turned and threw myself at the platform again, hauling myself up.
I felt the whisper of death on my sleeve as the train rushed by me. But I was already rolling across the platform, safe. The next second, the train was gone.
The Homelander was gone too. Not a sign of him. I guess the train hit him, carried him off—but I didn’t have time to figure it out now.
I looked across the platform and saw Prince. He was almost halfway up the ladder, moving quickly and steadily toward the grate that opened into Times Square, pausing only a moment to reach behind him and shift the pack he had strapped to his back.
I climbed to my feet and raced after him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
On the Ladder
There was no time to recover my gun. Once Prince reached the top of the ladder, once he reached the grate, there was nothing to stop him from activating his device, charging those canisters, releasing the gas. I ran as I’d never run before, straining every muscle with the effort that sent me tearing across the platform at top speed.
I leapt for the ladder and started hauling myself up. If I was exhausted, if I was weak, if I was battered, I no longer felt it, any of it. I just felt the need to move, to climb, to go, to reach him, to stop him.
As fast as Prince climbed, I climbed faster. I closed the distance quickly. I saw his figure getting larger up above, framed against the shifting light of the signs and TV screens blinking down over us. The music played louder as I got closer to the surface, a happy rock tune making a bizarre jaunty counterpoint to our desperate chase.
Prince scrambled toward the lights and music and I scrambled after him.
At first, I don’t think he even knew I was there. I think he must’ve assumed the big thug below had taken care of me. Maybe he saw us go onto the tracks together and figured I was done for. I don’t know. But for the longest time, he didn’t even look down. He didn’t see me coming.
I kept scrambling up the ladder, my teeth gritted and bared. Higher and higher until the floor was practically invisible beneath me, a blur of shadows ten stories down.
Prince climbed and I climbed faster. I got closer and closer to him. Prince was now about five rungs from the top, moments from reaching the grate. Below I had come within two rungs of him.
I guess at that point, he sensed my presence because, finally, he looked down and saw me.
I was close enough to see his reaction even in the dim light. His normally cool, sophisticated expression changed completely as surprise made his eyes go wide. My guess must’ve been right: He must’ve thought I was dead. The sight of me there, right beneath him, clearly caught him totally off-guard.
He let go of the ladder with one hand. The hand went to his belt. A gun. If he had time to pull it, I’d be dead, an easy target. There was nowhere to duck or dodge on the ladder, and if I let go now, it was a long way down. It’d be a miracle to survive slamming into the platform from ten stories up.
Fear gave me the extra burst I needed to close the final gap between us. I came up under Prince’s feet. His body blocked the rungs above me. I grabbed the side of the ladder with one hand and grabbed his leg with the other. I pulled myself up another rung and another.
Prince cursed and tried to kick me off him. I lost my hold on his leg. I swung out over the abyss, still holding the ladder with one hand.
Prince drew his gun and pointed it down at me. I hauled
myself upward and reached for him, wrapped my fingers around his wrist, twisting it. He tried to yank away, but I pulled myself up farther and got some leverage on him, pinned him against the ladder. I smacked his gun hand against the wall—once, twice, three times. Finally, he dropped the weapon. It went spinning down and down into the shadows.
Above me now, I could hear the voices of the New Year’s revelers. I could hear horns and noisemakers and people shouting, singing, and laughing. I could hear the live band as if it was right down the street. The glare of the jumbo TV and the blinking neon shone in my eyes. I caught a glimpse of a gigantic smiling face—some movie star on a billboard or something—grinning down at me through the grate.
Then Prince tore his arm free of my grasp and hammered blindly at my face with his fist. One blow struck me high on the head. It dazed me. But I wouldn’t let go; I wouldn’t back off. I grabbed his backpack and pulled myself up behind him. My feet lost their purchase on the ladder and dangled free. I clung to Prince’s pack with one hand, and to the outside of the ladder with the other. Prince tried to throw me off, twisting, hitting out with one hand.
Turning, he saw my hand on the ladder. He grabbed at it, started to pry my fingers loose. I could feel myself losing my grip. So I let go of the ladder and grabbed him.
Now I was holding on to Prince’s backpack with both hands, my feet dangling in the air. If I let go, if I lost my hold, I’d drop like a stone and he’d be free to release his poison into the city above me.
Using all that was left of my strength, I pulled myself up, climbing over him. I released his pack with one hand and grabbed him by the collar. I struggled to get a foothold on the ladder but couldn’t find a place, couldn’t get around his body. Prince meanwhile fought ferociously, trying to pry me off him with one hand, while clinging to the ladder with the other.
I continued to climb up Prince’s body until I could wrap my arm around his throat. I pulled the arm tight, choking him as he tried to pull away and thrashed his free hand around at me, trying to gouge my eyes.
An idea came to me now—so clear in the midst of that frantic fight, it was almost like a voice speaking quietly into my mind. Prince had one hand on the ladder as he tried to knock me off with the other. There’s a nerve in the back of the hand—I learned this in karate—Mike taught it to me. If you drill that nerve with a knuckle, just right, it causes a lot of pain, enough pain to break any hold. If I drilled the back of Prince’s hand with my knuckle, he would let go of the ladder and with my arm around his throat, I could pull him off. We would both go down, both fall to the platform below. We would both almost surely be killed, but the threat would be over, the city would be safe.
Here’s a funny thing. You’d think I’d be afraid. Of falling, I mean. Of dying most likely, down there in that abandoned station. But the reverse was true, weirdly enough. I’d been afraid all this time up till now, but now I wasn’t. Until this moment—until the moment I realized that I could end this—I’d been really terrified that I might fail, that I might do the wrong thing and get lost or killed or something and let Prince succeed with his plan and let Mike down. But now—now that fear was gone. I had him. I knew I had him. I knew it was over. There was nothing left but to deliver this final strike the way Mike taught me and bring Prince down with me to the ground.
