Before the Dawn (26 page)

Over six hundred feet tall, the Needle rose like a giant metal flower. The night was so dark and the rain so dense that only during a lightning flash could she make out the crest of the building. A beacon of futuristic hope when it was built back in the '60s, the Space Needle now towered in ghostly tribute to the blight brought on by the Pulse, the skeleton of a vision dreamed in a more hopeful, naive time.

In the years since the Pulse, the downturn in the economy had brought fewer and fewer visitors to the famed tourist spot, until the restaurant had gone under, the observation deck had been closed—too many people were jumping—and the banquet facility had been forced to shutter. The structure now served primarily as a practice pad for every graffiti artist in the city, the Needle seemingly painted a hundred different shades at once; red, black, yellow, white, spray paint in every possible color had been applied somewhere on the giant building. The first-floor gift shop—its windows had long since been broken out—seemed like it would make the natural point of entry for Max.

The neighborhood around the landmark had suffered the same fate and reminded Max of vid footage she'd seen at Manticore, labeled
SARAJEVO
and
BEIRUT
. The only unbroken windows in the whole neighborhood seemed to be in the two vehicles parked in a lot at the base of the Needle, beneath a tin overhang on which rain drummed insistently. She edged closer, positioning herself behind a Dumpster at the periphery of the parking lot. From here she had a better view of the two cars.

One, a black luxury number, a Lexus, had California plates—this would be the Russian's ride; the other, an old Hummer, appeared to be a rental and reminded Max too much of her days at Manticore. Near each vehicle stood a guard; the one near the Hummer—shorter than the other guy—smoked a cigarette and strolled back and forth on the driver's side.

The other guard, near the Lexus, closer to her, leaned against the door, staring in her direction. At first, she thought he'd seen her, then she realized that he was looking at nothing, and his head just happened to be pointed in her direction. Still, as soon as she moved, he would likely see her . . . and any chance for surprise would be gone.

Behind the Dumpster, she found a rock about the size of a sugar cube and threw it down the street. The rock hit on the concrete, barely loud enough to be heard in the rain; but, to their credit, both men looked in that direction . . Max using the diversion to swing around and conceal herself in front of the Lexus.

“Hell was that?” the other man asked, his accent giving him away as Japanese.

“No idea,” the guard near the Lexus said, bored. He wore a dark brown zip-up jacket and black jeans.

Closer now, Max made him as Jackson, the crew-cut wrestler from her first visit to the Sterling estate.

“Should we investigate?” the Japanese guy asked.

“Do what you want. Soak your ass. My orders are, stay put.”

The Japanese guard went back around the Hummer and lit another cigarette.

Jackson was leaning against the driver's door of the Lexus, staring into space;
real ball of fire.
Max decided to take the Japanese out first. She rolled under the Hummer, and—when his pacing brought him close enough to her—she grabbed the man's ankles and flipped them up in the air. Gasping, he took the ride.

She was out from under by the time he smacked his head on the cement; sprawled there, the guard groggily lifted his head to look up at her with a glazed look, perhaps wondering if he was dreaming, such a lovely face looking down. . . .

The owner of the lovely face punched him in the side of the head and he lay back, out cold.

“You say somethin'?” Jackson asked.

When he got no answer, Jackson straightened, eyes tightening, finally interested enough to turn and look. But all he saw was Max's boots as she flew over the top of the car with martial-arts grace and dropkicked him in the face. Jackson toppled over, spitting bloody teeth like seeds, then tried to rise, clenching what was left of his smile . . . and Max decked him with a short left.

Rain drummed on the tin overhead.

Back when the Needle had been a family-fun destination, three elevators had been in service here, and though Max didn't plan on taking one, she did want to know whether or not the things were up and running. If Sterling used the Needle as a regular drop point for his dirty deals, it didn't even seem like a stretch to her that the art collector might arrange having power supplied to the building that only his people knew how to activate.

Max stepped through a broken-out window in the gift shop and surveyed the store; the only sound she was making came from the moisture dripping off her leather. Access to the power had to be on this floor somewhere. Dust blanketed the floor and the counter, too; she could make out where the cash register had been before it had been ripped out.

She paused, listened intently, heard nothing . . . and crept forward.

To the left, a doorway led to a hallway off of which were the three elevators. That hall curved back, and out of sight, so Max decided to start here. Behind the counter, another opening led to a back room. Again listening carefully, and still hearing nothing, she edged into the room—pitch-black . . . even Max had trouble seeing. After slowly scanning for any other doors, the X5 backed out into the relative light of the empty store, illuminated completely, now and then, by lightning.

