“Yes, my dear,” said Nimrod, chuckling to himself. “I’m afraid I’m as much a fugitive as the two of you. This may well be my last stand.” He held up a hand, stopping the objections of Rad and Jennifer. “I am not going to sacrifice myself just so you two can slip out the back. But I will be able to buy you enough time to get from here to the Cloud Club.”
“The Cloud Club?”
The sounds outside the office reached a crescendo, and looking over his shoulder through the frosted glass, Rad could see shadows moving quickly. Any second now, and the place would be swarming with Atoms for Peace agents.
“It’s at the top of the Chrysler Building. Here.” Nimrod turned and tore a map off the noticeboard behind him. Rad recognized the outline of the Empire State – of Manhattan – but when he took it from Nimrod, a lot of the street and building names were different from what he knew.
Nimrod jabbed a finger at the map. “It’s not far. Stay under cover if you can, but don’t dawdle. Once this department falls, the Fissure is hers, and I doubt she’ll waste any time enacting her plan.”
“What do you suggest we do when we get to this Cloud Club?” asked Jennifer.
Nimrod tutted. “My dear young lady, you must stop the Director. Her army cannot be sent through. Stop her and stop them, at all costs.”
“But how?” asked Jennifer.
“We’ll think of something.” Rad looked at Nimrod “We need agents and guns.”
Nimrod nodded and strode around his desk. He yanked the door open and marched into the main office, heedless of the chaos around him.
The sound of gunfire stopped, and Rad could see several of Nimrod’s agents turn from where they had hidden themselves behind overturned desks and cabinets.
Mr Grieves was nearest to them. Nimrod motioned to him, and Grieves waved the remaining agents to follow. Running at a crouch, despite Nimrod standing tall and bold in the center of the room, the agents filed past Rad and Jennifer. Rad counted five.
Five agents, with whatever ammunition they had left, to save the world. Rad didn’t like the odds.
Grieves came up behind Rad’s shoulder. “What’s the plan?”
“Cloud Club. Know the way?”
“Sure,” Grieves whispered. “We can get out the service elevator.”
Rad nodded. “Jennifer?”
“What’s he doing?”
Rad peered out through the crack in the door. Nimrod was standing in the middle of the Department. In front of him, twenty black-suited, black-hatted agents from Atoms for Peace stalked towards him, each aiming their compact automatic pistol at his head.
“Captain Nimrod,” said the agent in front. He had short blond hair under his hat, and an elegant face with strong cheekbones. “You are under arrest. New York City is now under the control of Atoms for Peace.”
“I see,” said Nimrod. “In which case, I believe the phrase ‘take me to your leader’ is most appropriate.”
The agent’s face broke into a smirk. “I don’t think you’re in any position to make demands.”
“Oh,” said Nimrod. “That wasn’t a demand. No. Now, this, this is a demand.”
In one swift movement Nimrod raised his antique firing piece, aiming it squarely at the blond agent’s forehead. The agent was so close the barrel nearly touched his skin.
Rad saw the agent’s face slacken, his eyes widen just a hair.
Nimrod pulled back the hammer of his revolver. In the dead silence of the office, the click the weapon made as the spring and catch engaged was surprisingly loud.
“I said, take me to your leader.”
Rad felt a tug at his elbow. He turned to see Mr Grieves holding out guns.
“Come on,” he said, and another agent hit a hidden switch on the bookcase at the back of the office. There was a click and the bookcase swung out to reveal a dimly lit corridor.
“Two agents front, two agents rear, our guests in the middle. Got it?”
The agents nodded, and Grieves pointed the way with his gun.
FORTY-SIX
The Nimrod bucked like a rodeo bronco, bouncing Carson on the pilot’s seat and throwing both their stowaway and Byron to the floor. The ship slid sideways through the air, out of control, the tilt too steep, the speed too fast. Through the smashed front windows the lights of the city were bright, brighter than anything Carson could remember. The view, and the buzz-saw vibration that wanted to pop his eyeballs, told him what had happened. He had done it. The device, fashioned from Jennifer Jones’s gun, had worked; the impact with the