The Merchant of Death Read Online Free Page B

you’re about to meet your doom, your life flashes before your eyes. Surprisingly, that didn’t happen. I didn’t think of the game. I didn’t think of my family. I didn’t even think of Courtney Chetwynde. I just thought about me and Uncle Press. Here and now. I took that as a good sign. So I mustered all the bravura I could and said, “Hey, ho, let’s go.”
    Uncle Press let out a laugh like I hadn’t heard from him in a long time, then turned and rushed down the stairs. As I watched him disappear into the dark hole of the subway, I did my best to pretend I wasn’t being an idiot by going along with him. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I saw Uncle Press standing in front of a wall of graffiti-covered plywood that blocked the entrance. The station was closed and by the looks of the old wood, it had been closed for a long time.
    â€œWell, that’s a problem,” I said glibly. “No go, right?”
    Uncle Press turned to me and with the sincerity of a sage teacher imparting golden words of wisdom, he said, “There are no problems, only challenges.”
    â€œWell, if the challenge is to catch a subway at a station that’s closed,” I countered, “then I’d say that’s a problem.”
    But not for Uncle Press. He casually reached toward the wall with one hand, grabbed one of the boards and gave it a yank. It didn’t seem as if he pulled all that hard, but instantly four huge boards pulled loose in one piece, opening up an avenue into the darkened station.
    â€œWho said anything about catching a subway?” he said with a sly smile.
    He effortlessly dropped the large section of boards on thestairs and stepped inside. I had no idea Uncle Press was that strong. I also had no idea why we were stepping into a closed subway station, at night, in the worst section of the city.
    Uncle Press then poked his head back out. “Coming?”
    I was half a breath away from turning, running up the stairs, and giving myself a crash course in motorcycle driving. But I didn’t. Chances are the bike was already stolen anyway. I had no choice, so I followed him.
    The station had been closed for a long time. The only light came from street lamps that filtered down through grates in the sidewalk. The soft glow cast a crisscross pattern against the walls that threw the rest of the station into darkness. It took a while for my eyes to adjust, but when they did I saw a forgotten piece of history. At one time this was probably a busy station. I could make out ornate mosaic tile work on the walls that must have been beautiful when new, but was now a mess of grimy cracks that looked like a giant, dirty spiderweb. Garbage was everywhere, benches were overturned, and the glass around the token booth was shattered. In a word, it was sad.
    As I stood on top of the cement stairs, the derelict station began to show signs of life. It started as a faint rumble, that slowly grew louder. The station may have been closed, but the subway trains still ran. I saw the headlight first as it beamed into the opening, lighting up the track and the walls. Then the train came—fast. There was no reason to stop at this station anymore so it rumbled through like a shot, on its way to someplace else. For a brief moment I could imagine the station as it had looked in better days. But just as quickly, the image was gone, along with the train. In an instant, the place was deathly quiet again. The only sign that the train had been through was the swirling pieces of crusty paper caught in its slipstream.
    I looked to Uncle Press to see if he were appreciating this forlorn piece of old New York history the same as I was. He wasn’t. His eyes were sharp and focused. He quickly scanned the empty station looking for . . . something. I didn’t know what. But I definitely sensed that he had just notched up into DefCon 2. He was on full alert, and it didn’t do much to put me