“She's seen our faces. Hanson knows we're hitting the gallery. What do you suppose they’d do after we left here? You think they wouldn't mention any of this to the police? Why do you think we came to this guy's house and not the current security guard?”
Sara groaned, realization hitting home.
“Because the gallery won't miss him. They won't see it coming.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you knew.”
“I assumed it was because he designed the system.”
“Look, clean her up, I don't want Hanson freaking out.”
“How much can she remember? She only saw us for a second.”
They stared awkwardly at each other. He knew she was right, but was he prepared to risk it? He sighed, vexed.
“I’ll think about it.”
Blake looked through the blueprints Hanson had filled out, flipping quickly past the public areas of the gallery to the loading bay and offices. He'd already decided this was the weak spot. The front entrance was too well protected and was completely exposed to the street. Anyone driving past would see what was going on. He smiled. It looked like the guard had come through for them with some very clean plans. There were no obvious security flaws to exploit, but he wasn't too worried about that.
“Excellent. Now I want the code for the alarm.”
“I’ve not worked there for months, the code will have changed.”
“You pass yourself off as this doughnut-eating idiot and maybe that's who you are now, but I bet the Matt Hanson who set up this system put in backdoors and logins people wouldn't know to change. That's the shit I want.”
Hanson shifted uncomfortably, then nodded.
“Next door.”
“Okay,” Blake said. “You're doing good, it's nearly over.”
He let the guard walk in front of him into the living room. Hanson turned to look at his wife in the chair. To Blake's surprise, the redhead's eyes were open and were gazing blankly up at the ceiling. Sara had cleaned up the blood and lain a thick white cloth across her forehead. Color had returned to the woman's face and she genuinely looked better than before. Seeing this improvement, Hanson seemed to relax and walked to a bookcase of DVDs that lined one of the walls. His finger bounced down the spines until he found the one he wanted. Never Been Kissed. He opened the case and took out an envelope.
“I’m not trying to trick you. This may not work anymore.”
“I appreciate your candor, Matt.”
The envelope was thin with something stiff inside. Blake tore the end off and tipped the contents into the palm of his hand. A plastic security card slid out. There was no branding, it was white with a magnetic stripe on one side. A small cross was inked into the top left corner. Blake looked up at the guard.
“When I was fired they made me return my security pass, along with everything else. I'd known for a while what they were going to do to me, so I'd made another card. They were always underestimating me. On the system it's assigned to the owner of the gallery. She never goes anywhere that needs a card, all she cares about is the art. The way I figured it, they'd never delete her code and if anyone thought to ask her she’d probably assume she'd had one once and lost it. No red flags would go up.” Hanson paused, his eyes sliding down to the floor. “I don't know why I created it. I guess I liked knowing I had one over them while they were looking down their noses at me.” Hanson's eyes zipped up to Blake's again. “That’s why you don't have to worry about me. I want them to get robbed. As far as I'm concerned, it’ll serve them right for what they did to me.”
Blake smiled. He'd half-expected this move by Hanson.
“What's the code for the card? It's not written here.”
“2046. It forms a cross on the keypad.”
“Uh huh. And if they changed the code, the alarm goes off?”
“It's not like that,” Hanson said. “You get three tries to get a code right, then it locks out the ID until it's manually reset. The card’s just a key to open doors, nothing else. Once inside, you still have to deal with the alarm. There’s no alarm access on the street.”
Blake nodded. It wasn't what he wanted to hear, but it was better than nothing.
“There's something you're not telling me. What is it?”
The guard's eyes widened. “There's nothing, I swear.”
Blake turned to Porter. “Cut off one of her fingers.”
“What? No!” Hanson said. “Please. I'll do anything.”
“It’s always the same,” Blake said, casually. “You always have to cut off at least one finger before people pay attention.”
