Night Passenger

by David Stanley

  Up ahead, carcasses swung slowly back and forth as if on a breeze. Thorne had brushed past them in a hurry when he changed position. He was close. The pigs hanging to his right were moving perceptibly more than those on his left. Blake angled himself so he was facing to the right. Sara picked up on his stance and turned with him. He slowed, his body turning as he got closer. He held his hand up to Sara to stop where she was. There was something off about this, he couldn’t say what. He lowered himself toward the floor, bracing himself with his left hand and looked under the dead animals. The light was gloomy and filled with a blurred icy mist, but there was no sign of Thorne as far as he could see. It was a set-up. He rolled over and fired three shots blindly in the opposite direction. One of his shell casings bounced off the floor and hit him in the face, apart from that, he hit nothing.

  “Goddammit!”

  He jerked his arms around trying to find his target, but Thorne was gone. After a couple of seconds, Blake heard laughter. It was deep and throaty, like a V8 revving. It sounded as though it was right on top of him.

  “Cold in here, isn’t it?”

  “Thorne, you piece of shit. Show yourself!”

  Blake waited for Thorne to speak again to reveal his position, but he fell silent. His teeth gritted, he got up off the floor. All he could hear was blood pumping in his ears. He was through playing Thorne’s game, it was time to take control. He turned to Sara.

  “Bring his bitch out. We’ll see who’s laughing then.”

  Sara nodded and set off back the way they’d come. He watched her walk away and was overcome with a powerful sensation he’d never see her again. She dropped her gun arm and moved casually like she was walking along a street. He sighed and went after her. His senses were dialed up to 11. Thorne’s mind games were getting to him, but that didn’t mean he was wrong. He was ten feet away from her when she popped out of the rows of animals and into the open floor area of the warehouse. She glanced to the side as Stockton appeared next to her, his gun raised.

  “Jay?”

  “Sorry, doll. Nothing personal.”

  Blake heard a gun fire, but it was Stockton who fell on the floor, half his face missing. He almost landed on Tate, they were less than a foot apart. Blake ran toward Sara, who stood unmoving, looking at the two men on the floor. He shouted at her.

  “Get down!”

  She aimed her gun at Stockton and fired until her Glock was empty, the slide locked back. She looked around as he grabbed her around the waist and dragged her down to the floor behind a wooden crate. He spoke through clenched teeth.

  “The hell were you thinking?”

  “He was going to kill me!”

  “Was! He’s dead. Half his head’s gone, that usually does the trick. You just put seventeen bullets in a corpse. We’re being shot at, and it’s not fucking Thorne. Someone else is here.”

  As if to underline his point, a bullet whipped past them and ricocheted off metalwork behind them. The gunshot was loud and his eye was drawn to a burst of flame. He sunk down further behind the crate.

  “I thought you shot Stockton.”

  “No.”

  “Why would he do that? Try to kill me.”

  “I guess that’s why he was here. No loose ends.”

  She said nothing. Blake glanced around the edge of the crate, his eyes probing into the darkness where he’d seen the muzzle flash. There was a figure there. Large and shapeless. He made out a section of pale blue denim and, crossing it at an angle, a gun barrel the length of a baby’s arm. The lights above bounced off it in a single long line. The thing was a goddam hand cannon. It could probably shoot both of them right through the crate.

  “We need to move,” he said. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “You first, I’ll cover you.”

  She ran back to the relative safety of the frozen animals, while he fired toward the shapeless shooter. When she was safely across he followed her, still firing randomly into the darkness. As he crossed the halfway mark, the figure moved forward and light fell across him. Cabot. He was dressed like a vagrant lumberjack, but it was definitely him. The lieutenant’s arm came up, the gun like a long, silver finger pointing at him. Blake dove forward and slid across the cold, hard floor. Two shots tore into the pig above him, right where his head had been. Cabot wasn’t taking any prisoners. After a moment, there was a splintering noise and he launched himself to the side. The carcass dropped onto the floor with a crunch he could feel through the concrete. He rolled onto his back and stared straight up, air rushing in and out of his mouth.

  “Hey, Cabot! I think you just killed your mother.”

  He heard Thorne laughing again. His ears sought out the sound, but the deep bass sound made it hard to place. It still sounded like it was right on top of him. Blake blinked a couple of times and looked up, beyond the lights. There was a narrow metal walkway above the animals. That’s where his old friend would be. He remembered a staircase near the office. Blake ejected the magazine of his pistol and slammed a fresh one home.

  It was time to end this, once and for all.

  He got to his feet and brushed down his clothes while Sara stared at him. Her face was as perfect as the first day he’d seen it in the waffle house. He held the Glock across his chest and tapped it over his heart. Her head dipped slightly in silent acknowledgement. He glanced quickly up, at the walkway, then back down to her eyes. She nodded again.

  They didn’t need words, not anymore.

