The Subway

by Dustin Stevens

  Sliding back out, I hooked a finger under the bottom hem of my tank top. Extending it before me, I unlatched the glove compartment, nothing but the owner’s manual tucked away inside.

  Reaching for it, I felt the burner phone I’d picked up the day before begin to vibrate on my hip. Low and persistent, it was coming too fast to be a text.

  And as best I could tell, only one person knew the number and would be calling.

  Pulling back, I dropped the makeshift kerchief away from my face. Turning away from the cab, I drew in a deep breath, extracting the phone and pressing it to my face.

  “Hey, Lou.”

  “Where are you?” Short and direct, I could tell she was even more worked up than when I’d seen her last, this a marked change from the woman that was dealing with the sight of carnage before her, wrestling with how to handle it.

  “You called it in, I take it.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Got my ass fired for the effort too.”

  Raising my face toward the sky, I could feel sweat pooling in my eyes, stinging as I exhaled slowly.

  “How the hell did they get that from what happened there?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Lou snapped, a bit of wind whistling through the receiver.

  Nodding, I said, “Damn. Sorry.”

  For a moment, there was no response, just the continued push of a slight breeze over the line.

  “Just, where are you?” she asked again, this time with slightly less angst than before.

  “I’m at the truck,” I replied. “About two miles down the road, small turnout on the right.”

  “Anything?” she asked.

  “Naw,” I replied. “Ditch job. Even sprayed the interior with ammonia before they bounced.”

  Over the line, I could hear a string of muffled obscenities, that being the same response I’d have had if not for having to deal with the damned scent.

  “Stay there,” she said a moment later. “I’m on foot, headed that direction.”

  Handfuls of questions came to mind immediately, everything from wanting to know why she was on foot to what her plan was moving forward, but I let them pass.

  She was on her way.

  “Roger that,” I replied, finishing the call and stowing the phone on my hip. Turning back to the truck, I lifted the tank top over my nose again, going directly for the glove compartment and the owner’s manual.

  And right into the single thing they had missed when cleaning out the front seat.

  The same thing that answered damn near every one of the questions I hadn’t just gotten to ask Lou.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  I heard Lou’s arrival long before I saw her. Dragging her heels with each step, they scraped loudly over the asphalt of the road, muffled only slightly once she stepped off the street and up the dirt lane.

  A few moments later, she appeared through the narrow break in the trees, a plume of dust rising around her. Having stripped away her uniform shirt, she stood in tan pants and a black sports bra, skin gleaming with sweat, dirt clinging to her as she stopped and stared at the truck.

  Standing stationary for a moment, she said nothing.

  Pushing off her back foot, she moved on it in one quick movement, closing the gap in a sideways motion that belied her athletic training. Pulling back her arm at the shoulder, she drove her palm at the rear tailgate, striated muscle standing out along her arm and shoulder as she smashed her hand against it.

  Drew back and did it again. And again.

  Like a piston driving home, she hammered at the smooth metal, continuing until the single plate was dented inward, a single arc swung in at a concave angle.

  Lasting more than a minute, by the time she was done her breath had become short, somehow even more sweat rising to the surface of her skin.

  Standing a few feet away, I kept my back pressed tight against the poplar tree I’d been leaning against, well beyond the stench of the ammonia inside the cab of the truck.

  Though I could do nothing for the spot already soaked through the knee of my pants.

  “Sorry,” Lou said, glancing my way before dropping her gaze. Her hands on her hips, she continued taking deep breaths, droplets of sweat clinging to the thin wisps of hair extended outward above either ear.

  “Not as sorry as that tailgate.”

  Jerking her attention my way, Lou looked like she was tempted to come and do the same to me, a snarl on her face, before the tension she wore broke. Smirking slightly, she raised her face to look at me fully.

  “Tell me you found something useful in there.”

  “Better than useful,” I said, keeping the slight pang of excitement I felt under wraps, no matter how much it pained me to do so, the find from the glove compartment tucked away in my pocket, aching to come out.

  Soon, but not quite yet.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Lowering her gaze just an inch, Lou shook her head, muttering something unintelligible. Taking a step to the side, she looked up at me, the previous angst back.

  “Exactly what I knew would happen. Fat ass showed up, took one look around, blamed everything on me, said I was fired.”

  “Just like that? Did you tell him-“

  “Of course I told him,” she said, “but he didn’t hear a word of it. He showed up all butthurt about what I’d said earlier, was just looking for a reason to can me.”

  Having not been present for her earlier outburst, I couldn’t speculate on the veracity of her statement.

  Having been around more law enforcement than I’d care to remember the last six years though, I knew that they carried pretty healthy egos and extremely thin skin.

  If she truly had gone off, it wouldn’t be quickly forgotten.

  And it wasn’t like there wasn’t already a tone at that house that looked plenty damning, under the best of circumstances.

  “Did you do what I asked you to?”

  Nodding slightly, Lou said, “Turned the phone on, tossed it into the front bushes on my way out.”