Porter tucked his gun into the back of his jeans and pulled a KA-BAR from a sheath on his hip. Standing beside Hanson's wife, he positioned her right hand palm-down on the arm of the chair, the blade floating above her fingers. The redhead’s face was calm, miles away. She had no idea what was happening, but that situation wouldn’t last forever.
“Which finger should I cut off?”
Blake sighed. “Start with her little finger, work your way up. She might bleed out when you cut her thumb off, so this way gives Matt four chances to give us what we need.”
“Please, I've told you everything.”
“I don't have time for games, Hanson. If the next thing out your mouth isn't about the gallery, your wife loses a finger.”
The guard swallowed. His face was scarlet and covered with beads of sweat. He looked from Blake to Porter and back like he was watching a tennis match.
“It's about the alarm. I'll tell you what you want, but can you put the knife away?”
“All right,” Blake said, dismissing Porter with a wave of his hand. “But you won’t get another chance to jerk me around.”
Hanson spoke quickly. There were two alarms, he explained, not one.
After a moment, Blake smiled. It wasn’t bad news at all. Not for what he had in mind. In fact, it was probably the best news he’d ever heard. The guard didn’t understand, he couldn’t see the angle. A heavy line formed across his forehead while he spoke, as he struggled to see why two alarms was the good news his captors seemed to think it was. His confusion only added to Blake’s good spirits. If the security guy didn’t understand the problem, there was no way his former bosses would see it either. The painting was as good as his.
When Hanson stopped talking, Blake put his Glock under the guard’s chin and pulled the trigger. Quick and painless. No fear, no pathetic bargaining for his life. The man had come through for them, it was the least he could do.
TWO
Thorne sat at the bar staring at his Scotch. Season five of Night Passenger had just wrapped, yet around him, nobody was celebrating. It felt like a wake. A man wearing a dark suit walked over and sat on the stool next to his. The man smiled at him in a way he didn't much care for, his lip curled up at one side like a big cigar spent a lot of time in there. It didn't happen often, but Thorne supposed he was a fan of the show and merely nodded his head before turning back to his drink. He hoped the man would realize he was in no mood to chat and leave, but when he glanced up he was still there, reflected in a mirror behind the bar.
Nobody ever took a hint these days, not when it mattered.
“It's been a few years, Gunny, but it insults me that you don't recognize a brother Marine when he's sat right next to you.”
That voice, so familiar and yet hard to place.
Thorne glanced side-on at the man. Short black hair, mid thirties. Six feet tall, maybe 240 pounds. The man's suit bunched awkwardly around the biceps of his left arm as it rested on the bar. His fingers were thick and brutal, like smaller versions of his arms. A grunt, not EOD. Not with those fingers. Finally, he turned and looked directly at the man's face. Above his left eye, in the tanned leathery skin, was a pale crescent-shaped scar. It looked like someone had left a hot cup of coffee on there and pulled off part of the skin. His heart sank.
“Blake,” Thorne said. “Lance Corporal Blake.”
“It's just Aidan now.
”
“Right.”
He considered offering Blake his hand to shake, but not for long.
“Rumor has it you jumped off the roof of a building today.”
For an instant, Thorne was back in the moment, falling.
“It was amazing. One of the best things I've ever experienced.” He paused, their eyes locked together. “You should try it.”
A smile flickered at the corners of Blake's mouth.
“I’ve been watching that show of yours for a while, it's not bad. At first I didn't realize who you were, it's been a while since we last met and once you take off the uniform and let your hair grow out, you are almost a different person.” Blake paused to get the attention of the bartender. “I try to avoid thinking too much about my time over there, I'm sure you're the same. Probably why you didn't recognize me just now. You blank it all out. Works most of the time too, but some things are burned in there forever.”
Blake stabbed the side of his head with his finger.
“Listen, Blake,” Thorne said. “This isn't a good time.”
“It never is, brother, but it's the only time we get.”
The bartender came over and Blake ordered a pitcher of beer. Thorne sighed. Blake wasn’t going away anytime soon. He wanted something, and Thorne had no idea what it could be. Whatever it was, it was bad news.
