I finished off my pile of homemade toys the next morning, then studied the notes I had made on the subway system. Now that I knew where to hunt for Plum Blossom, I could finish my planning while I waited for Egan to work his magic.
There were several lines that had once gone right into downtown Manhattan, with old stations in the heart of the Financial District. The problem was that they were the ones with some of the longest distances under the East River between stations. I wanted—no scratch that, I needed—to have the shortest stretch of tunnel I could get. In this case, it meant the F line.
I could probably access the closed tunnel from the York Street Station. From there, as best I could tell, it would be two and three-quarters kilometers to the old East Broadway station—under the river, with the rats. Once in the Zone, I could surface and cover the two and a quarter kilometers to 55 Broadway the good old-fashioned way, on foot, with only relentless killing machines to worry about. And Rikki would join me. We figured that once the neck bomb was neutralized, Zone Defense would be on to the true nature of their pet Decimator drone. So it would be an all-or-nothing mission.
The doorbell of the apartment rang, which made me jump. My 9mm was just suddenly in my hand, pointed at the door. I had absolutely no memory of snatching it off the dining room table. A couple of seconds ticked by before I got my shit together and had my AI check the hallway camera.
A dark-haired guy wearing a t-shirt that read Christopoulos Souvlaki and carrying a big, insulated food delivery bag stood on the other side of the door, looking bored.
Gun in hand, I approached the door, opened it a hair, gun barrel pressed against the metal, ready to fire right through it. Our door is a pretty tough steel model, but I had no doubts that the high-speed 9mm bullets would zip through the metal like paper.
“Ah, yes?” I asked.
“I got yer order here,” he said, dark eyes looking me over, unimpressed.
“I didn’t order any food.”
“Compliments of the family,” he said. “You gonna take it? It’s shacking heavy.”
The light dawned in my brain. I opened the door and he stepped in, walking right past me to the dining room table, which I suddenly remembered was covered with improvised bombs.
Ignoring the lethal clutter, he set the big red insulated bag on the table with an audible thunk, opened the flap, and pulled out a second, empty red bag from inside, which he slung over his shoulder. Then he turned and headed for the door.
Giving me a level stare, he slipped past me and headed out into the hall without a look back, the empty Christopoulos Souvlaki bag slung on his back.
I locked the door and turned to the bulging bag still on my table. The flap was open and inside I could see a white paper bag and a thick tan cardboard box.
The bag contained a Greek gyro wrapped in aluminum foil. The big square box held something altogether different. I ate the gyro while I inspected the contents of the box.
Sandwiched inside cutouts in foam lining was a short-barreled 5.56mm rifle – in two pieces, six loaded thirty-round magazines, and a screw-on sound suppressor. A handwritten note told me that half the ammo was subsonic and the other half was light armor piercing. Tucked into their own cutout area were three dark cylinders with pull rings, flip up spoons, and blue banding around the middle. I’ve found boxes of them in old police stations and federal agency offices inside the Zone. M84 stun grenades—flashbangs. Beautiful.
The rifle was nothing special, a Troy upper which mated to a Bushmaster lower with a Magpul stock, folding sights, and a Magpul grip. It was fifteen years old if not older, as at least one of those companies was no longer in business. The age wasn’t an issue, as modern firearms can last and function indefinitely if they’re well cared for. This one looked in good shape. The barrel was bright and clean, as was the bolt carrier group. The charging handle was also aftermarket, with dual release levers so I could easily use either hand to open the action.
5.56mm isn’t my favorite caliber, being too light for the bigger land drones. However, I just needed the rifle to get to one of my weapons caches. It was fine for flying UAVs and the smaller ground units, and the suppressor and subsonic ammo was exactly what I needed for rats. And I was a beggar. So all in all, it was great. I wished I could test fire it and check the zero on the sights, but I couldn’t. I checked, rechecked the action, inspected all the parts, and dry-fired it to the best of my ability, but that was all I could do. Sometimes you have to go on faith.
The flashbangs were icing on my carbine cake. In fact, with a bit of modification, they would become even more useful. And I had everything I needed for those mods already on the table.
A couple of hours later, I had my gear all set and ready to go. The rifle, ammo, improvised explosives, and stealth suit were all packed up in a relatively innocuous-looking duffle bag that I could sling over one shoulder. It would be a bit heavy, but I wasn’t planning on walking all that far. My plan called for getting on the subway closer to home and disembarking at York Station, then disappearing into the tunnels. It sounded easier than it would be. There were a number of obstacles to overcome, things like subway security checkpoints, NYC Transit police, and the little matter of the Zone Defense barriers and automated weapon systems on this side of the F line tunnel.
Firearms have been heavily restricted in both the city and state of New York for decades, and the aftermath of Drone Night made it even tighter. The Enhanced Patriot Act created police checkpoints in cities all across the country, but none more so than New York. Airport-style security for all mass transit was now the norm.
But I wasn’t overly worried. Over ninety-nine percent of security systems are now run by AI. A guy with the right help could get by expert-run security systems. And my help ticked like a fictitious mongoose. One way or another, I’d get through.
But first, I had to get rid of the bomb in my neck, and that required me pissing off the powers in charge.
Easy—it simply started with a phone call.
“Hello, Trinity? Ajaya here. Got some more scoop on the end of the world. You interested?”