Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
NIGHT
PASSENGER
David Stanley
P A P E R ★ S T R E E T
Published by Paper Street Publishing 2019
Copyright © 2019 David Stanley
The moral right of the author has been asserted
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
Reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,
In any form or by any means, without the prior
Permission of the publishers
ISBN 978 1 9161763 0 0
www.davidjstanley.com
www.paperstreetpublishing.net
For Lindsey and Connor, my sun and moon
ONE
He fell back, giving the guard more space. No point spooking the man at the last minute. Off the freeway, even a moron like Hanson would notice the same car in his mirrors. They turned right on White Oak Avenue, a single car between them. The traffic crawled a short distance before stopping again. Nobody spoke. Up ahead, the turn signal came on and the minivan cut across onto Martha Street. A line of vehicles streamed past, forcing Blake to wait before he could make the turn. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and exhaled slowly through his nose. They were so near the end, he could taste it. At last they were through and he hit the gas to close the gap. The now-familiar taillights swung up onto a driveway in front of a private residence and went out.
Blake pulled over to the curb and cut the engine.
The minivan’s door opened and the light inside lit up the bank guard. Hanson was big, easily north of four hundred pounds. The man had to rock himself backward and forward a couple of times before he got out the Dodge onto his feet. The effort seemed to drain him and he stood gripping the open door while he got his breath back. Blake shook his head.
They needed this man, he didn’t need them.
Once the guard was inside the house, Blake moved the car into position and glanced at the clock. Seven thirty. At this time of night there was a good chance they could be interrupted by a neighbor. It looked like that kind of street, full of people in each others’ business. The smart play would be to come back later, now they knew where Hanson lived. Blake dismissed the idea without verbalizing it with the others.
He was hungry and wanted this done.
Seven thirty five, almost show time. He felt his energy levels building. Another five minutes, he thought. Let the man get settled in after his day at the bank. Give him time to relax, take his shoes off. The guard would still be revved up from the commute home. Driving made people angry, and angry people were harder to control. So you waited it out. Didn’t take long. Five, maybe ten minutes. The calm wouldn’t last worth a damn, but it would get them past the opening confusion when things usually went sideways.
Inside the property, light began to pulse against the curtains.
Hanson was watching television.
“All right,” Blake said. “Let’s do this.”
He swung the door open and stepped onto the street. Sara got out next, then Porter. It wasn’t his full crew, he wanted to keep it tight and these were the two he trusted most. They walked side by side across the street, with Porter falling into line behind as they came up the path to the front door. Blake drew his Glock and racked the slide. He nodded to Sara and she pressed the doorbell.
A heavyset woman opened the door. She was in her early thirties, had long red hair and wore a loose-fitting floral dress. There was a warm smile on her face but it disappeared fast when she saw the three of them standing there. Before she could say anything, Blake popped her between the eyes with the butt of his gun and she crumpled onto the floor. He listened for movement inside the house then, hearing none, stepped over the woman's motionless body into the hallway.
The house was warm and a delicious meaty smell hung in the air. Nearby, voices droned on, back and forth. The television. He turned and saw Sara and Porter move the woman's legs so they could shut the door. For the first time, Blake noted the redhead wasn’t just large, she was pregnant. He supposed this ought to mean something to him, about knocking her out, but all it really meant was that his job had become easier.
“Hon? Who was it?”
Hanson's voice was exactly as he’d imagined it, nasal and somehow fleshy. The man was close, less than fifteen feet away. Probably sitting in front of the television with a beer in his ski glove fist. Not far from where Blake stood, the wall that divided the two spaces ended and was replaced by square glass bricks of a type he hadn't seen for many years. The bricks were thick and cast a greenish light onto the pale wooden floor. It meant Hanson would see them coming and perhaps give him time to reach for a gun.
“Sir?” Blake called out. “Your wife has collapsed.”
Hanson charged into the hallway. He still wore his bank guard uniform, complete with sweat circles under the arms. Almost as soon as he appeared, he dropped down in front of the redhead.
“Oh Jesus, oh Jesus,” Hanson said.
Blake looked at the broad back of the security guard and shook his head. Hanson's shirt was almost transparent and through it he could see swirls of matted back hair.
“Get off the floor.”
The man didn't move, not unless you counted a small prayer-like rocking back and forth. He'd shut down, he wasn't in the moment at all. It was something Blake knew about all too well, but he didn't have the time for it, not from this guy.