  SIXTY-THREE

  He felt Blake coming up the stairs several seconds before he heard it. The weight of his body caused a vibration in the metal Thorne had his left knee on. He stood and crept carefully along the mezzanine toward the office wall. He’d known Blake would eventually discover his position, it wasn’t like there that many places to hide. In fact, he was counting on it. Coming up here to face him down was in Aidan Blake’s nature. It was also, a huge mistake. The lighting in the warehouse hung below the maintenance level, a fact that suited Thorne just fine. He’d been up here for over five minutes, long enough for his eyes to adapt to the dark.

  Time, Blake wouldn’t have.

  Thorne reached the back corner of the rectangle and squatted back down on his left knee. He held the 1911 so that his bad arm was again resting on top of his raised right knee. He sighted down the pistol at the top of the stairs. Almost at the same instant, Blake’s head appeared. Thorne adjusted his aim to line up better with the center of his body. As he predicted, Blake couldn’t see him in the shadows and kept on coming until he stood at the top of the steps, a huge black void in front of the lights beyond.

  Blake paused there for a second, uncertain. He had two choices; continue walking forward down the short side of the rectangle, or turn left and walk down the long side. Thorne hesitated. If he kept on coming straight the distance between them would shrink and the chances of him missing became close to zero. If he turned to the left, he became a side-on target as before, and the chances of him missing rose dramatically.

  Blake turned to the left.

  Thorne cursed silently, releasing the pressure on the trigger. He only had four rounds left and couldn’t afford any more misses. He stood and moved forward, the Smith & Wesson out in front of him. His dress shoes had leather soles and wooden heels. They were not designed for sneaking up on someone across a metal platform, but he found he could walk almost silently on his toes, lowering the heel down carefully. He was nearly there, less than twenty feet. As was so often the case, it would come down to who fired first. Over a minute had passed. By now, Blake’s eyesight would be fully dark-adapted. Ten feet. Thorne moved to the left, his gun sweeping around to cover the angle of the corner. Five. He heard nothing but his own heart beating. He rounded the corner, gun where he estimated Blake should’ve been. He wasn’t there. Thorne lifted his head, looking farther and farther away, into the darkness.

  The mezzanine was empty.

  Thorne swung around and found Blake moving out of the spac
e at the top of the stairs. He lifted his arm up to shoot and Blake smacked his arm away, causing the 1911 to spin uselessly out of his hand and down onto the floor below. Blake tilted his head, as if weighing something up, then put his own gun into his jacket pocket.

  “You keep underestimating me, Thorne. Why is that? Should I be insulted? We had the same training you and me, the same life. Do you honestly think you're so special?”

  “I guess?”

  Blake punched him in the face. A light jab. He wasn't close enough to put any real power into it. Thorne nodded to himself and brought his fists up in front of him. He knew this music. He popped Blake on the cheekbone, with plenty of power. The physicality of the hit was immensely rewarding. He smiled to himself, understanding Blake a little better. This was why he’d put his gun away. It was too quick, there was no satisfaction. Blake moved forward, seeking to close the gap between them and even their power. He made an awkward swing at Thorne’s gut. It was a stupid move, telegraphed in advance by his body language, and Thorne was able to avoid it with ease. The failed swing caused Blake to twist around and overbalance allowing him to hit him again in the same cheekbone. The tear from the bar fight opened up and blood ran down his cheek.

  He’d hit him twice in the same spot. Time to mix things up. Using his left, he punched Blake in the kidney. It was a solid punch but it got no reaction from Blake. The man could sure take a hit. If this continued, Blake would simply out-last him. They traded blows, back and forth. The cheap suit limited his swing and bunched awkwardly around his biceps and under his arms. He noticed Blake dropped his right hand every time he moved forward. He took a step back and as Blake moved into the space, Thorne popped him again on his cheekbone. There was a crunch this time as something under the skin collapsed. Blake roared, rage overtaking him. He charged forward with no regard for self-defense, his fists swinging left and right. Thorne took a punch to his forehead, snapping his head back. He swung out his arm to open up some space in front of him, but his fist was effortlessly deflected by Blake’s arm. He felt the weakness in his own swing, the impact barely registering. His hands began to shake. Not just the right, his left too.

  Blake smiled in the darkness, his teeth catching some light.

  Thorne lashed out a simple jab and got him square in the mouth, splitting his lip. It was a cheap shot, one that would tell Blake exactly how close he was to victory. He could hear his own breathing now, it was labored, catching in his throat. He felt drunk and hungover at the same time. His limbs moved slowly, like he was swimming in honey. Blake dummied to his left, then lunged to the right as he moved to avoid it. The blow was massive and hit Thorne on the side of his face where his jawbone connected.

  His ears rang and his vision swam.

  He took a step to the left to steady himself and was forced to take another two desperate steps in an effort to remain upright. Blake came forward, landing a flurry of hits to his stomach. He tried to move away but his dress shoes slipped and he fell backward, the metal slats smashing into his head. For a moment he saw darkness like he’d blinked, but Blake was right on top of him, his leg drawn back. Thorne rolled to the side, but there was no time. Blake’s boot crashed into his chest, forcing the air out of his lungs with an explosive pop.

  His body was sluggish and unresponsive.

