Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(10)

“Checking your codes, sir.”

“Never mind the fucking codes! I’ve got someone dying here!”

“Sir, unless you cease the profanity, I will terminate this conversation.”

“For fuck sake! What are you, ten years old? Jesus—”

“Sir, I am preparing to terminate—”

“No! Don’t do that! For fuck—look, sorry, OK? Sorry! Do not hang up. Do not! Are you still there?”

He seemed to take an age to answer. It was probably just seconds, but I heard something else crash in the living room and Melody groan and I stepped from foot to foot, and tried to get the little spice jars open with one hand, the phone held with my shoulder, my other hand turning the tap— “Your codes check out, sir.” The awful, interminable pause of an indrawn breath. “How may I help you?”

So I went through it again. I poured salt and chili powder and God knows what else into the cup and filled it with water, looked round for a spoon to stir it with. I pulled open a drawer and it came loose from its runners, smashing to the floor. Napkins, napkin rings, teas towels . . .

The man said, “There’s nobody on duty now, sir. I can forward to Emergency and they—”

“Stop. Stop. You’re not hearing me. You know what we’re dealing with? Do you?”

“Well, I can probably check—”

Melody let out a wail. I said, “Do you want to be the man who let Manhattan be destroyed? Do you? You want that on your résumé, then?”

He told me that he’d call me back. I dropped my phone somewhere and ran to the main room.

She had slipped or fallen off the chair. She was on the floor, thin, brittle fingers clasping at the air.

I bent down, cradled her head.

“Melody?”

Her eyes moved. She looked at me, puzzled for a moment. Then recognition came. Her lower lip quaked.

“Christopher.”

“I’m here.”

“I’m scared . . .”

“It’s going to be OK. I promise. Can you drink something for me? Can you do that?”

“I didn’t know . . . I didn’t think . . . that it was like this . . .”

I grabbed a couple of cushions from the chair and tried to prop her up on them. I put the cup to her lips.

She said, “That’s filthy.”

“I know. Just drink it anyway, will you?”

She took a sip. Her face pruned up. She pushed the cup away.

“Melody. I need you to drink this. Quick now. Do me a favor, eh?”

“It’s eating me up. I didn’t . . . didn’t think it would be like this.”

“Drink, please.”

I put the cup to her lips again. She took some of the liquid in her mouth. I think she swallowed some of it. Not much.

“Drink fast and you won’t taste it. Come on.”

Her hand clutched at my shirtfront.

“I can feel him . . . moving in me.”

“Melody . . .”

“My legs are gone. I suppose they’re his now. I have a god’s legs. I have . . .” She tried to laugh and coughed instead. Her body rattled in my arms, like a box full of loose puzzle pieces. “Left arm. He’s spreading out, the god. Taking over, inch by inch. Soon I won’t be here at all. He’ll have every part of me.” She gave a strained little smile. “Won’t that be grand, huh? Won’t it . . . ?” Her grip upon my shirtfront tightened, and she tried to pull me closer. “Chris,” she said. It was hardly more than a breath. “Chris . . .”

“I’m here, I’m here.”

“What’s going to happen to me then?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

My phone began to ring. I eased Melody onto the floor and put a cushion under her head. Then I ran back to the kitchen for my phone. It had slid across the floor, under the kitchen island. I dropped onto my knees and grabbed for it.

The guy was more awake now. It must have finally hit home that there was something serious going on.

He sounded very pleased with himself.

“We have someone in Chelsea. He’s not Field Ops but he has a flask. His name is Paul Silverman. He thinks it’ll take him ten, fifteen minutes. He’s on a bicycle.”

“Tell me you mean motorbike.”

“Bicycle,” he said again.

“Jesus . . . I mean . . . just tell him to hurry, OK?”

“He’s already set off.”

I went back to Melody. Still on the phone, I gave a thumbs-up, mouthed, “Help’s coming.”

“Mr. Copeland,” said the man in the office. “We’re also obliged to call 911.”

“Well, call. Don’t ask me, I’m busy.”

“Mr. Copeland—”

I hit end call. Fifteen minutes. Would she last that long? She was breathing heavily. Her brow shone like oil. I brought the cup to her again and she said, “You’re trying to make me sick, aren’t you?”

I nodded.

“Won’t work.” She took a breath. It strained. She had been cold, icy cold, but now I felt the heat radiating off her. “Listen,” she said. “Listen . . .” I leaned closer. “He’s all through me. Everywhere. Thing you gotta do—you gotta amputate.”