High-Rise Hell

  I race up the stairs at full speed, manage to reach the helipad — no enemies in sight. I should have a moment to myself. I pull the military radio I stole out of my pocket and start checking it. I saw that the terrorists had their trunked radios set to the 245–250 MHz range with encryption for their communications; the access keys were already configured when I killed the owner and stole it. The good thing is that this military radio also has an analog emergency mode and I can use the Tokyo police’s open emergency channel, which is 266 MHz. But if I want them to take me seriously and not treat me like a radio pirate I’ll have to use an open channel — and that will be like shouting into a speakerphone that all of Japan is listening to at any moment. If the terrorists are as competent as they seem, they’ll have someone monitoring the radio bands and will detect an unencrypted emergency transmission on the police band. There’s no doubt the terrorists will hear me asking for help, but there’s no other option. I need to get more reinforcements if I want to save the hostages from this mess.

  Fuck it, here I go.

  “Attention, alert!”

  “Mayday, mayday. S.O.S.”

  “Whatever thing I am supposed to say in this shit!”

  “Emergency situation at the Fujikawa Corp. Tower!”

  “Terrorists have taken the building. There are at least 300 people kidnapped!”

  “I repeat: Terrorists have taken the building, annihilated security, and kidnapped 300 people!”

  “This is not a joke! I need real help!”

  “Attention ma’am, you are using a transmission channel reserved exclusively for the police.”

  “You are committing a serious crime; please stop transmitting on the line or we will be forced to arrest you.”

  “We can trace your location even by radio.”

  “Then do it! Send someone, damn it! I don’t care!”

  “I’m transmitting from the damn Fujikawa Corp. Tower itself!”

  “Come for my damn fat ass, but you’ll see a dozen men armed to the teeth and a human wall of people crying for their lives.”

  “Just tell damn Inspector Yamamoto that the White Girl needs his help. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Go tell him — this is serious shit, damn it!”

  I quickly slid my hand over the radio and changed the frequency back to the terrorists’ channel.

  ?Здесь отряд Альфа, выходим из лифта, приступаем к подавлению передачи и ликвидации противника.?

  (This is Alpha squad — we’re coming out of the elevator, proceeding to suppress the transmission and eliminate the enemy.)

  Shit — they’re here already. It’s time for action. I take the safety off the assault rifle I’ve got and put it on automatic, I crouch down and wait until they open the door to the area that leads to the stairwells and the elevator. I see the door handle turn; they throw it wide open. I press the trigger and a burst of bullets greets them on my behalf. The one closest to the door dives to the side for cover; his mates fire back in suppression, shooting at random. They don’t know exactly where I am, but they know that staying put will only get them killed. They’re efficient and they know how to fight — I can’t stay behind.

  It’s clear they have access to far more ammunition than I do, so bleeding out my rounds isn’t the best idea. I can’t stay here; I have to withdraw and find another way to ambush them again. Crawling backward, I stand up and run for the only other exit: the small helipad maintenance hut. A bullet grazes my arm — a sharp burn that makes me catch my breath. I spin, fire blindly through the door, and let off another short burst before slipping inside.

  The interior is dark, full of tools and radio equipment. There’s no exit. I’m trapped. Or not. On the opposite wall an evacuation diagram shows an alternate route: an internal service stair that goes down from the helipad straight to the 90th-floor revolving restaurant. I don’t have time — I grab the hatch’s handle and, with everything I’ve got, with a grunt that comes from deep inside, I pry it open. A black, dusty hole yawns under my feet. Without thinking, I drop, closing the hatch over me just as I hear the hut’s door explode.

  I fall a couple of terrifying meters, then reach out to grab one of the ladder rungs. My hand hooks one as I pass, I yank to stop my fall, the rest of my body slams into the ladder — a searing pain. I look up and see the light of the hatch trying to open again. With my free hand I grab my pistol and fire mercilessly upward; I can see them throw themselves aside to save themselves. For a moment I think I’ve created some distance between them and me, but then I see them slide a small sphere down through the open hole in the hatch. I don’t know exactly what it is, but my mind is screaming the word “GRANADE!” I let go of the ladder and drop onto the floor of the 90th — it hurts a little but there’s no time to stop. I hear a metallic thunk beside me; what they threw lands next to me. Desperate, I open the door, rush through it and throw myself to the floor — a loud explosion follows. Dust fills the place almost immediately, but I’m still alive. There’s no time to stop; I have to get away.

  I don’t stop. I run for the elevators, pounding the down button in desperation. The digital indicator shows one elevator is on the 75th floor — too far. The other is coming up. Fast. From the 60th.