“This meeting doesn’t feel accidental. Why don't you get to it.”
“All right. The way I see it, you owe me a hundred thousand dollars.”
Thorne smiled. “Really. How do you figure?”
“I was approached in Baghdad by Ringfire, a private military contractor. They offered me a job babysitting VIPs. Protective Security Detail they called it. It paid a hundred large tax free, for six months' work. I didn't want to spend another second in that country, but for that kind of cheddar, I could do six months. There was only one condition.”
“You needed an honorable discharge.”
“That's right.”
Thorne knocked back the last of his Scotch before answering.
“I’m not sure what you expected me to say at that trial, Blake. You fired your weapon while intoxicated and hit a six year old girl. There was only so much I could do.”
“That's bullshit, man! I had one goddamn beer. I was taking fire and I defended myself. I’ve no idea where that girl came from. One minute she's not there, the next the hajji has her pinned to his chest like a shield.”
“So why aren't you asking this Iraqi for your money?”
Blake's face darkened. “Is this some kind of joke to you, Thorne?”
“No. In fact, it's safe to say I am becoming less and less amused by this conversation the longer it lasts. I've got bad news for you, friend. I don't know how this scenario played out in your mind, but this acting gig doesn't pay as much as you might think. Right now I have about ten thousand to my name. I rent my apartment, I have no stocks or bonds, and I can double the value of my car by filling it with gas.”
To his surprise, Blake smiled.
“Not to mention they've canceled your show.”
Thorne clenched his teeth.
There'd been rumors of cancelation throughout production with no denials or comforting words from the network. They’d wait until the numbers came back from the first couple of episodes before they finalized it, but in his heart he knew they'd decided. What would make a difference to the ratings now? It also explained why the last scene shot was the last in the script. It gave them the most time to change the ending before it was made. But here they were, the scene shot, just as it had been in the script with his character taking two to the chest and falling off a building.
“I've done my research, Thorne. You're finished.”
“So why this charade of asking me for a hundred thousand?”
“Oh, it's no charade. I want my money and I will get it. But I didn't track you down after six years expecting you to write me a check. I'm a reasonable man and I can't ignore the fact that you did your best for me when so many others did nothing. We are brothers in arms, I really believe that. However, I have a business venture that requires your electrical skills to complete. I doubt it will take more than an hour of your time and after that you and me never have to see each other again.”
Thorne’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“You're talking about a robbery?”
“I’m only trying to make a living, same as anybody else.”
“You’re crazy, just like they said.”
Blake laughed. His mouth was large and his teeth looked like a shark about to bite. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone but the opening was barely able to contain his neck and the veins that stood out upon it. Thorne noticed many of the cast and crew were openly staring in their direction.
“Why bring me into this?”
“Three reasons, Thorne. First, if I hire someone who does this all the time he's bound to get caught at some point in the future, it's the law of averages. Which means for the rest of my life I got to wonder if this guy is about to roll on me for a lower sentence. Second, I don't know where to contact one of those guys anyway and I'm on a tight deadline. Third, and this is my personal favorite, I'm bringing you into this because the whole thing was originally your idea. In Iraq, you said that after defusing 38 IEDs you could defeat any security system on the planet. That an alarm was a bomb that never exploded, a reward without risk. I believe there was talk of taking candy from a baby.”
Thorne sighed.
“Yeah,” he said, “I guess I did say something like that. But neither of us are the men we were back in the Corps. I have a life now, a career. Nobody does these things in the real world. Pulling off a diamond heist or whatever; it's a pipe dream, a popcorn movie.”
“Relax, it's nothing like that. More like…intercepting mail.”
Thorne turned and looked Blake straight in the eye.
“I’m not doing it. Mention it again and I’ll go to the cops.”
Blake nodded casually, like it was the answer he expected.
