“And get paid for it. I’ll give you three. One, two...”
With a roar, Kurt Britton flung himself at Gil, as the pistol fired, whether from reaction to movement or carrying out his threat to kill her, Cilla couldn’t be sure. The bullet caught Britton on the right chest, spinning him around, but his forward progress landed him on top of the man with the weapon. There was another report, and both fell to the ground. Crow, still groggy, had a pistol in his hand and was trying to get up. Cilla grabbed the weapon and bent it back, trapping Crow’s finger in the trigger guard. He grunted with the pain; she bent harder, something snapped and the pistol came free. He swung at her with his left hand, catching her on her cheek. She was staggered but didn’t lose her balance. She reversed the weapon and hit him hard on the head. He collapsed. She glanced at Todd. Still out. Gil was on his knees. He’d taken off his gloves and was digging for his pistol from under an inert Britton.
“Hold it,” she ordered moving close to him.
“You won’t shoot.” He smiled sardonically up at her, daring her to pull the trigger.
Cilla hit him in the throat with the pistol. He choked and grabbed his neck.
“Now move away from Kurt.” She turned her fallen mountain manager over. He was alive, but breathing noisily. I’ve wronged you, she thought. Even disarmed you...The man in the plane! She turned, and as she did her arm was dealt a harsh blow, and the pistol spun away. The third man picked it up, glanced at Crow who was out cold and Gil, making rasping sounds as he tried to get air. Neither Todd nor Kurt was moving. It was a tableau for how Cilla imagined the Russian steppes would look, as left by a retreating army.
“Enough,” said the man to Cilla. “I won’t hesitate to use this. Gil, are you all right? Can you still fly this thing?”
There was murder in the young man’s eyes as he got shakily to his feet. His throat was damaged, perhaps permanently. He was having great difficulty breathing but between gasps was able to force out words in a squeaky voice. “Damn...right. We’ll get...it up...couple thousand...feet ...drop the bitch off.”
Cilla’s heart was in her shoes. Not from the threat, though she knew it was real. The third man wasn’t Frank, and her last chance to find Hudson had disappeared.
John Krestinski wore a watch, but seldom found need to look at it. Today he’d often caught himself glancing at his left wrist. He stood at the window of the FBI offices in Boston’s Government Center looking out at the odd sight of streets full of cars and empty of people. The city had shut down. The governors’ talks - given by each of the six governors every half hour on their local television stations - advised all the region’s citizenry to stay home. As noon approached, doors were barricaded and New Englanders sought out the room in their house with the fewest windows. A brisk breeze sent an advertising poster cartwheeling over car roofs toward Faneuil Hall. Across the harbor Logan Airport was quiet at last. The final flight out had been at ten-thirty and nothing was coming in.
It was quarter past twelve, fifteen minutes after the Nutcracker’s deadline. He felt he was sitting on the edge of an active volcano. The National Guard search had turned up a lot of interesting equipment, like the illegal waste disposal system discovered by Joel’s squad, that at another time would have inspired letters to the editor from those fortunate enough to have municipal sewage lines running by their doors, but nothing remotely resembling a dispenser of deadly frozen pods.
A knock and the door opened. Sally Koppel, his secretary, wearing a gas mask and carrying one for the agent.
“I guess it’s time, isn’t it,” said Krestinski wryly. “Hate these things; cut you off from everything.” He put the mask on and went out into the large room outside. Not with a bang, he thought.
The helicopter hovered over Mt. Field. As it rose, Cilla could see Todd just getting to his feet in the deep snow. He’ll be okay, she thought, and he can get help for Kurt. She had her own problems. Crow had been revived, and the looks he and Gil gave her were not friendly.
“I...meant it...Groper...open the...door.” Gil rasped from the pilot’s seat.
“You can’t just throw the girl out. We check first.” Groper was the third man and acted in charge.
“So...check! Use...radio.”
“He’s not going to be happy Crow didn’t set the markings.”
“I’m not going to hike around that mountain with a busted hand!” Crow held the injured member with his left hand.
“It’s only a finger.”
“I’ll give you a finger...!”
“Kaff…kaff...call...damn it!” gasped Gil.
Groper used the radio. In a moment a voice came over the speaker. “What are you doing on the air? What’s happened?”
“Problem. Crow didn’t...”
“Stop! Watch your language! He hasn’t completed his task?”
“No. He’s...injured.”
“Did any of it get done?”
“No, we were met by...others. Have one as passenger. A woman. Some one you know.”
There was silence for a minute. Even with radio distortion, Cilla knew that voice. Cabral. Better known throughout New England as the Nutcracker.
“Dark hair, mid-twenties?”
“Right. Gil suggests we let her off at our present location.”
“No. Unless she is the other, the one who looks like her.”
Again silence. How does he know `our present location?’ thought Cilla. Nothing was said about that. Does he know we’re in the air? Sounds like it. Which means he must be close enough to see us!
“Bring her here. I can tell them apart.”
“You really want us to come there? Won’t...”
“Do it. I’ve taken care of the shift guy. The next one’s not due for two days.”
Gil banged the seat in frustration, but turned the helicopter east, heading directly for the frozen top of Mt. Washington. There was little loose snow for the blades to swirl about as the machine settled between the ice- sculptured buildings. Cabral was here? Cilla was hustled out of the aircraft by Crow and Groper, followed by a coughing Gil, and into the structure that sat on the northwest corner of the highest peak in northeastern United States. Known as the Yankee Building, she, Kurt and Todd had passed within a hundred yards of it yesterday afternoon, just before the storm. Inside were living quarters, packed with electronic equipment, and a bigger room, partly used for storage, where sat the man half of the six states was hunting and the other half fleeing, looking not at all like the monster envisioned by the media. At five foot ten with rimless glasses, he could have been a meteorologist with the Observatory. Maybe a Texan if one judged by the wide brimmed hat that sat on the table next to him. The menace was in his whispering voice. “Who screwed up?”
“Can I talk?” Groper looked around the little apartment.
“Yes. Only Frank’s here, sleeping in the dark bedroom upstairs.”
Frank! A small measure of hope.
“We had just let Crow off to lay out markings when this woman and two men attacked us. Gil shot one of the men, but Wonder Woman here broke Crow’s finger and did some damage to Gil’s throat.”