Everybody dies, chucklehead. It’s the first rule of the game.
I wasn’t afraid.
One arm around Prince’s throat, I lifted my free hand, setting the knuckle for a piercing blow.
I did my best to live true, and whatever happens next, I’m gonna be fine.
I hesitated only half a second. The questions flashed through my mind: What about me? Have I done my best? Have I tried to live true? The questions came and images came—images of the people I knew. My parents. My friends. Beth—Beth, most of all. Would they be angry at me for leaving them? Would they understand? Would they know why I had done what I’d done?
All that in half a second. Then I drove the strike into the back of Prince’s hand.
He cried out and lost his hold on the ladder. I dragged him backward and we fell.
Prince let out a shriek. We tumbled over once in the shadowy air. I saw the lights of Times Square through the grate above me falling away. I heard the music of the world fading.
I was so committed to the fall, so ready to do what I had to do, that I almost didn’t think to snatch at the ladder as it went past.
But then I did. I reached out wildly. My fingers touched metal and I grabbed hold. I had a rung of the ladder. I dropped and held there, and the jolt nearly pulled my arm out of its socket. I lost my hold on Prince, but he clutched at my sleeve and caught it. I grabbed his wrist. The two of us dangled there far above the platform, me holding on to a ladder rung, Prince holding on to me. I tried to get my feet back on the ladder, but Prince’s weight was pulling me straight down, pulling my fingers off the rung so that I could not move.
I looked down at him, straining to keep my grip on the ladder, straining to keep my grip on him. He looked up at me, his eyes desperate, pleading.
“Drop the pack!” I shouted down at him.
He shouted a curse back at me, his eyes hot with rage and hatred.
His weight kept pulling me, pulling me. My fingers kept slipping off the ladder rung, little by little.
“Drop it, Prince, and I’ll try to pull you up!”
His answer was the same.
I was losing my grip. I couldn’t hold on to him any longer. I shook my head at him.
“No!” Prince shouted—a cry of pure terror.
But another second and I would fall. I let go of him, yanked my arm away. I grabbed hold of the ladder with both hands and clung on.
I saw Prince fall, turning in the air. He had time to scream out once more—then his body hit the platform far below.
It made an awful sound.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The End
I climbed down the ladder as quickly as I could. I went to Prince and stood over him. He was still alive, but his body was twisted in a strange position and I knew he would not last long. He lay completely still, staring up at me. Only his lips were moving. He was trying to speak. I knelt down next to him. Put my ear close to his lips and listened.
“We will . . . destroy you . . . ,” he whispered.
Startled, I turned to look in his eyes. They still burned hot with rage and hatred. If he could’ve moved, I think he would’ve spent his last breath trying to strangle me.
It was a terrible way to die, I thought. Feeling like that, being like that. That much anger: It must be like having acid in your heart. God save me from it, I thought. God save me from ever hating anything or anyone that much.
I put my hand on Prince’s shoulder. To be honest, I almost felt sorry for the guy. I did feel sorry for him. Only God knew what had made his life what it was, what had filled him with that kind of passion for destruction. Only God knew and only God could judge. I had stopped him from killing the people above me. That was the job that had fallen to me. Not to hate him, just to stop him. The job was done now. It was enough.
He died a few seconds later. I watched him go. I heard his last breath rattle in his throat. I watched the life leave his eyes. Anyone who’s ever seen that happen will tell you: You can almost see the soul depart. It made me wonder: Did the world look different to him now that he was gone? Was the hatred gone too? I bet if we could see the world from the perspective of the dead, it would look a whole lot different. I bet no one would ever hurt anyone then.
I knelt there and worked the backpack off Prince’s corpse. I opened the flap and looked inside. I could see the solid black object in there, the thing they called “the device.” I closed the pack and looped its strap over my shoulder.
I had to go. I had to get back to Mike. If he was still alive—and he had to be still alive, he had to be—I would get him help, get him to a hospital, even if I had to carry him the whole way.
Toting
Prince’s backpack, I lowered myself off the platform, down to the train tracks. I began jogging back the way I came, back toward Mike. I knew I had to hurry, but I was so exhausted, I stumbled every other step. My mouth was hanging open. My vision was blurred.
I stepped out of the tunnel into the arcade—and a light shone in my eyes. A train, I thought. Heading for me.
But it wasn’t a train. Because then another light shone at me out of the darkness and another.
What now? I thought wearily. If there were any Home-landers left, I was finished. I couldn’t fight anymore.
A voice shouted at me: “Drop the pack, West! Put it down and put your hands up!”
I stopped. Stood there, confused, squinting into the glare of the bobbing lights coming toward me.
“Who’s there?” I asked—I barely had the strength to speak. “Who are you?”
“Police,” said one voice.
“FBI,” said another.
“Put the pack down, West!” yet another voice called. “Put your hands up!”
Blinking with exhaustion, I slipped the pack off my shoulder and dropped it onto the tracks. I lifted my hands in the air so they could see them. I stood there, swaying unsteadily on my feet.
A moment later, seven men came out of the darkness, all of them carrying flashlights, all of them carrying guns. Four of the men were in uniform—New York Police Department—NYPD. Three other guys were in suits and ties. One of the NYPD patrolmen came forward, took my raised hands and brought them around behind my back. I felt the cold metal of the handcuffs as they snapped around my wrists.
“Mike,” I said. “My friend—Mike. He was shot. He’s hurt.”
One of the plainclothes guys, a tall, broad-shouldered balding man, nodded at me. “Yeah, we found him. Looks like he took a few people with him.”
“He’s dead?”
“Not yet he’s not. He was breathing when we got to him, anyway. He’s being carried out to an EMS unit.”