Going Dark(112)

Flynn was blocking the stairs to the exit.

“Let’s move,” Thorn said. “I’ll take it to the parking lot, a hundred yards, big open area, minimum damage. Don’t worry, there’s time. I’ll heave it, find shelter. Now move.”

Flynn stepped aside, looking back into the manhole. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill him.”

“That’s good, kid. Keep it that way.”

Thorn climbed the stairs to the upper ramp, Prince and Flynn following. Thorn pushed through the exit door into the darkness and the whirlwind of sirens, and shouts and the screams of the injured. The smell of charred flesh and the thick haze of cement dust from the remains of the cooling tower.

“Listen,” Flynn said. “I left the skiff at the loading docks after all. It’s just beyond that building, not far.”

Flynn stayed at Thorn’s side as he headed toward the parking lot.

Thorn stopped, planted a hand on Flynn’s chest. “Help Cameron back to the skiff. Do it now. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes. Now go, goddamn it. Do what I tell you for once.”

Thorn headed off to the parking lot in a clumsy jog.

He crossed a grassy plaza, about fifty yards from the storage pool. The parking lot was only a half minute farther on, Thorn making decent time, when he was tackled from behind, thrown to the ground. He broke away as Prince wrenched the case from Thorn’s hand.

“Okay, so you had it right, my granddad was a big deal to me, a hero. Maybe all that’s too late for me. At least I can do this.” Prince got to his feet and set off running into the dark. Thorn yelled for him to stop, but he kept going to the north, toward the bay.

Thorn watched Prince crossing the parking lot, the dull glint of the aluminum case bobbing as he ran. Thorn got to his feet, staggered after him, cupping his hands to his mouth, yelling for Prince to drop the case. Get out of there. Drop it now.

But Prince kept sprinting toward the water’s edge, due north as though he meant to run beyond the seawall, clear across the miles of water to the distant island where his family once lived. Prince Key. Travel back to those boyhood hours with his family on that faraway refuge. His strides were long and loping, streaking through the darkness as if he were bodiless, free of the dreadful pull of the planet.

Prince was out of time. Making a choice, grabbing for a legacy greater than what he’d been settling for. He ran into the darkness until Thorn could no longer see any sign of him.

Flynn was standing beside Thorn. “Oh, holy God.”

“The skiff,” said Thorn. “Let’s go.”

Flynn and Thorn crossed the plaza and took a winding asphalt road toward the docks.

“Sugarman?” Thorn said. “Is he okay?”

“Fine. He took out Wally. Wally was bragging about Pauly blowing up the spent fuel pool. That’s when I took off.”

“Leslie?”

“She’s waiting in the boat.”

“She’s all right?”

“Injured,” Flynn said. “Prince said there was a shoot-out in the control room with the plant security. I think she’ll make it.”

A security guard blocked the entrance to the loading dock. He raised his assault weapon and came toward them. He was ordering Thorn and Flynn to halt when the suitcase detonated.

Prince had carried it all the way to the northern seawall. The sky brightened and collapsed and sent a sonic boom echoing out to sea and back again. The earth shimmied beneath them. Across the grounds, cars and trucks and fuel tanks exploded. Chunks of pavement flew upward as ungainly as prehistoric winged reptiles climbing into an ancient sky.

Thorn shoved the guard into the bay and hustled past.

Leslie was propped against the front of the console. She’d been shot through the left shoulder. Her face was white. She was shivering. Thorn wrapped her in foul-weather gear and towels, cast off the lines, and pushed off from the loading dock, Flynn at the wheel, maneuvering past a Coast Guard cutter arriving with assistance. He idled out to deeper water before hitting the throttle and putting Leslie’s Whipray up on plane.

To the north the city of Miami was totally dark. People would have a taste of the primitive life. A day or two, maybe a week. They’d have to adapt, learn to cope, get by on less. Learn a few lessons. It would last for a while.

Flynn pushed on, flat out, no one speaking. A half hour later, back in Key Largo, back at Thorn’s house, Cassandra was waiting on the dock. Flynn eased the skiff up to the pilings, handling it smoothly, an expert now.

Cassandra helped Leslie out of the boat. She was conscious, still shivering, unable to talk.

“She needs a hospital,” Thorn said.

“She’ll be taken care of.”