Night Passenger

by David Stanley

  Now that they’d stopped, he saw two other figures in front of them also come to a halt. Lynch, and a Latino he’d never seen before. Thorne sighed. He’d hoped for two things above all others. That he’d get to Ashcroft first; and that Blake might have thinned out his crew before he arrived. Instead, Blake had taken the time to replace him.

  Five men, assuming you only counted Foster once.

  He could also assume that either Sara Dawson or Jay Stockton was outside in the getaway vehicle. Thorne turned and faced away, hiding his face from the gang. There was enough reflection in the glass of a storefront that he could check their positions. Lauren walked into the store and her husband, reluctantly, went in after her. Blake stood guarding the door. He’d be unable to get past him to warn the senator.

  He turned his head to take in Foster again.

  The giant was carrying something thick in his right hand. The object was about two feet long and had a plastic bag wrapped repeatedly around it. The man’s bearlike hand gripped it part way along, with his index finger pressing into a slight hollow. A shotgun. Thorne licked his lips. If he could take out Foster and get his firearm he had a fighting chance at making this work.

  Women’s laughter sucked his attention back to the reflection in the glass.

  Lauren Ashcroft had resumed her walk down the corridor, her face all lit up. She was stunning, something really special. But she wouldn't stay that way if Blake got a hold of her. The senator and his wife appeared to be making their way toward the exit he was standing next to, which probably explained why Foster had been marking the exit.

  They’d seen the Ashcrofts arrive, something he’d missed.

  In less than a minute the whole thing would kick off and he still had no plan of attack. He stuck his hands into his jacket pockets, searching for something he could use as a weapon. He compiled a mental list as he felt the items; a reusable nylon grocery bag, a stubby flat screwdriver, and a can of Coke. Shit. He’d known it would come to this, yet he’d resisted bringing anything better. He checked his pants pockets. A wallet, some coins, his cell phone, and the key fob for his rental car.

  He slid the screwdriver into his back pocket where he could quickly pull it out. He put the Coke can inside the nylon bag and let it hang down by his side.

  The Ashcrofts passed behind him with their four man escort. He allowed them to pass, then waited for Foster to turn and follow along behind them. They made their way to the exit, the bright sunshine outside silhouetting the figures in front of him. Blake pulled out his cell phone, held it briefly to his ear, then disconnected without speaking.

  Signaling the driver.

  Calm descended over him. There was nothing left to work out. All there was, was the moment. Out front, a black shape screamed to an abrupt halt. They walked out into the light and he saw Blake’s van opposite, blocking the road in both directions. The side door rolled open and slammed against the end stop. A figure stood in the opening wearing a clown mask, tight black leather, and enormous motorcycle boots.

  Sara Dawson.

  Thorne reached his arm back, then swung it forward as fast as he could. The soda can mashed into the back of Foster’s head. The giant stumbled forward a step then stopped and turned around, his face knitted not with pain, but with confusion. Thorne had assumed it would take more than one swing to bring him down, and had already started to swing again. This time, the can crashed heavily into Foster’s left temple and the nylon bag disintegrated in a spray of blood. The giant dropped silently to his knees, still apparently uncertain what was happening to him. Thorne stepped forward and thrust the shaft of the screwdriver into his neck. Once, twice. The big man dropped the shotgun and fell to the ground clutching desperately at his neck.

  People screamed and scattered in all directions, but he blanked it out. Dipping onto one knee he picked up the shotgun, pushed his finger through the plastic at the indent and found the trigger. With barely any thought, he turned the firearm a small arc and pulled the trigger. The Latino was propelled backward, his body folded around a hole in his midsection the size of a dinner plate. His face was hidden now by his own clown mask, but that didn’t hold back the shrill noise the man made before dying.

  Two shots sailed past him. Close misses.