“Don't worry,” Blake continued, “it was just a tap to the head. As long as you tell me what I want to know, she's going to be fine.”
Hanson lunged at him, his face scarlet, his teeth bared and clamped together. It happened quickly, faster than Blake thought a man that size could m
ove. Hanson's weight pushed him back, flattening him against the wall. His gun spun out of his hand, bounced off the wall and landed on the wooden floor with a clatter. The guard looked at the Glock sitting next to his foot. The hands on Blake's chest began to shake but he kept right on looking at the automatic.
Sara cleared her throat.
“Don't make me shoot the whore, Hanson.”
Her voice was calm and controlled. No panic, no uncertainty. The effect on the guard was immediate, he put his hands on his knees and began to breathe rapidly through his mouth.
“All right big man, take it easy.” Blake said. “I don't have time for you to pass out. We got some business to discuss and then we'll be gone. You dig?”
A small nod. The man was losing it, he couldn't even speak. This was a good sign, it told him he wasn't dealing with a hero type. Blake hated heroes, they just made life difficult for everyone. He picked his Glock off the floor. Hanson's head moved with the pistol like they were connected, his throat swallowing repeatedly.
He flicked the pistol to the side. “Move it.”
“What about my wife?”
“What about her?”
“You can't leave her like that, she's pregnant for God's sake.”
He glanced at the woman on the floor. She looked terrible, there was no doubt about it. Her face was a bluish gray color and her eyes were fixed and dilated.
“Fine, whatever.” Blake turned to the others. “Bring her through and sit her in a chair. Make her comfortable.”
“Thank you,” Hanson said, his voice strained.
Porter and Sara took an arm each and dragged the redhead down the hallway toward him. The woman's head fell back between her shoulders as they walked. She looked dead. Next to him, Hanson moaned. When they drew level, Blake noticed that his gun had left a D-shaped bruise in the center of her head like a smiley face. He wasn’t in the habit of hitting people in the head with a pistol and he wondered if he'd hit her too hard.
They got her through into the next room and lifted her into a chair. Blake pushed the guard after them, his Glock aimed at the man's kidneys. If Hanson tried anything, he didn't want to shoot him anywhere that might kill him too quickly.
No matter what, he was getting what he came for.
They walked through the room with the television and into the kitchen. He didn't want Hanson distracted by the sight of his wife's unmoving body. It would be harder to motivate him if he thought she was dead. The kitchen door closed behind them like a full length saloon door. Inside, the smell of food he’d noticed from the hallway intensified. A pot roast, maybe lasagne. His stomach rumbled.
A table with six chairs was set up at the far end of the room to form a dining area. It didn't look like more than two of the chairs had ever been used, the others were pushed against the wall. Not too many parties in the Hanson residence, he thought.
Blake pointed at one of the chairs and Hanson sat. Next door the television was still on, the excited voices bouncing back and forth. Even with the door closed he could still hear it. At first he'd tuned it out, thinking it was about politics but now he realized it was far worse. They were talking about the Lakers.
“Do something about the TV, it’s driving me crazy.”
A loud bang came from the next room. The voices, however, continued.
“Sorry,” Porter shouted. “I got this.”
Blake sighed. A moment later, there was silence. He drank it in, it was beautiful. There wasn't enough silence in the world, people were always rushing to fill it with moronic conversation. It terrified some people, being alone with their thoughts, and with good reason. He turned toward Hanson, who took it as a signal to talk.
“You didn't need to hit my wife. What kind of man hits a pregnant woman?”
“Let me explain something. It should be obvious, but apparently it's not. At the moment she's not part of this. If all goes well between you and me, she'll wake up and remember nothing. For her, it’ll be like none of this happened. I was never here, we never had this conversation, and I was never forced to hurt an unborn child just to prove a point to you.”
The blood ran out of Hanson's face.
“You're a monster.”
“That's right. So how about we do this before she wakes up?”
The guard nodded, tears running down his face.
Blake decided to ease off. This was only going to work if Hanson gave him everything and didn't hold back something important. For that to happen, he had to believe he and his wife were going to survive. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Porter watching from the doorway. Blake holstered his Glock and removed his jacket. He hung it over the back of one of the unused chairs and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He did this slowly, precisely, so the rolled cuff stayed flat. Hanson's eyes jumped between his smirking face and the muscular forearms that were being revealed. The combination of his bare arms and the black leather gloves had a disturbing quality that pleased Blake. When he finished, he pulled out the chair opposite Hanson, spun it around and sat down so the back of the chair was between his legs.
