The Schwarzschild Radius (53 page)

The water had slowed McKenna and his team. The storm outside had abated, but the water kept rising. Half-way up his shins now. Could Brazos still be in the tunnel? How fast could two girls move in this?

McKenna couldn’t help noticing the ease with which he fell into the role of hunter once again. It was like the chase reflex in big cats. Here he was again going through the bowels of the earth in pursuit of evil. He had lain awake at night thinking of this freakazoid and McKenna felt violated that Brazos could intrude on his sleep, follow him into the toilet, and walk with him to the store.

He grasped the synthetic stock of the weapon with his wet hands. It was hot as hell down here and getting hotter as they descended. The smell in the tunnel was more briny. He scooped up a handful of water and put it to his nose. Seawater. “Hold it. Anyone know what this tunnel drains into?”

“We’re heading south and south is Jamaica Bay,” said Sergeant Escobar.

“That’s what I thought. High tide is coming in.”

“Where are you taking us?” asked Rachel.

“Where you’ll never be found,” replied Brazos.

The water was up to Rachel’s knees and she could feel the steep incline. How much deeper into this were they going? They would all drown.

Brazos’ GPS lit up every three or four minutes like a lightening bug in the dark. In those moments of illumination, Brazos’ countenance took on a green tinge and with the night-goggles, he appeared insect-like.

When was this ordeal going to end? How was it going to end? Did Olivia make it out? What a twist of fate that Olivia was replaced by her twin sister who had escaped one hell hole to arrive at another in the land of milk and honey. She could feel Achara starting to fade. At first, she was clinging to Rachel’s elbow, but now Rachel’s arms were taught between her and this killer.

Suddenly there was a faint light ahead. Yes, she could see it. The ground was steeper than ever; the water was now up to her thighs. They had reached the end.

“In,” he commanded. The sky was above them and in front was the ocean. Rachel grabbed Achara’s waist and they plunged into the cold water. “Keep your mouths shut from here on.”

Brazos pulled them to shore. But the freedom of the open air wasn’t going to last. The GPS snapped on and that meant they were going somewhere specific. There was nothing improvised here, Brazos knew what he was doing. Her destiny was in that little box.

Rachel was right. Within ten minutes, Brazos led them to a half-buried freight container. There was a rusted opening on its side and Brazos pushed them through it. A flashlight hurt Rachel’s eyes, then revealed an entrance to what Rachel dreaded most―another tunnel.

“This thing’s filling up,” said the sergeant. “We’ve got to make a decision.” The water was up to their thighs and rising. “There’s a manhole cover up ahead. There won’t be another one for hundreds of yards and the water may be over our heads before that.”

McKenna wanted to go on, but he couldn’t be reckless with their lives.

“Okay, let’s try the manhole cover.”

One man went up the ladder and struggled for five minutes. McKenna looked at his watch. Five minutes lost.

“This won’t budge,” said the guy above.

“There’s another one three hundred yards back, but no guarantee that’ll open either,” said McKenna. “Let’s go on for ten more minutes. If we don’t reach the end, we abort.” All agreed.

McKenna set a blistering pace. Five minutes later, the water was up to their waists and still rising. This tore him up. He wished he was alone, so he didn’t have to be responsible for six guys drowning. If they had to abort now, could they even make it out before the water was over their heads? Now the water was chest-deep and he felt for bodies under his feet. No way a couple of five-foot-three girls made it through this.

“Hold it,” said McKenna. The rain outside had stopped and there was only a trickling of water entering the tunnel. “Anyone see a light ahead or is it me?”

“Yeah, look at the water up ahead. It’s lighter,” said the sergeant.

“It might be the tunnel outfall, but it’s totally submerged. Give me that rope.” McKenna tied it around his waist. “Pay it out as I go. If I pull on it twice, reel me in. If I pull on it three times, I want one man to follow at a time.”

McKenna put his goggles back in their waterproof case and took a deep breath. He’d have to swim underwater, find the exit, then take a chance and follow it to the surface.