Max got to one side of the store door and peered down the elevator hallway, saw nothing. Moving forward, she could make out the elevators on her right. She also could see the lighted-up floor indicator, above the elevator doors—they
were
working.

The nearest car was up on the observation deck, the other two were here at ground level. The left side of the hall had once been the glass wall of the pavilion, but now was mostly just metal framing and random shards. Six feet beyond the last elevator door, another doorway beckoned, this one with a small shaft of light shining out of it.

She slipped across the open space, peeked in . . . and saw one of Sterling's men inside the small room.

A naked lightbulb, hanging like electric fruit, provided the only light. Several large circuit boxes lined one wall and Sterling's stooge sat on a folding chair against the other wall, reading a sports magazine with a bikinied woman on the cover. This guy she hadn't encountered before, a redhead with a wide chest and a sharply angular face; he wore a zippered brown jacket and darker brown slacks.

Stepping in quickly, she said, “Can I see that when you're through with it?”

He looked up in blank confusion and she hit him with a right, a left, and another right. The magazine slipped from his hand and he and the chair tumbled; she caught them, setting both man and chair down gently, avoiding the clatter. She considered using the coil of rope on her belt to tie the guy up; but decided it might be put to a better use later on, and secured his hands behind him with his belt.

Taking the elevator up would tip them that she was coming.

She would just have to climb the stairs to the tower, where an evil prince and assorted vile advisers of his would surely await.

Chapter Thirteen

NEEDLE'S POINT

THE SPACE NEEDLE
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, 2019

Around the corner from the elevators, Max came to a door marked
STAIRWAY
; it had been padlocked, but now the lock lay broken, a plucked metal flower on the detritus-strewn floor. This seemed recent work, not the ancient mischief of vandals.

She opened the door cautiously, and looked inside, up the well of stairs winding their way into darkness that swallowed them; the pounding rain echoed down like a disorganized drum and bugle corps. On the stairs themselves, however, she could easily see a pattern of wet footprints.

Seemed Max was not the only tourist who'd come to the Space Needle tonight. . . .

Gazing up into the blackness, with the drumming of rain hiding any footsteps, she had no way to tell whether the person who'd taken these stairs was half a flight ahead of her, or already long since at the top. . . .

As the storm flailed away outside, Max viewed her five-hundred-foot climb as a chance, at least, to dry out for a while. Her hair hung to her shoulders in wet clumps, those clothes of hers that weren't leather were soaked, and if she hadn't had her special gifts, she would have been freezing; all Max experienced, however, was a slight chill. As silently as possible, clinging to the outside wall of the narrow staircase (following the example of those wet footsteps), Max started her ascent.

One hundred and sixty steps later, not winded in the least, she entered a banquet room that had suffered less vandalism than the main floor, the benefit of being one hundred feet up from ground level. The lights of the city were muted by the slashing storm, but her catlike vision allowed her to take in these surroundings. . . .

The room held more tables than Max cared to count, many overturned, some still covered with white tablecloths, others covered instead with a thickness of dust. Purple chairs were scattered everywhere and any smaller items—china, silverware, water glasses, even table lamps—seemed, for the most part, long gone. The windows at this level had survived better, some but not all knocked out, normally allowing in a tiny amount of light—though tonight that meager illumination was confined to strange shadows dancing wildly in the downpour.

Listening carefully for any sign of that intruder who'd preceded her, Max heard nothing . . . only howling wind and hammering rain.

She still had a very long way to go to the top, but resisted the urge to rush, even with her superior stamina, she did not want to risk wearing herself out—after all, she could not be sure what battle awaited her at the Needle's point, and needed to be as fresh as possible after so rigorous a climb. Wasting her energy getting there could prove tactical suicide, and her next opportunity to rest would be in the sky-view restaurant, four hundred feet above her. Between here and there, it was just her and the stairs . . .

. . . and, perhaps, the other “tourist” who had come up this way ahead of her.

As she continued her ascent, she considered: the only estimate she could make about what awaited her upstairs came from the size of the vehicles—the Lexus could hold six, the Hummer maybe a couple more than that. So, that was what? Fourteen guys, at the most . . . and she'd already dispatched three.

That left a potential army of eleven for her to face, assuming one of them was the person on the stairs, ahead of her. If the other stair-climber was an interloper, like herself—with an agenda as yet unknown—there could be a dozen guys . . . a dozen guns . . . waiting for her.

Before she'd started this climb, the floor indicator on the lobby level had shown the elevator stopping at the observation deck; in this weather, she wondered if the art-for-cash exchange might not have reconvened to the restaurant floor. So she prepared herself for what might await beyond the door . . .