  Thorne stood and felt a searing heat down first his ribs, then the inside of his left arm. His eyes watered. He angled himself toward the shooter, presenting the lowest profile possible. Porter stood square on, firing constantly. The shots were everywhere. Porter’s favored weapon in the Corps was a fifty caliber machine gun mounted on a Humvee, which had given him a passing chance at hitting something.

  Thorne brought the shotgun up and felt for the slide to reload. He couldn’t find it. The gun had been rolled inside the plastic bag to hide it, but it would take a fatal amount of time to unwrap and pull the firearm clear. He dropped it and dove for the Latino’s automatic. He slid across the asphalt, grabbed the pistol and fired twice before he came to a halt. Porter spun to the side and began to crawl along the ground toward the van.

  Thorne left him to it.

  In less than twenty seconds, he’d taken out two of them and decommissioned a third, but he was still out-gunned and the element of surprise was gone. By going for the pistol, he realized he was now in a wide space at the entrance where buses came and went. He was totally exposed. In front of him, the Ashcrofts had flattened themselves onto the sidewalk, along with several others. If he moved for cover he'd have to abandon them, if he didn’t, he’d be dead. It wasn’t a hard choice.

  He ran to the left, heading north, away from the bus lane. To pursue him, Blake would have to take his eyes off his quarry and risk losing them back inside the mall. Thorne made it ten feet, before his body flew backward and his head hit the ground. Pain radiated out from his stomach, cutting him in half. He touched the area lightly with his hand, then lifted it up to his face.

  It was scarlet with blood.

  He tried to stand and felt something inside him tear open and a hot liquid pour out. Thorne rolled onto his side and pushed himself up on his elbow. The movement made him lightheaded and he fought the urge to vomit. The pain was sharp and unrelenting, more than he’d ever experienced. He took a deep breath and held it in his chest, teeth biting hard together. It was all he could do not to scream. He took another breath, then drew himself up to a squat. One knee up, one down. His vision grayed, then came back. He got the heel of his gun hand pressed into his raised right knee and pushed himself upright, then fell immediately forward again onto the asphalt, the side of his face scraping along the ground.

  There was a high-pitched whine in his ears and his hands were shaking. He thought he smelled frying onions and he shook his head to clear it. He saw Blake move forward, his gun arm lowered, his head turned away. Blake’s attention now fixed on Lauren Ashcroft. Thorne noticed that her husband had disappeared. She sat up, her head swinging around, looking for him. Had they taken him? That made no sense; she was the target, he was sure of it. Just then, he saw Ashcroft lying under a green SUV, like he’d been run over. He looked dead.

  Lauren’s gaze fell on him. Hungry, desperate.

  He shouted at her. “Get down!”

  Thorne caught a flash of something on her face before she pressed herself back down onto the asphalt. Relief. She wasn’t on her own.

  What he needed, he thought, was a miracle.

  Out the corner of his eye, he saw a Buick sedan take the corner of the parking lot, an old man in thick glasses at the wheel. He was driving too fast, and because of the trees at the end of the row, hadn’t noticed Blake’s van blocking the way. The man swerved to avoid it and came to a stop less than twenty feet from him.

  It was the closest thing to a miracle Thorne had ever seen.

  He staggered toward Lauren Ashcroft, firing blindly at Blake, forcing him toward the van for cover. Lauren seemed to understand what he was intending, because she rose and raced ahead of him behind the front of the sedan. They were taking fire from insid
e the door of the van, as well as from Blake. He got to the corner of the Buick and half-dragged Lauren down onto the asphalt, deeper into cover.

  Bullets tore into the metalwork around them.

  Thorne reached up and broke off the door mirror, then raised it above the hood so he could see the van. Blake was working his way forward, gun angled down in a two-handed grip. There was a flash from the van’s side door and the mirror disintegrated. He pulled the mirror casing back down and studied what was left.

  Sara Dawson was a damn good shot.