  “Nice,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Want to tell me what that was all about?” she asked.

  The reasoning behind it was massive. I knew that Lipski and her team were probably in the area. By now they had run down the spot in Maine that Uncle Jep used to disguise his real location, had worked their way back here.

  They were close, and based on everything Lou had shared about her crew, they were the closest thing to real law enforcement in the area.

  Leaving the phone behind for them was a flare, a chance for them to see what was going on, to lend a hand in any way they could.

  Keep them close enough to us that they could be called on if the need arose.

  “Just covering our bases,” I said. “Doesn’t sound like the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department will be of much use from here on.”

  Snorting, Lou gave me a sideways glance, her intent clear. “If they ever were.”

  “If they ever were,” I echoed.

  Raising a hand, Lou swiped a thumb across her brows, flinging away a stripe of sweat.

  “Okay,” she said. “Tell me you’ve got something here.”

  “So you’re not done with this?” I asked, my brows rising slightly.

  “Bastards got me fired, have tried to kill me twice,” she replied. Turning her head, she rattled off a few more sentences, too low for me to make out. “Hell no. Not by a long shot.”

  Remaining motionless, I studied her for a moment. She didn’t have near the reasons I did for hating Baxter and his men, but hers were mounting at an alarming rate.

  And she had proven herself more than capable in a scrap, her tackle back at the house being what likely caught me from catching a bullet to center mass.

  Digging into my pocket, I slid my fingers over the top of a single sheet of paper, the stock heavy, folded in two. Extracting it, I held it between my index and middle finger, extending it her direction.

  “They stripped most of the c
ar, but I found this folded up in the owner’s manual. Using it as a bookmark for – get this – how to use the caution lights.”

  Not biting on the weak joke, Lou accepted the paper. “Let me guess, vehicle registration?”

  “Pay stub,” I replied. “Made out to Bobby Padilla, signed by none other than one Vic Baxter.”

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  From his seat behind the desk, Vic Baxter couldn’t help but think the two looked like a couple of schoolkids that had been caught fighting on the playground and had been sent to the principal’s office. Seated across from him, they both wore open scowls, tossing each other occasional glances before turning back to look his way.

  After the last couple of days he’d had, the impending timeframe they were facing still bearing down, he wasn’t the least bit in the mood for it.

  “How was the drive back?” he asked.

  A test, pure and simple, he wanted to see how they reacted, get a barometer for where things were.

  As it stood, these two were the best at what they did, a bridging of generations. On the right was Elijah Pyle, someone that Eric had handpicked years before, groomed into his do-everything contact for all items that weren’t considered above board.

  How he found him, what his background was, where he had been for the previous half decade – all questions Baxter didn’t have full answers to.

  What he knew for certain was that Eric trusted him implicitly, had demanded that when this moment finally arose that Pyle be included.

  At the time of his employment, Vic’s role had been much smaller. He knew Pyle only tangentially, was aware of why he was on the payroll, but made a point to keep himself strictly on the business side of operations.

  Still, it wasn’t like stories of the man’s prowess didn’t eventually make their way over.

  And judging by what had been reported back from Tennessee and the excruciating ending handed to Jessup Lynch, it didn’t appear he had lost a bit of his previous form.

  Sitting just over an arm’s length away – a deliberate choice by both men, no doubt – was Radney Creel. Recommended by a trusted source, he had been one of Vic’s more recent hires, someone used exclusively as a freelancer, avoiding becoming a full-time hand.

  Even at that, he had proven impeccable in his abilities, his reputation well-deserved.

  Trained up by the military, he had opted for early retirement over becoming a lifer, bringing his skills to a private sector able to pay a much better wage.

  A few years younger and a bit heavier than Pyle, he seemed to attack everything with a feverish zeal, wearing the gamut of emotions on his sleeve, whereas his counterpart liked to play the part of being aloof, a cocksure grin or a smirk his two trademark responses.

  Not that Baxter really cared what their face looked like as they were working.

  As long as things got done, which is why he had now called them back.

  “Good,” he said. Fully reclined in his seat, he pressed the pads of his fingers together, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair he sat in. “Now then, let me start with apologizing for sending those boys over. I thought they’d be some moveable pieces for you, but it turns out...”

  “Rank amateurs,” Pyle said, the words accompanied by a sour look from Creel beside him.

  Nodding slightly, Baxter flicked his gaze to Creel, seeing the man give a small nod and nothing more. Apparently, he was still angry that his role as leader had been usurped, that first Pyle and then the others had been thrust upon him.

  Right now, Baxter could not give a damn.

  His focus, his sole goal in all of this, was Eric.

  “I take it that little problem has been solved?” he asked.

  Again, only a nod from Creel.

  Forming his index finger and thumb into a gun, Pyle said, “Two in the chest and one between the eyes for each.”

  It was far more detail than Baxter would have liked, orders like that – especially to young boys he had handpicked to send – were his least favorite part of the job.

  But they were still part of the job.