. . . but only silence and more dust and darkness greeted her. Apparently, rain and wind or not, the deal was going down where all had agreed it would—perhaps only out in the relative open, even in a storm, could these untrustworthy men trust each other.

After these additional 640 steps and four hundred feet of climbing, even Max's genetically superior muscles could feel the burn. She paused to lean against a wall.

Now, five hundred feet above the street, the storm still raging outside, the X5 found herself in a room so dark even she had to strain to make details out of the murk. She could see elevated booths—these would have allowed even those dining in the center of the restaurant to enjoy a magnificent view of the city—and maple paneling, accented with other light woods, giving the room a classy air and probably, during the day, a natural radiance. Although covered in dust, the seat cushions revealed their original light yellow, which would have added to the daytime brightness.

She used one gloved hand to wipe sweat off her brow, her breathing easy, regulated; she felt fine, damn near fresh, ready for a final round with that last twenty feet, to end this thing, and take down Sterling and Kafelnikov . . . and maybe, just maybe, Lydecker himself. . . .

“Christ, do a sit-up once in a while, why don't you?”

It was a youngish male voice, off to her right. Wheeling toward it, she dropped into a combat stance.

From the darkness, the voice said, “And your skills are rusty as hell. . . . Damn, you didn't even know I was here.”

Furious—with herself, because that voice was right—she said, “Quit the hide-and-seek, then—come on out and test my combat skills, firsthand.”

The young man stepped into the shadowy light—a figure in black, from his fatigues to the stocking cap that didn't quite conceal the military-short brownish hair; the narrow, angular face, the green eyes, were the same, though he'd grown into quite a man. Max felt every muscle in her body go weak, and the climbing had nothing to do with it.

Seth.

Not Zack, but Seth . . . who had not made the escape that night, with the rest of them . . . was he Lydecker's X5? Or the rebel SNN made him out to be?

Relaxing out of her combat stance, but staying alert, Max demanded, “What the hell are you doing here, Seth?”

“I'm flattered you recognize me,” he said. “Which one are you? Jondy? Max, maybe?”

“I thought you
knew
me. . . .”

“Your barcode was showing, when you leaned against the wall, sis. I'm gonna say you're Max.”

She nodded, and the wave of emotion—some sort of bittersweet warmth, at being recognized by her brother—rolled unbidden through her.

Seth's eyes tightened and he pointed a gloved finger to the ceiling. “Do you
realize
what's going on up there?”

She nodded.

He was still so serious, his face a vacant mask, his eyes empty of emotion—only Zack had had a harder game face than Seth. “That's my last chance to get away from Manticore—forever.”

“Get away?” she asked.

“That's right. Maybe we could go together.”

More emotion surged, but she said, tightly, “How do I know you're not with Lydecker?”

The game face dissolved into confusion—hurt, sullen confusion. “Why the hell would you say such a thing?”

And now the accusation blurted from her: “When we ran, you didn't go!”

A defense was blurted back: “They
caught
me!”

“That's right . . . they dragged you back. Did you graduate with honors, bro?”

She took an ominous step toward him and he dropped into a fighting stance that mirrored her own.

But he did not attack; he said; “I escaped that same night—two of them thought they had me, but I flipped the bastards, and got out in the confusion. I've been running ever since, just like you must have been.”

Even as she eyed him suspiciously, she wanted with all her heart, every fiber of her being, to believe him. If she, and others, had escaped that night, why not him?

Despite the genetic tampering and military training, she had an impulse within her, an impulse that had been fed by Lucy and her mother (if not that terrible foster father) and, yes, by Moody and the Chinese Clan, who lay dead because of her. That impulse—which made her want to believe Seth more than she had ever believed anything—cried out for family, for someone like herself whom she could call sibling. . . .

That thought was interrupted by the squeal of tires in the parking lot below—a sound that only she . . . or someone like her . . . could hear in the squall. Responding, both she and Seth went to the edge and looked down through the slanting, slashing rain. A flash of lightning aided them, turning the world white, and they both saw the black Manticore SUVs pulling in at odd angles, TAC squad pouring out.

“Lydecker,” Seth breathed.

“Damn it!” Max said, fury mingling with sorrow. “I should have
known
you were in his pocket!”

She spun and thrust a kick toward his chest, but he blocked it; she maintained her balance, but allowed him time to launch a flying kick of his own, which she expertly ducked . . .

. . . and then the two of them came up facing each other, in combat stance.

Seth was shaking his head, and his eyes seemed desperate. “Max, I swear—I'm
not
with him. I don't know
how
he found us.”