“You know, I was here earlier, down the end of the bar. You probably didn't notice me, you had your hands full dealing with that girlfriend of yours, didn't you? Kate Bloom. She really is quite a pistol. I'd say she's even more beautiful in real life than she is on screen. So much passion! I'd assumed it was only the character she played, but she's really like that isn't she?” Blake shook his head ruefully. “I’m also drawn to the independently-minded woman. This one I have right now, she's barely housebroken. Raised by wolves would be my guess. Hell, if they don't slap you every now and then, how can you be sure they feel anything at all? That kind of passion is rare, I hope you realize that. It would be sad if something bad happened to Miss Bloom as the result of a hasty decision.”
Thorne eased himself off his bar stool onto the floor.
“What did you say to me?”
“Kate's an attractive woman and I hope she stays that way. There's nothing sadder in this world than a beautiful woman who suffers a disfiguring injury, it’s worse than death.”
Thorne's fist struck Blake high on his left cheekbone, snapping his head around. Before he could react, Thorne hit him again, this time in the stomach. He put his full weight into it, his right foot counterbalancing, driving his body forward, his hips and shoulders rotating together. The force of the blow tipped Blake backward off his stool onto the floor. The crowd in the bar surged to create space between them, surrounding them. All of them people he knew, people he'd worked with for years. He saw Kate at the front, her face in shock. Seeing him a way she'd never seen him before; his face twisted with hate, his hands balled into fists in front of him. Conversation stopped, seemingly replaced by the thrumming sound of blood surging around his body and the fast stroke of his breathing. Blake got his feet under him and, gripping the edge of a table, pulled himself upright. Blake looked up at him, his head tilted forward.
He was smiling.
Thorne saw it now. Blake had deliberately prov
oked him and by rising to it, he'd put Kate's life in greater risk. He'd proven how much he cared for her. Blake owned him now. He'd never be free of it and Kate would never be safe, not as long as Blake was alive. Thorne lunged at him, his fury uncontrollable. He landed another heavy blow to Blake’s cheek, just missing his eye. Switching to his left hand, he caught Blake by surprise, his fist plowing into his neck below his ear, where the vagus nerve overlapped the carotid artery. Blake's eyes opened wide and his legs buckled. He crashed through the table behind him, flattening it like cardboard and smashing glasses. The crowd shifted again to avoid him, their faces frozen. Thorne wasn’t through with Blake, not by a long way. He got down on one knee, grabbed Blake's jacket in his left hand and drew back his right to punch him again. Thick muscular arms grabbed him from behind and pulled him toward the bar. He fought to free himself but the strength of the man that held him was too great and he allowed himself to relax.
Something dug into his back and a voice whispered in his ear.
“Better to keep the girl out of this. Nod if you agree.”
Thorne nodded and the gun withdrew.
It hardly mattered, not with Python Arms holding him. Now it was over, he welcomed the intervention. He wasn't sure he could've stopped on his own. He could have gone on hitting Blake, quite happily, even after he was dead. Nobody threatened Kate. It dawned on him that he wasn't injured. Blake hadn’t fought back, hadn't even lifted his arms to block the blows. He’d simply let himself take the beating. To Kate, and everyone else in the bar, there’d be no doubt which of them was the monster. Blake had perfectly provoked him, then perfectly isolated him from friends who might have helped.
Thorne had misjudged him, but it wouldn't happen again.
He studied Blake, as if for the first time. His nose and lower lip were bleeding and the whole left side of his face was badly swollen. A lump the size of a boiled egg had appeared over his cheekbone and the skin was so tight there was a shine to it.
Blake stood and arched his back.
“It's okay fellas. A misunderstanding, is all. Totally my fault.”
The iron grip relaxed and Thorne pulled himself free. He looked at the creature that had held him. A bear of some kind had apparently mated with an M1 Abrams and an olive green t-shirt had been pulled over the result. He tilted his head back to take in the unpleasant face that looked down at him from a near seven foot summit. Thorne didn't like to think what this titan could do to Kate if he set his mind to it.
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