He dove in with the Maglite flashlight. The seawater stung his eyes. Visibility, two feet. More tunnel, shit. But more light too. If the rope snagged on anything, he was dead. McKenna committed himself and kicked hard, thrusting forward. His lungs were bursting. More tunnel. He could barely see now. Forward. It was time to tug the rope twice or he’d die here. A few more feet and he’d tug. The light brightened just enough to tempt him to go on. His diaphragm was spasming as he kicked toward the light and broke the surface in Jamaica Bay.

He quickly tugged the rope three times before they decided to pull him back on their own. His feet touched the bottom and he made his way to shore quickly to provide resistance to the rope as the next man came up. The others would make it through in half the time with the rope to pull on.

He anchored himself against the shoreline and pulled the rope taught. Then, as if big-game fishing, he felt a huge tug at the end of the line. He counted the seconds and prayed for no screwups.

Santos surfaced first. Escobar was last. But no time to rest. Brazos’ lead was extended.

They radioed for the K-9 unit and within ten minutes, they were back on Brazos’ trail. The dogs alerted on Rachel’s scent, not Brazos’, so she was still alive. The trail led them to a half-buried shipping container. There was an opening on the side.

“That hole goes into the ground,” said the sergeant. He lowered himself in and popped out three minutes later. “It’s an old subway tunnel. We’ll take the dogs. Bend those edges, so they don’t get cut.”

“Get with the MTA and see if they can email us a map of this tunnel,” McKenna said into the radio.

He and the six-man SWAT team went in first, followed by the K-9 unit. The night-vision goggles went back on.

“Brazos didn’t just find this tunnel by accident. He knows where he’s going and this place could be booby-trapped,” said McKenna. “Proceed accordingly.”

It was part of the old Jamaica line from the look of it. How many of these places did Brazos have? The last one was a slaughterhouse. Was this some kind of a sick pied-a-terre? There were stairs leading to a lower level. McKenna’s guess was that’s where they went and the dogs agreed.

There was a fishing line running across the bottom of the stairs from railing to railing. McKenna signaled. One guy would have to stay behind and disarm it. After carrying the dogs over the tripwire, they got back on the trail which led to the edge of the platform.

“They’re on the tracks. Watch out for the third rail. It could still be live,” said McKenna.

A shot rang out, dropping Santos. The others scrambled to the maintenance recesses. They called in the 10-13. Santos was shot through the shoulder. “Get that damn thing disarmed before anyone else arrives,” ordered McKenna.

The team advanced from one maintenance recess to the next. Santos was dropped in total darkness, which meant Brazos had night vision. One man down, two disarming a booby trap, and two carrying Santos back up―that was a bad exchange. That left McKenna, the sergeant, and two dog teams to go after Brazos.

This place was as near to total darkness as you can get, so the night vision goggles were just working off the built-in infrared and had a visibility of only a few feet. Brazos had to be using thermal goggles in order to see at that range.

His phone vibrated. McKenna jerked in reaction, then answered it. It was the email. Yeah, the old Jamaica line. Map, where’s the map? See attachment. He counted the seconds while it downloaded. And there it was. Two levels. Bottom level extended between Canarsie and South Jamaica. They were heading east toward Jamaica. There was a platform about four hundred yards ahead. He glanced at the sergeant who was looking at the same email. The men signaled each other in the brief glow of the cell phone screens. Another shot rang out, missing. They couldn’t return fire without the hostages in sight. They would just have to take it.

Brazos pulled Rachel and Achara up the platform and descended onto the tracks on the other side. Several hundred yards later, he pushed them into a utility room and shut the door. He snapped on a lantern to reveal another cache of supplies―shelves of ammo, a bullet-proof vest, tools, rope. Rachel glanced at the bulge in Achara’s pant leg. It was still there. She hoped those rubber bands held; it was their last hope.

“Against the wall,” he said. He put on the vest, then fired up a laptop. A dark image appeared on the screen with moving figures. As they advanced toward a red line on the screen, Brazos took out his cell phone. He hit a speed dial number and a huge explosion echoed through the tunnel. The figures were gone.

McKenna and Sergeant Escobar were a hundred feet away from the epicenter of the blast and were still blown back several yards. The dogs and the handlers took the worst of it. One dog and his handler died. At this point, McKenna didn’t care what happened to him―he had to kill Brazos. His night-vision goggles didn’t work.