  He’d forgotten something, he could feel it in his bones. No, he thought, not something, someone. Lynch. On instinct, he turned, his head and arm swinging around together, and in one smooth movement pulled the trigger. Forty feet away, a hole appeared in the centre of a clown mask and a pink mist surrounded the Irishman’s head. Thorne dropped back down behind the sedan and leaned his head against the metal. Lynch had been seconds from firing at him. He was at a loss to explain the perfection of his shot.

  Muscle memory, that’s what Blake had called it.

  When experience and training took over.

  “What’s your name?” He asked, in case he used it without thinking.

  “Lauren.”

  “That’s a beautiful name,” he said.

  In the distance, sirens approached.

  Thorne slid out the magazine. Five rounds, another in the chamber.

  Six shots, two targets. Could be worse, could be a lot worse.

  “What’s yours?”

  “Chris.”

  He pushed the magazine back in.

  There was a dark red spot on the left leg of his jeans. He frowned. The mark was recessed into the denim and frayed cotton threads stuck out around the edge. Thorne brushed at it with the back of his fingers, like it was a bug sitting on his leg. He winced, his eyes immediately tearing up. When he drew his hand away, a blood stain the size of his palm appeared. Something hot was inside his leg, he could feel it.

  Great, he thought, that’s just great.

  “Stay behind the engine, doors don’t stop bullets.”

  “Don’t leave, Chris. Please.”

  Her eyes were wide, her face pale.

  “I won’t, I promise.”

  Thorne turned so he was on his hands and knees and crawled forward, flattening himself out on the road. The sedan hid his position from the van, but provided minimal protection. He laid up ready to fire and waited for Blake to come around the side. A second passed, then another. It didn’t feel right. He should have seen him by now.

  Thorne popped up in a crouch, wide open to Sara Dawson.

  To hell with her, he needed to find Blake fast. His head flashed around, scanning the surroundings. To his right were around fifteen people, either running for cover, or lying on the ground. None of them Blake. To his left, a silver station wagon sat abandoned, half up on the sidewalk, all its doors open. He was about to make his way back to Lauren, when he hesitated. The engine of the station wagon was still running, he could hear it ticking over. The car offered a way out.

  There was a metallic clatter on the asphalt next to him. A Glock.

  Not just any Glock, the one he’d been holding.

  His right arm hung limp at his side and his shoulder was on fire. Too late he realized his mistake. Blake had reversed his angle and was approaching from the other side of the sedan. He was ten feet from Lauren, only the car’s hood separated them. Thorne grabbed the gun with his left hand and stumbled the short distance back to her. He fired two shots, both missed Blake despite the short distance.

  Thorne crashed into the side of the car, denting the metal panel. He’d lost a lot of blood and his heart raced in his chest. He glanced at his shoulder, not wanting to see the damage. The corner of his jacket was torn and through the tattered fabric he saw pink flesh and dark red blood. It was bad. In a matter of minutes, he would bleed out. Well before that happened, he’d stop being any kind of protector for Lauren Ashcroft.

  “I don’t know how long I’ve got left,” he said quietly. “There’s something I need you to remember, will you do that for me?”

  Lauren nodded.

  “My blood type is AB positive, I can take blood from anyone. If I’m still alive when medics get here, be sure you tell them.”

  She glanced from his shoulder to the stain spreading across the front of his T-shirt and nodded. She looked terrified.

  “Say it,” he hissed.

  “AB positive,” she said. “You’re a vampire like me.”

  Blake’s voice rolled angrily over the hood of the car.

  “I got no beef with you, man. Send out the girl and I let you live.”

  “Give me a minute to think about it.”

  “You got five seconds, shitbird. After that, the girl pays for what you’ve done here. I think you know what that means.”

  “All right! Here she comes.”

  He stood, gun raised in his left hand. Blake stood there waiting for him, gun pointed back. Thorne willed himself to pull the trigger, but nothing happened. Blake didn’t shoot either. After several long seconds, Blake began to laugh. Neither of them could take the fatal shot. There was a shriek of frustration from the van, followed by four bullets that practically combed Thorne’s hair.