Her voice dripped sarcasm: “I
bet
it's a mystery.”

“Sis—we
both
need to get out of here.”

She jabbed at him with a left, but he leaned back, the blow glancing off his chest, and as he went backward, he grabbed her arm, using her own momentum against her, flipping her over him onto a table that smashed beneath her impact.

As she rose from the ruins, mildly stunned, he said, “We have to get the elevators up here—that'll slow Lydecker down.”

Lightning flashed through the room, and doubt flashed through Max—maybe Seth was telling the truth, after all . . .

She said, pointing to the ceiling, “No, don't do it . . . they'll see the floor indicator lights upstairs!”

That would mean any advantage of surprise would be lost, where Sterling, Kafelnikov, and their small army were concerned.

But it was too late for further discussion.

Seth had already jabbed the buttons, summoning the two remaining elevators from the ground floor up to the restaurant. She could only hope that Sterling, Kafelnikov, and their buyers weren't watching the indicator lights.

“It's worth it,” Seth said, fiercely. “We can't get caught by Lydecker now.”

“Or is Lydecker already in that elevator?”she said, through tight teeth.

“Damn it, sis! Grab some tables.”

“Why?”

“When that elevator comes up, we'll block it open, and keep the cars up here. . . . That way Lydecker and his boys'll have to make the big climb!”

Now she was starting to believe him.

They hauled tables over, and when the bell dinged and the first elevator door opened, she paused with bated breath, waiting to see if TAC came swarming out . . .

. . . but the car was empty.

So was the second one, and they shoved tables in to wedge the elevator doors open, after which brother and sister paused to grin at each other, in a small moment of triumph.

When Seth rushed up the stairs toward the observation deck, Max hung back for a few hesitant moments. Conflicting emotions still wrestled within her; the paranoia of so many years on the run made her wonder if Seth could somehow still be working for Lydecker—could this be some sort of trap?

She didn't lag long, though. Lydecker was down there—the blocked elevators would only delay his arrival. There was a single option left: follow Seth up to the observation deck.

Max flew up the last thirty-two stairs, burst through the door into the wind and rain on the outdoor platform.

In 1.6 seconds, Max took it all in: rain relentlessly battered the synthetic material of the steel-beamed roof of the concrete deck, which was encircled by a three-foot-high concrete wall with steel rods rising out every ten feet or so. These each contained four holes that served as eyelets for steel cables that had kept people from jumping, back when the Needle had been in business; but the cables had long ago been stolen for salvage, leaving only the low wall and the thick steel rods. Wind whipped the rain into a fury, and visibility beyond the deck itself was next to nil. The bank of three elevators came up through the middle of the Needle and opened onto the deck, in a neat row to the left of the stairway door, through which Max had emerged to see . . .

. . . Seth engaged in combat with two brawny Koreans in black raincoats, in front of the elevators!

To her right, she could barely make out Jared Sterling and another, older Korean, in tan and black trench coats respectively, their hair standing on end in the wind, as if they were terrified at witnessing the fight between the young X5 and the Korean thugs.

The tycoon held by its handle a large black art portfolio, no doubt containing some masterpiece earmarked for overseas, and the Asian's right fist clutched the handle of a briefcase . . . the two men obviously frozen in the midst of an exchange. Kafelnikov was nowhere to be seen, though he could easily be just out of sight, around either curve of the deck; and somewhere, she knew, Morales and probably several others from Sterling's security force would be lurking.

As for Lydecker and his TAC team, they would be emerging at some point—there was still one elevator to be summoned, after all, that she and Seth hadn't blocked with their tables . . . in which case, Lydecker could make his own melodramatic entrance onto this rain- and windswept stage at any moment.

Seth was uppercutting one of the Koreans, shattering the thug's nose, a scarlet splash in the gray night; the man fell to the cement and didn't move, his dark trench coat making a black puddle. As the male X5 circled the second Korean; Max glimpsed Morales, his pistol drawn, coming around the wall of elevator shafts, unseen at Seth's flank.

Max rushed Morales, which got his attention, and the Sterling guard fired off a round at her, which she ducked, and then was all but on top of him, still low, hitting him with a straight right in the groin. Morales blew out all his breath in a howl of pain to rival the wind. As he grabbed himself with one hand, going down on one knee as if praying to her, Max batted the pistol from his other hand, like the offensive metal bug it was. Then she stood him up straight with a left to the solar plexus, headbutted him, and watched with pleasure as the hollow-eyed security man dropped backward to the deck, as unconscious as the concrete he lay sprawled upon.