Ghosts of Manhattan (21 page)

He dipped again, hearing the wings creak under the strain of his constant maneuvers. He wasn't sure how he was going to shake the other plane. He glanced back over his shoulder. The other aircraft was hovering near, holding steady, the pilot watching him, waiting for him to make the next move. It was now or never.

The Ghost yanked back on the control stick, causing the biplane to rear suddenly, driving it up into the path of the enemy plane. He heard the mobster scream as, unable to pull himself away in time, the front end of his biplane mowed into the tail of the Ghost's. The spinning propeller ate hungrily into the thin metal fuselage of the Ghost's plane, chewing the steel, mashing the two aircraft together and causing them both to veer drastically out of control. The Ghost was nearly jolted out of the pilot's pit and had to clutch desperately at the rim of the aircraft as he was tipped sideways, the entire thing shaking as the other plane embedded itself deeper and deeper into the fuselage.

The mobster was fighting furiously with his control stick, forcing it wildly to the left and right, doing everything in his power to separate the two planes as they spun out of control. The nose of the Ghost's plane dipped, and together the two biplanes fixed on a collision course with the sidewalk far below.

The Ghost could smell fuel, realized it was likely bleeding out of a split tank. He glanced at his control panel. The dial was in the red. He swallowed. The two mangled aircraft were about to become one huge fireball above Manhattan. From behind him came the sound of rending metal as the substructure that housed the rocket exhaust finally gave way, the iron struts creaking and snapping one by one under the weight of the other plane. He glanced back. The mobster was pale with fear. The two aircraft were slowly separating in midair, the stress of their decent prizing them apart again as they tumbled through the sky.

The Ghost pulled back on the control stick, trying to force the nose of his damaged biplane up. The propeller screamed, the engine unable to bear the combined weight of the two aircraft. They were perilously low now, only a couple of hundred feet above Madison Avenue. The grinding continued as the Ghost fought with the controls and then, suddenly, the other plane broke loose, and he was spinning away, climbing, wavering crazily as he tried to bring the remnants of the biplane under control.

Beneath him, the other plane, no longer dragged along by the momentum of the Ghost's aircraft, plummeted toward the ground like a dropped stone. The Ghost thought he could hear the mobster's screams as the ruined biplane collided with the sidewalk, nose first, the tip of the left wing puncturing the window of a nearby store. The Ghost held his breath, expectant ... and then the crashed biplane detonated with a boom that rebounded off the tall white office buildings lining the avenue, a sound that was likely heard all over Manhattan. Flames licked hungrily at the wreckage.

The Ghost had little time to celebrate, however, as, without its tail and losing fuel, his own biplane was quickly losing altitude. He wrestled with the controls, trying to level the wings, trying desperately to keep the nose from pointing toward the ground as he swept along, narrowly missing the buildings on either side, unable to steer, unable to climb any higher. He was going to have to ditch it. He was going to have to try to land the thing on the road, on Madison Avenue.

The engine spat and hissed angrily, and then the propeller finally gave up, seizing as the motors that drove it locked up. No fuel. No controls. Only his momentum carrying him forward, carrying him inevitably down toward the slick tarmac below.

The Ghost glanced over the side of the plane. There were people milling about everywhere; running toward the crash site, dashing for cover, stopping to point and scream as they heard and then saw this second plane, out of control, diving out of the sky toward them. He considered bailing out, but he knew that the fall would kill him. At this speed, at this height, his body would be dashed across the street like a watermelon. He closed his eyes, tried to breathe, tried to fight the sense of rising panic, the tightening in his chest. He'd been here before, in France. He'd been through this and lived. He couldn't help wondering what the chances were that he would do so again.

He peeled open his eyes and calmly reached forward for the control stick. He had no choice.

The plane was listing to the right, so he threw his weight to the left, bodily leaning out of the pit in an attempt to level the aircraft. It bobbed, buffeted by the sharp wind, and began to level out, but he realized he was still coming in too steep. With no propeller, gravity was drawing him inexorably toward the ground. He rocked back, shifting his weight again, throwing everything he had behind the movement in the hope that, this time, he'd be able to keep the shattered tail end of the aircraft down, preventing him from nosediving directly into the tarmac.

It was this decision, this moment, which he later reflected had saved his life.

The biplane finally came down, slamming into the road, its wing smashing through the windshield of a parked car, the impact ripping the roof clean off the vehicle, but also rending rivets loose in the main fuselage of the biplane so that the wing was whipped away, clattering off down the street. The undercarriage scraped and skidded along the tarmac, bouncing and hopping along the road and raising an enormous spray of bright sparks in the crashing aircraft's wake.

It spun wildly. Pedestrians dived bodily out of the way to avoid flying fragments of shrapnel as it lurched along the road. Another car swerved desperately, mounting the sidewalk and narrowly missing the oncoming wreckage.

And then, finally, it shuddered to a halt.

The Ghost peeled open his eyes, realized he'd been holding his breath. He shivered. His hand was still clutching the control stick, squeezing it for all he was worth. He became aware of the sound of screaming: shrill, terrified screaming. He saw a man running toward him, concern etched on his gleaming face.

He had to get out of there.

Grasping the edges of the pilot pit, he heaved himself free of the wreckage and dropped to the ground. He must have gashed his knee during the impact as his pants were torn and blood was running freely down his calf. He gritted his teeth, resting his hand against the remaining, shattered wing of the biplane.

