Mason descended the staircase into a small concrete chamber with rusted pipes on the walls.
“… Track Sixty-one,” Gunnar said. His voice cut in and out as the connection degenerated. “Originally designed … connect Grand Central … to an underground station at the Waldorf-Astoria, so … rich and famous … come and go without … to rub elbows with the unwashed masses topside, but it … never put into active service. It … served as FDR’s private station … he was in town. He even … his own custom railcar to help reach … elevator that would take his armored limousine up … the parking garage so no one … see him using his wheelchair. It’s rumored … occasional president still uses … but outside of that … just collecting dust. Considering the only known surface access … through the Waldorf, I’m surprised … able to get in there at all.”
A rough-edged hole opened onto a concrete pad surrounded by dirt and separated from the tracks by a wall with arched thresholds. Massive electrical boxes, now more rust than metal, clung to it. Conduits protruded from them but only reached as far as the exposed iron girders overhead, many of which were still braced by warped wooden posts. There were mounds of construction scraps and trash everywhere. Sheets of particle- and fiberboard had been left to disintegrate into soil that smelled like a combination of a root cellar and a latrine.
“Where does it go?” Mason asked. His voice echoed into the distance, from which he heard the faint thuck-thuck, thuck-thuck of an approaching train.
He hopped down from the residual platform and swept his flashlight beam across twin rails supported by weathered ties.
“It’s not … long track … connects track sixty and Grand Central…”
“Which would be the perfect location to trigger as many remote dispersal units as possible.”
“… since it’s a terminal … every train has … stop there. She … easily arm fifty … same time … send them … back out … city … gas all … way.”
“And she’s somewhere ahead of us on the tracks at this very moment.”
“… breaking up … can’t understand…”
“I’m about to lose my signal, Gunnar. I need you to get ahold of Algren at the New York Field Office. Tell her what’s going on and have her dispatch units from Grand Central into the tunnel toward us. We’ll trap the Scarecrow between us so she can’t reach the station.”
The only response was the crackle of static.
“Gunnar?”
“We have to keep going and hope he heard you,” Ramses said. “She can’t be too far ahead, and the three of us should be able to take her.”
“What about Marchment?” Layne asked. “There was only one person on the screen and he wasn’t in the apartment.”
“He has to be down here somewhere,” Mason said. “He’s not our priority, though. We have to stop the Scarecrow from releasing the Novichok and hope Marchment’s still alive when we find him.”
“Or not,” Ramses said. “He sounds like a real dick.”
With the aid of their flashlights, they’d easily be able to outpace Kameko. Mason’s best guess was that the cameras were set up near the junction of tracks 60 and 61, which meant that if they followed the sound of the incoming train, which grew louder by the second, they ought to be able to catch up with her. They could only assume Grand Central Station was her final destination and pray she hadn’t figured out which combination of individual trains running nonstop throughout the city would be arriving at the terminal at the same time, armed and ready to be remotely triggered.
“We have to hurry,” Mason said, and broke into a sprint. “Come on!”
The Scarecrow emerged from the underground to find itself surrounded by people. The press of bodies was overwhelming. It felt as though everyone was looking at it, and yet it knew that couldn’t possibly be the case. No one ever saw it, or perhaps they merely chose to look the other way.
Its timing needed to be precise. There would be no second chances and either it succeeded and many people died or it failed and died alone. Either way, at long last, its life would soon be over, and it would make sure it took the last of those responsible for its torment with it.
And the fool didn’t have the slightest clue.
The ground on both sides of the tracks was rocky and uneven, forcing Mason to run between the rails and try to hit the ties and not the spaces between them, slowing him to an uncomfortable extent. His light swinging ahead of him made the entire world seem to tilt from one side to the other. Walls covered with graffiti and soot blew past, bricks to one side and concrete to the other. The clapping sound of his footsteps echoed from dark alcoves on either side, inside of which any number of traps could have been rigged, but he was simply out of time and had to start taking chances. If the Scarecrow reached the terminal first, they’d all be dead soon enough anyway.
The rumble of the subway car faded and a deep red light materialized in the distance. It switched to yellow as he approached. By the time he reached the junction, the light was green and illuminated a concrete barrier with vertical rust and water stains. He recognized it from the surveillance footage. Kameko had been here less than ten minutes ago. They could still overtake her if they were fast enough.
Layne’s flashlight cast Mason’s shadow ahead of him onto the active tracks. He hit them going full speed and fell into stride on ground worn nearly level by decades of unrelenting use. The whole world seemed to shiver with the sheer volume of trains converging on and departing from the station. The overhead lighting grew brighter, the fixtures closer together. Another track appeared to his right, a dozen feet away, on the other side of a colonnade of iron girders.
A train roared behind him, its headlights bursting from the darkness.
He ducked from the tracks and glanced over his shoulder in time to see Layne and Ramses silhouetted against the lights bearing down on them. They lunged aside a split second before the train blew past.
Th-th-thuck. Th-th-thuck. Th-th-thuck.
The ferocious wind of its passage buffeted them with enough force to knock them off stride.
Its brakes screeched as it slowed. Mason caught a glimpse of a black box with an antenna affixed to the underside of the last car. And then it was gone.
They were out of time.
The platform materialized in the distance, between the tracks. Yellow staircases leading upward. Massive electrical cables running down the walls. Partitions made from squares of opaque glass.
Mason jumped up onto it and ran toward where the passengers disgorged into the crowd waiting to board. Holstered his pistol before he caused a panic. Fought upstream through the seething mass of humanity working its way against him.
They had to be getting close now. He hoped to God they weren’t already too late.
The sea of faces parted before the Scarecrow. No one so much as looked in its direction, and the few who made that mistake quickly averted their eyes and cleared its path. None of them had any idea what was about to happen, let alone that the remainder of their lives could be measured in minutes. They were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, which was neither its fault nor its concern. They knew what they were. Humanity was a scourge upon the planet, and while these people hadn’t been party to its torture, they knew what monsters did to children in the dark of night and condoned it with their silence. They didn’t care what happened to others behind closed doors, as long as those monsters kept them safe. It had been easy to turn a blind eye because it wasn’t happening to them.
But today it was.
Mason had to slow and turn sideways. Raised his arms and stood on his toes to see over the heads of everyone surrounding him.
“Out of the way!” he shouted.
He merged into the herd ascending the ramp toward the station. Found enough space to move and bolted away from the tracks. Through the dimly lit corridor connecting the lower platforms. Into a marble-tiled arcade with stores on either side. Nearly barreled through a janitor cleaning up a spill. The old man swore and threw his mop to the ground. Mason hurdled the wet patch without slowing.
The main concourse was directly ahead, framed by a domed entryway. He saw the globe clock and the arched windows over the heads of a riot of people.
And among them, a sugegasa. A broad conical straw hat.
He caught a glimpse of flannel and denim, and the startled expressions on the faces of the people who hurried to get out of the Scarecrow’s way.
“Freeze!” Mason shouted.
He drew his weapon, sighted it squarely on the back of the Scarecrow’s head, and prepared to end the threat right here and now.
Screams erupted all around him. Bodies ran in every direction. Uniformed officers fought through them. One shouted from the marble landing at the top of the twin staircases beyond the circular kiosk.
The Scarecrow swayed as she stood there. Cocked her head first one way, then the other. Slowly turned to face him.
“No,” Mason whispered.
His heart sank.
The Scarecrow had outmaneuvered them again.