  He dropped back into his cover position behind the car and felt slugs chewing up the metalwork again. Pinning him in place. He heard a splash and a second later caught the distinctive smell of gasoline. The sirens were loud now, less than a minute away. There was a pause, then the bullets continued, it sounded like a full mag.

  He glanced over the hood, knowing Blake would be gone.

  Thorne saw one last flash from the van’s doorway and found himself staring at the sky. He had double vision and his head felt wet. Gunshots continued, but they were different now. Shots were going back and forth. Multiple sources, directions. The police had arrived. Lauren’s face hung over him, her blonde hair a halo around her head. He felt cold, distant. She was talking to him, a stream of meaningless words without beginning or end. He concentrated on them, trying to understand what she was saying, but it was too much.

  The gunshots faded away, replaced by the sound of helicopter blades.

  TEN

  Thorne felt himself falling again, the side of the Pasadena hotel whipping past beside him and the ground coming up to meet him. This time there was no airbag, just a parking lot and a circle of people looking up, cheering. He took a sharp intake of breath, his eyes snapping open as he woke up. The room was clean and bright, so bright it hurt his eyes to look at it.

  A hospital room.

  The inside of his head felt as though it was packed with cotton but the pain from his abdomen was sharp and unrelenting. His head was raised up and he was able to look down at his body and at the wires and tubes that were attached to it.

  Then he noticed the shoes. Nikes. They jiggled constantly in the edge of his vision and he turned his head to get a better look. The Ashcroft woman. She was breathtakingly beautiful. A magazine sat in her lap and she flipped through its pages, bored. He cleared his throat so he could speak and felt pain move up his spine like tearing paper.

  No words came out his mouth.

  The woman looked at him, a huge smile on her face. She moved quickly across the room and sat on the edge of his bed. From the table next to him, she brought over a small carton of juice and held the straw up to his mouth. The carton collapsed in her hand as he drank, their eyes locked together. He drank until it was finished, his thirst unquenched.

  “How’d you feel?”

  “Terrible.”

  She held his hand.

  “I’m sorry. We’re doing all we can for you.”

  His eyes closed, then opened again. He’d nearly fallen asleep.

  “Stay with me Chris, I’ve waited all day to speak with you. They were working on you for ten hours. I couldn’t leave, I had to stay.”

  “Why?”

  She smiled.

  “To thank you of cou
rse.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  She glanced to the side then bent over him, her blonde hair falling around his head as she kissed him. It was so quick and unexpected, that her tongue was inside his mouth before he knew it was happening. He felt his dry lips soften as her lips moved against them, her right hand reaching around through his hair and pulling at the back of his head. Locking it in place. When it ended she smiled at his flustered expression and the light that now burned in his eyes. The fog of sleep retreated from his mind.

  “Look um…”

  “Lauren.”

  He smiled, he couldn’t help it.

  “That’s a beautiful name.”

  “It’s funny, you said that before. I guess that means it’s true.”

  “Your name would be beautiful whatever it was.”

  She threw her head back and laughed. He stared at her exposed throat and the color that filled her cheeks. It wasn’t a mean laugh, she was genuinely amused. Her laugh seemed to reach right into his chest and pull something out. He liked it, he could listen to it all day.

  “What’s the big joke?”

  Lauren looked over at a man in the doorway.

  “Jimmy! He thinks I’m beautiful!”

  “That’s not exactly news, sweetheart, anyone could tell you that.”

  A man stepped around from behind Lauren. The husband. Not dead, then. He saw that Ashcroft was an easy twenty years older than her, old enough to be her father. The senator wore a dark navy suit, a pure white shirt, and a blood red tie. He looked like a million dollars. Ashcroft’s hand was thrust out toward him, a quarter inch of shirt cuff highlighting a golden wrist and a chunky Swiss diving watch.

  “James Ashcroft, pleasure to meet you. Not every day you come face to face with someone who saved your life.”