"Hey! Mister, are you okay?" And then, "That was some-"

The Ghost turned away from the man, glancing back up the road. In the far distance he could still see the flames of the other aircraft as it burned, a steel tomb for one of the Roman's men.

Testing his injured leg gingerly, he established it would still support his weight. And then, without waiting any longer, without acknowledging the small crowd of people gathering around the wreckage, he turned and ran.

onovan knew his apartment was no longer safe, but his first instinct upon leaving the rooftop was to head there, not for the purpose of holing himself up, but with the aim of recovering his gun, the automatic he had lost in the hallway during his encounter with Reece and his men.

He was weak, terribly faint. He could feel the energy ebbing out of him like the warm blood that was still trickling down his arm, seeping into his clothes, as he pushed his way through the door and staggered down the hallway.

He found the weapon easily enough, even managed to reload it with a second clip, but the swirling darkness that limned his vision kept closing in on him and he swooned, dropping in and out of consciousness, unable to think straight. It felt a little like drowning, like being swallowed by something warm and dark and safe, and he knew that if he didn't fight it, that coziness, that sense of warmth and tiredness would overcome him, and he would never wake up again. He forced himself to keep moving.

He had no sense of how long it took him to stagger back along the corridor outside of his apartment to the stairwell. It felt like hours, but it must have only been minutes, for, as he hung for a moment in the doorway, rasping for breath, he caught sight of Gideon Reece, bouncing off the walls as he flung himself down the stairs from the roof. He charged down the stone steps, his footsteps ringing out in the confined space. Clearly, the man wasn't so confident when he wasn't surrounded by a clutch of the Roman's goons.

Unable to use his right arm, Donovan hefted his automatic in his left hand, and from a slumped position against the wall let loose a series of potshots, trying to catch Reece as he fled the scene. The bullets ricocheted off the iron fretwork of the railings, left dusty pockmarks in the plasterwork, but Donovan was unable to hold himself steady and Reece rushed on, down and down the stairwell, toward safety, freedom, ducking as the bullets pinged around him.

Donovan staggered after him, firing until his magazine was empty, finally flinging the gun in frustration at the back of the disappearing figure. Reece hadn't even turned to acknowledge him, so intent was he on making good his escape. Donovan practically fell down the final flight of stairs, collapsing on the bottom step as he watched, through the tall glass-paneled doors of the apartment building, the three-funneled car roar away into the night, its tires hissing on the damp tarmac.

He felt the blackness closing in on him again.

When he came round, Donovan was on the sidewalk. He had no recollection of how he'd got there. The cold wind buffeted him, and he felt himself sway unsteadily on his feet. Above, he heard the roar of rocket engines firing as biplanes launched from the roof of a nearby building, riding away on bright spikes of flame. He glanced in both directions along the street. His first instinct was to follow Reece, to head in the direction that his car had taken, but he knew his judgment was clouded; he was on foot, and wounded, and he didn't know how long it had been since Reece had left. What, then? The hospital? The precinct? Mullins?

Yes, that was it. Mullins. Mullins was reliable. Mullins was always reliable.

Donovan staggered toward his parked car. It was an old thing, and he didn't drive it often, but he was glad of it now. He leaned against the roof as he unlocked the driver's side door. His vision was blurring. He'd lost a lot of blood. He cursed himself. He should have done more. He should have taken out Reece whilst he'd had the chance.

Donovan swung the car door open and practically fell into the seat. He rested his good hand against the wheel. A cigarette. He needed a cigarette. He fought inside his jacket, struggling to worry the packet out from inside the pocket. Then, finally, he worked it free, flipped open the lid, and with his lips withdrew one of the white cigarettes. He pulled the tab, watched the tip flare. He sighed as the thick nicotine flooded his lungs. Donovan laid his head back against the headrest, allowing the smoke to plume out of his nostrils. His shoulder was throbbing. He was tired. So tired. The blackness was calling to him, offering sweet oblivion. He felt his eyelids closing. The cigarette tumbled from his fingers. Everything went dark.

He woke with a start. Someone was calling his name. Tired, weak, bleary-eyed, he peered at the face of the man who was leaning over him. The features bobbed. He could smell nicotine on the other man's breath. The man had two red pinpricks for eyes. Who did he know who had red eyes ... ?

Donovan's mind suddenly engaged. The Ghost! The Ghost had saved him from the Roman's men. The Ghost was here, now, leaning into his car.

"Donovan! Donovan!" A sharp pain as a gloved hand slapped him across the face. "Donovan!"

"Yes ..." he croaked, his cheek smarting, "yes ..." He couldn't think what else to say.

"Donovan. I'm going to move you now. You're coming with me." The Ghost was leaning over him, wrapping his hands around Donovan's chest. The Ghost heaved him across the cab, groaning at the exertion, and Donovan felt a sharp spike of pain in his shoulder as he was lifted over to the passenger seat. The Ghost slid in beside him, coughing, and took the controls. Donovan noted that the other man's leg was bleeding heavily, his pants torn. Had the Roman's men done that to him? How had he managed to see off so many of them?

Donovan tried to ask the Ghost these questions but his voice was barely a whisper, and before he'd had chance to properly frame his words, the Ghost had fired up the engine and the questions were lost in the hissing of steam as the paddles engaged and the vehicle slid away from the curb. Donovan slumped in the seat. He had no idea where the Ghost was taking him. But he hoped, wherever it was, he'd be able to get some rest. The swirling darkness was waiting for him.