  “And the place?” he asked, shifting his gaze to Creel.

  Taking a moment, letting his expression register with everyone present, Creel said, “Clean. Or as clean as it can be, anyway. Definitely nothing in print, no hard copy anywhere.”

  Nodding, it was as Baxter had expected. Scrubbing the place of fingerprints and DNA would have been impossible, would have only given them a couple of names at best.

  So long as there was nothing to give the accompanying address, they would be okay.

  “And the third?” he asked.

  Lifting his left shoulder an inch in a shrug, Creel said, “Not sure. Sounds like he was about bled out by the time they dropped him off. Didn’t have a chance to check or finish him.”

  Shifting forward a few inches, Baxter left his hands in place, mulling the response.

  It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear, but there wasn’t a lot that could be done about it. Given the short window of time, and the direct order for them to get back, there would have been no way to see to it.

  No chance they could have gotten inside to the young man even if there was, not without drawing infinitely more attention to themselves.

  It was a loose end, something that would need to be considered for sure, but right now it was far from their most pressing matter.

  Turning his gaze toward the window overlooking the operation below, he could see the light outside beginning to fade. With evening fast approaching, the temperature was yet to drop inside the warehouse, the place still active for a bit longer on the day.

  “In about an hour, this place will shut down for the night,” he said. “Once it does, it is yours.”

  Looking back, he saw a hint of confusion on Creel’s face, the omnipresent bemusement on Pyle’s.

  “I won’t make the mistake of foisting anybody on you again,” he added. “When shift ends here in an hour or two, all the boys will head home, then it’s just the three of us in here.”

  “The three of us to what?” Creel asked.

  Baxter would have thought the answer obvious, pausing a moment to see if it was rhetorical. Seeing the younger man staring back at him, awaiting a response, he sighed deeply.

  “The reason I pulled you back,” he said, “is because everything that was happening was bringing law enforcement a little too close. That’s shit we don’t need.”

  Lowering his hands, he leaned forward, a bit of a smile coming to his face, “But after everything you’ve told me, it’s only a matter of time before Scarberry shows up.”

  Again, Creel looked over to Pyle, attempts at processing etched across his features, his expression looking as if they were coming up short.

  “You think Scarberry is going to show up here? Tonight?”

  Whether Baxter thought it or just hoped it was still a question of some debate. All he knew for certain was that they had killed his uncle, had now taken multiple runs at him and the woman he was working with.

  They had a confirmed visual sighting, had managed to bring him out of protective custody, even gotten him over to the farmhouse. He was getting bolder, a state of hubris that Baxter was banking on one last time.

  Where things went down was all the same to him, just so long as it happened.

  “You don’t?”

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Deputy Marshal Abby Lipski left the front door to Jessup Lynch’s cabin standing open. Sprinting out the front, she practically knocked Jessica Marlucci over getting back to the SUV, wanted nothing more than to leave her and Marshal Burrows both behind.

  If not for the combined facts that she couldn’t strand them in Tennessee and that at least one of them had the coordinates she needed to find Tim Scarberry, she would have done just that.

  Instead, she had flung herself into the passenger seat, ignoring a stunned Marshal Colvin as she reached across, slamming the horn repeatedly with her fist, even after her team spilled
from the house.

  Not until they were strapped into the backseat, both panting, exchanging looks of various meaning, did Lipski spin around in her seat, peering down at her younger charge.

  “Where is he?”

  Opening her mouth to respond, Marlucci’s eyes went wide for a moment, her mind fighting to compute what was being asked, before she consulted the handheld in front of her.

  Rattling off a string of coordinates, she paused long enough to gulp before turning her attention to Colvin. “Make a right out of here. Fast.”

  “You heard the lady,” Lipski added, twirling around onto her bottom, not bothering with the seat belt. Gripping the handle above the passenger window, she sat poised for the duration of the eight-minute drive, her bicep clenching to hold her in place as Colvin swung the vehicle around curves and into turns, pushing them as fast as the SUV would allow.

  Which was fine by her. After days of this, she was ready to be done, to bring Scarberry in, clear any black marks that might be beside her name because of it.

  Afterwards, whether she ended up shooting him herself or not was a still a question she wasn’t quite prepared to answer.

  Not definitively, anyway.

  A total of ten minutes was all it took for the transition from her standing at the foot of the stairs in Lynch’s house to them pulling up to a rundown farmhouse, the location just as random as every other stop they’d made on the day.

  Standing back fifty yards or so from the road, it was a single-story ranch, remnants of a garage door swinging in the corners of the frame that once held it, the rest in shattered disarray on the ground, black tire streaks bisecting it.

  Along the road was the crumpled remains of a sheriff’s department vehicle, a second one parked in the driveway.

  Despite all that, not a single person could be seen.

  “Shit,” Lipski muttered, looking at the assorted carnage strewn across the front lawn.

  Every part of her wanted to believe that Scarberry was nowhere near this mess. That he hadn’t been the root cause of it, or even worse, on the receiving end of whatever had happened.