  *Ding dong!*

  One manages to open its doors: an empty elevator appears in front of me with its soothing chime like a sign of salvation. I jump in and hit 35 as fast as I can. I don’t really know what’s there, but it’s probably better than staying on the 90th. I try to check what equipment I still have, but I notice I’ve lost the assault rifle — I must have dropped it in the panic after the grenade. Damn it — and it’s not like I can go back to pick it up now. The elevator continues its descent, but now I know the terrorists are on multiple floors and are probably coordinating my capture. As if answering my thought, the radio speaks again.

  ?Зима, это Саша, я нашёл цель. Компьютер показывает использование лифта до 35-го этажа — это не кто-либо из нас, значит, это враг?.

  (Zima, this is Sasha — I've found the target. The computer shows elevator usage to the 35th floor — it's not any of us, so it must be the enemy.)

  ?Здесь отряд ?Браво?: мы возвращаем контроль над лифтом с 60-го этажа, мы будем первыми, кто её найдёт?.

  ?Отряд ?Альфа?, займитесь стороной здания по другую сторону — скоординируем клещевую атаку на 35-м этаже?.

  (This is Bravo squad: we're retaking control of the elevator from the 60th floor; we'll be the first to find her.)

  (Alpha squad, take the far side of the building — we'll coordinate a pincer attack on the 35th floor.)

  They had tracked my movement.

  *Ding dong!*

  The elevator stopped with a soft ting that sounded like a shot in the silence. The doors opened to reveal a long, luxuriously carpeted corridor stretching in both directions. Dim lights lit doors at regular intervals. It looked like the hallway of a five-star hotel, not a corporate office. I was alone on the floor — I had arrived first — but that would change very soon; they were chasing me mercilessly, without pause. I have to get off this floor without them finding out if I want to get a moment to breathe and work out my options.

  Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

  ?Здесь ?Браво?. Мы на 35-м. Видим её. Двигается по коридору на запад.?

  (This is Bravo. We're on the 35th. We see her. She's moving down the corridor to the west.)

  The voice on the radio chilled my blood. I spun on my heels just in time to see two balaclavaed silhouettes emerge from the far end of the corridor, rifles raised. There was no warning. A torrent of bullets whistled toward me, shredding the silky wallpaper and splintering the door frames. Instinctively, I hit the floor and dragged myself backward trying to reach the inside of a room, returning fire with a burst from my pistol that forced them to seek cover.

  ?Альфа, на позиции. Цель в прицеле, приступаем к ликвидации.?

  (Alfa, in position. Target in sight, proceeding to eliminate.)

  I insert a fresh magazine, pull the pistol's strap, take a second to rest—maybe for the next one to die—then I stand up.

  "This is going to get messy," I say aloud, accepting the challenge in front of me. What fun.

  "Контакт!"

  (Contact!)

  I run down the corridor to the next room, I pull the trigger as hard as I can, only two meters to the next cover, 25 shots fired, no victims. Four guns returned fire toward my position with fury; they saw me pass, they know where I am.

  "Контакт! Коридор! Десять метров! Лёгкое оружие! Враг!"

  (Contacto, hallway, ten meters, light weapon, Enemy!)

  Перезаряжаюсь!

  (Reloading!)

  "Токио, огонь на подавление! Франкфурт, таран справа!"

  "Сайпан, продвигайся с Токио и дави!"

  (Tokyo, suppressive fire! Frankfurt, ram on the right!)

  (Budapest, advance with Tokyo and push!)

  I can hear them coordinating; I have an idea of what they're trying to do, but what worries me is that ram they mentioned earlier. Another round of shots begins its macabre dance. I search my pocket for another magazine,

  "По местам!"

  (In position!)

  "вперёд!"

  (Forward!)

  "Пролом!"

  (Breach!)

  An explosion takes me by surprise on the wall at my side; in a single second the whole room fills with a white cloud and debris—you can't see anything at all. I was disoriented and everything spun in my head, but there was no time to recover; I could sense what came next. As an act of faith in that premonition I throw myself to the side of the bed to escape. I can see the holes the bullets make just a couple of centimeters from my head. A metallic object falls near my feet—I sense it's probably a grenade. Still blurred in my vision I grab it and throw it back: a big white explosion and a loud bang, but I don't see more debris; it was probably a flash grenade. Another metallic object falls; I can see its cylindrical shape similar to the previous one and I cover it with a pillow—same effect. What would surely follow next were the armed men.