  The platform seemed to spin around him. He was going to pass out, he could feel it. His fingers sank through the strips on the walkway and curled around underneath, holding on tight. Thorne took a deep breath, then another. The frigid warehouse air was refreshing, like it contained more oxygen than regular air. The spinning sensation eased and his focus sharpened. He forced himself to crawl forward, to maintain movement. Buy himself extra time, no matter how little. Blake had beaten him and it wouldn’t be long before he decided to finish him. He remembered their last fight in the forest. The stab wound. He cursed himself for not remembering before. The pain Blake suffered from that leg punch had given him the upper hand. If Sara hadn’t been there with that Taser, things would have turned out very differently. He saw movement out the corner of his eye and looked around.

  Blake’s boot coming toward his head, then nothing.

  When he came to he was propped up against the guardrail. Blake sat opposite, smoking a cigar. There was only about half of it left, which meant he’d been unconscious for several minutes. Thorne ran his tongue around his mouth, taking stock. The all-to-familiar taste of blood gave way to the discovery of a large hole. An upper molar was missing. Noticing he was awake, Blake blew out a thick stream of smoke and flicked the cigar into the forest of pigs below. His hand came down to rest on his thigh, next to his Glock. He spoke calmly, like they were having a meal at a restaurant.

  “What gives with the suit?”

  Thorne said nothing.

  “I guess all this Chuck Norris shit means you don’t have the painting?”

  Thorne laughed at the mention of the painting, and instantly regretted it. His ribs were cracked or broken and his abdominal muscles began to spasm. He spat blood onto the walkway next to his leg.

  “Wouldn’t do you any good if I did.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You never found out who the buyer was, did you? Once that first batch of money came through, you didn’t care. All that mattered was that you were paid, right? Wrong.”

  Blake stared at him with narrowed eyes.

  “That’s right,” Thorne said. “I can see you’ve worked it out. Probably a part of you always knew. You shot the buyer through his windshield. He’s dead. You’ve been chasing a dream for almost a week.”

  “Ashcroft.”

  It was a statement, not a question. Blake sighed. There’d be no million-dollar payout, no life of luxury, none of the things he’d spent weeks imagining for his future. It had appeared to slip from his grasp before, but this time was final. No new plan could resurrect his deal now. Blake would be back to sticking up convenience stores and gas stations, or whatever else had passed for work before they’d met in that bar.

  Blake began to jab the side of his own head with his gun.

  “That old man played us for fools since day one.”

  Thorne heard some mechanism inside the gun rattle every time it hit Blake’s skull. It wasn’t a gentle tap, like a finger on a window, it was a jarring impact like a hammer.

  “At least you had a good reason, Blake. Your motives were pure. You wanted to help your sister get treatment and that’s more than I can say.”

  The stabbing motion stopped.

  “Thorne, my sister died over a year ago. She never had any disease like I said, she just walked in front of a bus. Had a note in her pocket, it was no accident.”

  He stared at Blake in disbelief.

  “You made up a story about your dead sister to get me on board?”

  “Let me tell you something, I had to identify her body after that bus was done with her. Couldn’t she have taken some sleeping pills? I can still see what was left of her when I close my eyes. I used her, and it worked. I'm not sorry about it. You’d never have done any of this without that story, not even for the money.”

  Thorne shook his head.

  “You are a disgusting piece of shit.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t pretend to be something I’m not.”

  Silence fell between them. It was clear to Thorne that everything they needed to say had been said and only one thing was left to do. The pistol that lay on Blake’s leg was no more than the icing on the cake, he was in no condition to beat him in a fight.

  Blake sighed and pointed the Glock at him.

  Thorne stared at the end of the barrel until everything else disappeared. It was aimed at his head, at least this would be quick. There was a fast movement in front of him and he felt his body swing around. Blake had kicked his legs. He slid over the edge of the platform, right under the wires of the guardrail. His hands grabbed desperately for something to stop his fall and found a vertical pole that connected the walkway and the rail. In a f
raction of a second, he was hanging down, his hands struggling to hold on.

  Blake leaned over, grinning.

  “Since we’ve been friends so long I decided not to shoot you. On one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you let go.”

  Thorne glanced down at the floor. It was at least thirty feet, maybe forty.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Do it, and I’ll spare the woman. It’s the best I can do.”

  “I’m supposed to trust you?”

  “What choice you got? From where I’m standing, you’re fucked either way.”

  Thorne looked over his shoulder at the floor area beyond the pigs. Sara Dawson stood silently watching them. She held Cabot’s huge revolver in her hand and its barrel extended all the way down her leg to the top of her boot. The lieutenant lay still on the floor next to her, his arm stretched out in front of him. His fingers were spread apart in what he guessed were the same position she’d left them in when she’d taken the revolver.

  He could expect no help from Cabot.

  Thorne turned back to Blake and saw a hint of amusement on his face. He appeared to have recovered from the news about the painting and the end of his deal. For now, it was enough to beat him. Thorne changed his hand position, wrapping his left hand farther around, then clamping it in place with his weak right. His weight was no longer on his fingers, but the metal support was cutting into his hand. The latex gloves increased his grip level, but pretty soon it would be academic whether he let go, or if he fell.

  Blake nodded.