Something smelled awful.
“Just keep moving.”
We were walking our captives over to Penn Station, to deliver them to the NYPD barracks there. The snowstorm had raged through the night, and it was still snowing, but only barely. Tiny snowflakes fell gently from a hazy sky, the world of New York a wintry tomb in muted grays and whites.
Trash had begun to appear across the pristine snow, most in green and black bags, but also loose bits and pieces. Paper and plastic wrappers spiraled together with snow in the circling gusts of wind. I was sniffing at some trash bags at the edge of the street, trying to find the source of the foul smell, when I was nearly hit by a splatter of brown sludge.
I realized what it was: people were throwing their waste from windows—piss and shit and whatever else they needed to get rid of. The dusting of snow was hiding the sight, but not the smell. Today it was just below freezing, and for the first time I was glad it was cold.
Paul laughed as I recoiled from the excrement.
Who threw that? I craned my neck upward. The building before me disappeared into the white sky after twenty floors. Nobody was visible in the immense wall of windows stretching into infinity.
“Keep laughing, asshole,” said Chuck. “I have a feeling you’re going to be living in your own filth soon.”
I didn’t say anything, just kept staring up at the windows. It wasn’t often that I looked up when walking the streets, and the immensity of the world above was mesmerizing. So many people. My God, so many people.
“You okay, Mike?” asked Tony.
I took a deep breath and focused. “More or less.”
After securing our floor, Chuck had led a group of us through the building, making sure the invaders were gone. Paul’s gang had raided almost all of the apartments, taking what they could, and had removed a lot of the food and equipment from our floor. Irena and Aleksandr had managed to stop them from taking everything, and the generator was still there.
The man Aleksandr hit with the ax hadn’t been dead. He was writhing and whimpering in a dark pool of blood when we’d gotten to him. Pam had managed to bandage the deep wound between his shoulder and neck, but he’d lost a lot of blood.
He was Paul’s brother.
Richard and Chuck had grilled Paul and Stan for names and addresses. Aleksandr and Irena had stayed there with us, not saying anything, just staring while we questioned them. Paul was clearly terrified we’d leave them alone with the Borodins. He’d answered all our questions almost immediately. They hadn’t broken into the building; he had stolen keys from the front locker a few days before.
“Do you want to walk up Ninth?” asked Chuck, stopping at the intersection.
I shook my head. “Definitely not. Let’s cross to Seventh and go straight up. The entrance to the NYPD barracks is on that side, and I don’t want to get stuck in any crowds outside Penn.”
“You sure?”
“We are not going up Ninth.”
Chuck shoved Paul ahead of him. Damon was with us too, helping Paul’s injured brother walk.
Chuck and Tony and a few others had ventured off at daybreak to an address around the corner that Paul had named. I’d refused to go. It had turned into an armed standoff. Of course, the people manning the entrance had refused to let Chuck in while he was waving his gun around and screaming about stolen food.
Tony whispered to me that Chuck had threatened to march Paul and Stan in front of their building and execute them if they didn’t give us our stuff back. But the people there just told Chuck to go away, saying that they didn’t know anything, and that they had families and children inside.
That building was on Ninth, and there was no way I was going to walk past it on our way to Penn. Chuck was in a grim mood.
We made our way single-file along the packed-down trail in the middle of Twenty-Fourth and then started up Seventh toward Penn. All of the ground-floor windows were smashed, with junk and trash poking out from the snowbanks. A lot of people were out on the streets, bundled up, toting backpacks and carrying bags, on their way somewhere, anywhere. This stream of human traffic merged into a river of people going up Seventh. Seeing us coming with guns out and marching our prisoners, everyone gave us a wide berth, but nobody stopped to watch us or ask what was going on.
As we reached the corner of Thirty-First and Penn Station, the flow of people spilled into a flood. Thousands of people were massed together, shouting and shoving. Someone was yelling into a megaphone, trying to direct the crowd. A banner hanging above the north entrance said Emergency Food. The line stretched around the block.
Tony and Chuck had Paul’s and Stan’s hands tied behind their backs, and they held onto the cords. Chuck leaned over to Paul. “I want you to run, asshole, so I can put a bullet in your head. Just try it.”
Paul studied his feet.