“What's your first name? I can't be calling you Hanson the whole time.”
“Matt.”
“Okay, that's better. Soon as we get what we need, we'll be gone. That’s what you want too, right Matt? For us to leave?”
“Yes.”
“You say yes but your face says no. Why is that?”
The guard swallowed hard.
“I know why you’re here but you've made a mistake. I don't have access to anything at the bank. My security clearance is basic. Administrative offices, the kitchen, the restroom. Stuff like that. For the vault, safe deposit boxes, or server room, you'd need the manager's key and it's time-locked anyway. Out of hours, you'd need the president of the bank to get anything to open.” Hanson shrugged. “I’m only there to eyeball odd-looking customers and hold the door, I'm nothing. A doorstop. I didn't even buy this house, it was a wedding present from my wife's father. I make seventeen bucks an hour.”
Blake sat still, his gloved hands interlocked in front of him. He let time spool out a little before he replied. He'd foreseen this exact moment and he liked the feeling of it now it had arrived.
“Do I look like a bank robber to you, Matt?”
Hanson frowned. “Then, I don't understand. What else-”
Blake ignored him and turned to Porter. “You got the plans?”
“Right here.”
Porter put his automatic in his left hand and with his right, unhooked a cylinder that hung diagonally across his back on a thin cord. Blake twisted the tube until it opened and pulled out rolled up sheets of paper. He spread them out on the table in front of Hanson and used salt and pepper grinders to hold one end flat and his Zippo and car keys at the other.
He placed a Sharpie pen in the middle of the top sheet.
“These are blueprints to the Dixie Art Gallery. I want you to mark every camera, sensor, pressure mat and access terminal. I want you to draw, as closely as you can, angles covered by cameras and infra-red, indicating blind spots.”
“The gallery? That's what this is about?”
Blake sighed. “Get going butterball, we don't have all night.”
Hanson picked up the pen, his hands shaking.
“I need to stand.”
“Go ahead,” Blake said. “But no sudden moves. My friend likes shooting people a lot more than he likes surprises and it's gotten so he's pretty good at it.”
Hanson stood and leaned over the plans. Blake could smell the guard's body right across the table. In the short time he'd been sitting down, the circle of sweat under each of his arms had doubled in size. If things went on the way they were going, the circles were going to meet in the middle. Hanson's eyes narrowed with concentration, then after a moment the pen went down and started to mark a dotted line on the paper.
“Don't forget external cameras.”
“Okay.”
Blake got up and turned to Porter. “Keep an eye
on him. I'm going to see how the girls are getting on. Make sure he does all ten sheets.”
“You bet,” Porter said. As Blake left the room, Porter spoke to Hanson for the first time. “So how come you don't work at the gallery anymore?”
“I…I had a health problem.”
“You drank, huh? I'd drink too if I were you. Being in the same room as you is enough to make me want to drink and I did three tours in Afghanistan.”
Blake smiled. Porter was a funny kid.
The scene in the living room was pretty much what he expected. Porter had put his boot through the television, which had peeled off the wall and fallen onto the floor. When that hadn't done the job, he'd pulled the cord out the wall. Blake turned to face the redhead. What he saw there was less expected. Sara straddled the woman in the chair and was twisting something into her forehead. He watched, speechless, until the twisting movement stopped and Sara drew her arm back to reveal a blood-soaked Swiss Army knife.
“Jesus, what have you done?”
“Horse hoof cleaner,” she said. “Can drill through bone.”
“That was not my question.”
“Blood was pooling inside her skull, so I drilled a hole to relieve the pressure.”
“How do you even know this shit?”
“House,” she said.
Blake moved to get a closer look at what Sara had done to the woman's head. He couldn't decide if he was fascinated, disgusted or just plain irritated. Most likely, a little of each. Next to the chair now, he bent down close. It was a real mess. A thick worm of blood rolled thickly between her eyes and down her right cheek. Unlike in a horror movie, the blood was almost black. He turned to Sara and tried to keep anger from his voice.
“Before it only looked like she was asleep; now it looks like you stabbed her in the head. What were you thinking?”
“I know how it looks but she's going to be fine.”
“Yeah, about that,” Blake said.
Sara's shoulders sagged.
“You're kidding me, right? The woman's pregnant.”
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