  I hadn’t had time to reload my weapon — there was nothing; I had to improvise and pray. I grab the corner of the bedspread, take my position and bend my knees, waiting in fear until I see the rifle’s barrel pass close by me. I jump as high as I can and pull the sheet over one of them, trying to knock him to the ground, but the move goes wrong and we both fall. His partner, panicking, aims and fires; I use my hostage as a shield and, in a panic, search for his pistol, take off the safety and fire back. The armor blocks the rounds but doesn’t protect him from the damage; he drops to his knees in pain. I grab the lamp from the table and yank the plug’s cord to strangle him, pulling as hard as my arms will allow. I hear the man’s groans but I don’t stop until I hear his last breath.

  I throw the corpse to my side and quickly take his rifle, pull the magazine out and grab a fresh one. I stick the muzzle out into the hallway with my hands and, without aiming, fire it until the magazine is empty, trying to buy time against the three other enemies I knew remained.

  The blind burst from the rifle emptied the magazine with a dull roar, buying precious seconds of confusion. It wasn’t precision fire; it was a wall of noise and metal. The air filled with the men of Alpha and Bravo’s Russian curses, forced to fall back and take cover.

  ?Прикрыться! У неё автомат!?

  (Cover yourselves! She has a rifle!)

  There was no time for finesse. With the weapon empty, I let it go and, in one fluid movement, lunged toward the suite’s opposite door — the one that led to the side corridor. A terrorist, bolder than the others, stuck his shoulder out to shoot. I didn’t have time to grapple with him. Instead I used my momentum. My hand transformed once more into the dragon claws that had served me before, and I thrust my outstretched hand through the wall; I could feel it go through something soft and become soaked, and I heard a scream of pain from the other side. I had managed to stab the soldier by surprise and put him out of the fight. Then I turned to exit into the corridor, grabbed the stabbed man and hurled him against his comrades with force, forcing them to decide whether to try to help their mortally wounded teammate or follow me down the hallway.

  I took advantage of the chaos and headed straight for the emergency stairs — there was no time. They knew which way I had fled. I ran to the door and took a quick look down the corridor. It was clear, for now. At the other end, I saw the sign I was looking for: a door labeled “SERVICE STAIRWAY FLOOR 34.”

  It was my only way out. I shot forward, running with everything I had left. Just as my hand touched the doorknob of the stairwell, a rough voice shouted from behind me.

  ?Стой!?

  (Stop!)

  I spun around. One of Bravo’s men, the one with a red armband, emerged from the suite I had just left, raising his rifle. There was no time to aim, not even to think. A primal instinct took over me. Instead of opening the door, I lunged at him with all my strength.

  The collision was brutal. He wasn’t expecting a frontal attack. We both hit the hallway floor. His rifle fired, the deafening blast echoing in the confined space. Bullets embedded themselves in the ceiling. I was on top, rage and fear boiling through my veins. I grabbed his head with both hands and slammed it into the floor as fast as I could, again, again, again, and again. I noticed a combat knife on his vest, grabbed it, and drove it through his throat. Then I spun around and ran up the stairs before the survivors could catch me.

  I ran up the stairs two at a time, skipping entire floors, until my lungs felt like they were going to explode. I stopped on a landing on the 20th floor, far from the point of conflict. I collapsed against the cold concrete wall, cold sweat soaking my tattered clothes. The arm grazed by a bullet throbbed with sharp pain. I trembled uncontrollably, adrenaline leaving my body and leaving behind only emptiness and exhaustion.

  “Damn it, that was close.”

  “Ahg, ahg, agh.”

  “Way too damn close,” I told myself, joking about the situation I had barely escaped.

  From the small window on the landing, the city of Tokyo stretched out below, indifferent. And then I saw them.

  Dozens of red and blue lights were flashing at the base of the building, forming a perfect cordon. Black armored vans, clearly SAT vehicles, the Japanese special operations unit. Spotlights swept across the tower’s facade.

  And then I spotted it. Parked with careless arrogance just behind the line of police vehicles, a red Nissan Fairlady Z. Impeccable. Classic. Yamamoto’s.

  Despite seeing the old man get out of the car, I thought that even if he believed me, that might not be enough for the whole police force to believe him, so maybe the old man would want a little more proof that the situation really was as bad as it actually was. So after a couple minutes' rest I went back up to the floor of the brutal fight to resupply, get another assault rifle and look for a corpse that had most of the military gear as its weapon; I broke one of the nearby windows and threw it into the void.

  The body fell onto a patrol car that crushed it instantly — that should make them believe him for real.