“Follow me,” I said, waving them into the crowd. I could see a group of NYPD officers at the main door of the office tower above Penn. Winding our way through, we managed to get to the first barricade.
“I need to speak to Sergeant Williams!” I yelled at the police officer there. Motioning to Paul and Stan, I added, “These men, they attacked us, armed robbery.”
The officer put a hand on his gun as he watched Damon supporting Paul’s bloody brother. “You’re going to have to put those weapons down!”
“Please, can you find Sergeant Williams?” I asked again. “He’s a friend. My name is Michael Mitchell.”
The officer pulled his weapon out of its holster. “You need to—”
“He’s a friend. Please just ask him.”
The officer backed up a step and spoke into his walkie-talkie, looking at us from time to time. He nodded and then holstered his gun, waved to us, and opened the barricade. “Follow me!” he yelled above the noise. “You’re lucky he’s here. You’re going to have to give me those weapons, though.”
Chuck and Tony offered theirs up, and I handed him the .38 I had tucked into my coat. He led us up a set of stairs and through the main lobby to the cafeteria I’d been in before. We released Paul’s brother into the care of one of their EMTs. Sergeant Williams was waiting for us. The officer whispered a few words to him and then stood back.
Sergeant Williams looked at us with tired eyes. “Had some trouble?”
I’d been expecting him to lead us somewhere formal, to station us at a desk to fill in paperwork, to take our prisoners into a concrete room with double-sided glass. He just motioned for us to sit down.
“These guys attacked us last night—”
“We attacked you? You butchered my brother, Vinny, with a friggin’ ax!” yelled Paul. “Goddamn animals.”
“Shut your hole,” said Sergeant Williams. He turned to me. “Is that true?”
I nodded. “But they were holding us, our wives and kids, at gunpoint, stealing our stuff. We had no choice—”
Holding up a hand, Sergeant Williams interrupted me. “I believe you, son. I do, and we can hold them for a while, but I can’t promise anything right now.”
“What do you mean?” said Chuck. “Lock ’em up. We’ll give you statements.”
Sergeant Williams sighed. “I’ll take your statements, but there’s nowhere to put them. As of this morning, New York State Correctional is releasing all minimum-security prisoners. No food, no water, no staff, generators out, and can’t open and close cells electronically. Had to let them all go. Nearly thirty prisons emptied. God help us if they release any of the bastards in Attica or Sing Sing.”
“So, what, you’re going to let these guys go?”
“We’ll lock them upstairs for now, but we may have to let them go, depending on how long this lasts. Even if we do, though, it’s not forgiven, just delayed.” He scowled at Paul and Stan. “Either that, or we put a bullet in their heads in the basement.”
Is he serious? I held my breath, waiting.
Sergeant Williams clapped his hand on the table and roared with laughter. “You should have seen your faces,” he laughed at Paul and Stan. “Goddamn idiots.” He looked back at us. “Army is here now, taking control of the emergency stations. Martial law is being declared later today. From this point on, any more of this, and it will be a bullet, get me?” he said, returning his gaze to Paul and Stan.
They both nodded, some color returning to their faces.
“Okay, Ramirez, get ’em out of here.”
The officer who’d led us in grabbed Paul and Stan by the arms and pulled them up from the table, leading them out of the cafeteria. He left our guns behind on the table with Sergeant Williams.
“Sorry, boys, it’s the best we can do for now. Is there anything else?” asked Sergeant Williams. “Is your family all right?”
“We’re okay, yeah,” I replied.
For the first time since entering, I looked around the cafeteria. Before it had been a bustling beehive of activity, busy and lived-in but clean, but in just a few days it had become filthy. It was almost empty.
Seeing my face, Sergeant Williams anticipated what I was thinking. “Lost most of my men. I mean, not dead—although we have had a few officers down—but mostly gone home. No sleep, no supplies. Thank God the military’s arrived, but so far they don’t have a tenth of the manpower they need.”
“You’re not going home to your family?”
He laughed. “The force is my family. Divorced, kids hate me and live anywhere but near me.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“Here is as good as anywhere for me right now,” he continued, slapping the table. “And I may need your help before all this is over.”
“We do have one thing you may find useful,” said Chuck.
“Really?” said Sergeant Williams. “You have something that will help us with this mess?”
Chuck pulled a small memory chip out of his pocket. “We do.”