Silent Night

THIRTEEN

The bomb detonated.

There was a sudden puff of yellow as the cylindrical vial cracked open and released the modified tuberculosis virus, but the containment box prevented it from entering breathable air, sealed airtight in the protective case. Through the glass, the six gathered men watched the yellow gas swirl up to the lid of the box, slowly and malevolently searching for any cracks or gaps.

Kneeling beside it, the two CRT specialists took a simultaneous deep breath. Both guys were sweating. The tech on the left turned and looked at the ESU pair, then at Josh and Archer.

‘It’s secure,’ he said. ‘Just in time. Great job, fellas.’

He grabbed a radio from the ground and put in the call.

‘Device is located and is secure. I repeat, device is located and secure.’

He lowered the radio, taking in some deep breaths.

And silence fell as all six men looked at the lethal virus drifting around the box.



Across the city, another bomb was just about to be planted.

A second member of Bleeker’s trio, the guy with the tattoos, was walking down a stone path on the east side of Bryant Park, just off 42 Street and 6Avenue. He’d ducked into a coffee shop restroom moments earlier, armed his bomb and initiated the ten minute countdown. There was no disturbance switch on this bomb, just the vial and a timer. With the lid back in place and tied securely with string, the man was now approaching an ideal drop-off point for the device, a trash can on the south east of the Park, a stone’s throw from the Public Library. Leaving it anywhere else might attract attention. The place was busy and the cops weren’t dumb.

He was ten yards from the can, blending right in with the shoppers and the people watching the ice-skaters on the rink to his right. It was relatively central and would be a perfect place to plant the device, achieving maximum impact and fatalities.

He walked towards the can as casually as he could.

Five yards away, he raised the bag and prepared to drop it inside.

But suddenly, someone grabbed his arm from behind, pulling him to an immediate halt. Something was jabbed into the folds of his coat, shoved hard into the middle of his back.

‘Don’t move, a*shole.’

He froze.

As the hand gripped his arm and what had to be a pistol rammed against his back, another person stepped in front of him.

It was a woman. Dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, she had a harsh face, dark features emphasised by cold reptilian eyes. Her nose looked as if it had been broken a number of times. The only trace of femininity was long hair that was half-tied back, several strands hanging over her face, but somehow it made her look even more intimidating.

She examined his face, then looked over his shoulder and nodded.

‘It’s him.’

‘Check it.’

The woman turned to the man holding the bag. ‘Pull out your wallet.’

He did so hesitantly, very aware of the gun pressed into his back. The man behind him was up close so no one nearby could see the weapon. She took the wallet and flipped it open.

‘Nathan Hansen.’

She nodded, tucking it back in the man’s pocket. Without a word, the guy with the gun came up around him, tucking the pistol under his coat and burying it into Hansen’s armpit, the weapon hidden in the layers of clothing. Hansen looked at the man and saw he had bleach blond hair, almost white. Glancing down, he also saw that the pistol stuffed under his arm was silenced, the man’s finger tight on the trigger.

‘Move.’

Walking side by side, the three walked out of the Park and headed across the street onto 42. They stopped in front of a French patisserie. The woman pulled open the door and they moved inside.

The restaurant was straight ahead, but the toilets were behind a wooden screen to the right. The trio moved towards them. The man and woman took Hansen into the men’s restroom, then locked the door.

Once they were inside, the bleach-haired guy pulled out the pistol from his coat and stuck it in Hansen’s face, pushing him against the wall. The handgun was a Glock, a fat silencer on the end of the weapon an inch from Hansen’s nose.

‘Don’t move.’

The woman grabbed the bag from Hansen’s hand, then placed it on the ground. She gently slid out the box, untied the string securing it and carefully opened the lid.

She saw the bomb inside. It had been armed, the numbers on the timer counting down.

8:23.

8:22.

8:21.

‘Son of a bitch,’ she said.

She clicked a switch on the inside of the box and the timer shut down. Then she picked it up and placed the switched off bomb carefully against the wall by the toilet bowl. Hansen watched her do it, then turned his attention to the blond man with the gun. He went to speak but the woman rose and suddenly slapped a rear choke on him, hooking her legs around his hips and pulling him back. They hit the ground with a thump and she tightened the squeeze, the leather on her jacket creaking. Hansen gagged and clutched at her forearm desperately as it blocked his airway.



He passed out after six seconds or so. Drexler held the choke for another thirty seconds until he suffocated. Once he was gone, she released him and rose, dusting herself off. Wicks tucked his pistol into a holster under his coat then knelt down and broke Hansen’s neck, just to be sure. One grip and one sharp wrench.

Drexler crouched down and retrieved the box. She separated the vial from the bomb and rose, examining it in her hand. The toxic yellow liquid was gathered at the bottom, a small amount, seemingly innocuous yet horrifyingly dangerous.

‘Now we’re talking,’ she said.

With the dead man slumped on the ground, his head at a strange angle, Drexler unlocked the door and stepped out. Wicks flicked the lock back on as he followed then pulled the door hard behind him, sealing it shut.

Together, the two of them headed out of the patisserie and back out onto the street.

The vial containing the virus held securely in Drexler’s hand and tucked safely into her right jacket pocket.