Night Passenger

by David Stanley

  “All right, brother. Your choice.”

  Blake straightened up and called across the room.

  “Bring her out!”

  Sara smiled and walked to the office with a spring in her step. Her body language seemed to say finally, as if this was what she was here for, rather than the money. He had no more plays left, he was done. Thorne looked again at the floor below. It wasn’t a survivable fall, not even close. Which, of course, was the point. Blake wasn’t offering him a chance to live, he was simply amusing himself. At least it would be quick. If he took a breath before he let go it would all be over before he needed to draw another.

  “You know, Thorne, it's kind of funny. Your girlfriend told me only yesterday that you’d love her forever and that you’d die for her. She was quite convincing. Maybe it was all a big act, but I was interested to see if it was true.” Blake shook his head. “I got to say, as a romantic, that I’m disappointed by your attitude.”

  “Come on, man. You don’t have to hurt her. She’s no threat to you.”

  “Time’s running out, Thorne. You jumped off a building last month, this should be nothing. With your track record, you’ll break a fingernail or something.”

  Blake smiled at his own joke, then looked up to watch Sara lead Kate out at the end of a gun. Thorne felt the air go out of him. There was no sign of the hunting knife, Kate must have decided she couldn’t use it. He didn’t blame her, using a knife took a certain mindset. It was more personal than a firearm. As they drew closer, Thorne noticed that Kate was considerably taller than Sara, despite her motorcycle boots. Kate was in good shape. Strong, athletic. If she could get the upper hand and disable Sara, she had a real chance to escape. She could easily make it back to Cabot’s truck before Blake could catch up with her.

  “Chris!”

  She’d just noticed him hanging over the edge.

  “Hey, sweetie.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on, Miss Bloom,” Blake said, “is that I gave your man here the chance to save your life and he hasn’t taken it. Isn’t that right, Thorne?”

  He felt his grip loosen on the guardrail.

  There was no time left. In around a minute he was going to fall, he couldn’t stop that from happening. Either he could fall knowing he’d done everything he could to save Kate’s life, or he could fall all the way to hell knowing he hadn’t. Love had to be the best reason to die, better than any other he’d avoided in the past.

  “Five seconds, Thorne. Do I really need to do a countdown?”

  “Wait!” he said. “I need to say something to her first, okay?”

  A broad smile appeared on Blake’s face.

  “Of course! I’m not a monster. Go ahead.”

  “Kate, I was wrong before. About all this. You never needed anyone to come rescue you, do you understand? It was always within you, it’s within you now.”

  He saw Kate give a small nod.

  Above him, Blake sighed.

  “That’s it? I thought for sure you were going to tell her you loved her and that you’re sorry for getting her into this situation in the first place. Something like that.”

  Thorne ignored him.

  “Sooner would be better than later.”

  “Sooner what?” Blake said.

  “I’m not talking to you, asshole.”

  Kate spun around and battered the end of the Colt Python with her forearm. The heavy revolver twisted sideways in Sara’s hand. Instinctively, she pulled the trigger. A burst of flame shot out the end of the barrel over Kate's shoulder and the bullet screamed past Thorne and through the roof. The momentum continued to send Sara’s arm wide and Kate stepped forward and punched Sara hard in the nose. The blow caused her to stagger to the side and a second later blood poured out both nostrils, and down her chin in a thick band. Sara wiped the blood away and looked at her hand, surprised. When she lifted her head again, Kate's fist missed her cheek and instead hit her windpipe.

  Sara collapsed on the ground, hands wrapped around her throat. The large building filled with the desperate whistle of Sara trying to breathe.

  Blake looked over the edge, wild-eyed.

  “Sara?”

  She looked up at Blake, her face turning blue, her eyes popping out. She jerked her hand against her throat, trying to clear the obstruction and reared back, her chest filling with air. She got another lungful of air down and managed to get to a half standing position. Kate stepped in close again and drove her knee hard into Sara’s face. She tumbled backward onto the floor, her body hitting a stack of gas cylinders which crashed down on top of her.

  “SARA!”

  Blake’s voice rang around the inside of the building. His head was twisted around trying to see where she was, but his angle was all wrong. Blake couldn’t see what he could see; Sara Dawson pitched forward on the floor next to the office with a gas cylinder across her head, unmoving. Thorne turned back to Blake, he was leaning way over now.

  “You gotta get down there, Aidan. She’s hurt, I can see her.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I’m telling you, man. She needs you. She can't breathe.”

  Blake leaned over again, his eyes searching for her. The front of his jacket fell open in a large D shape and Thorne grabbed it and transferred his weight to it. Blake tipped over the guardrail, his arms flailing about. He caught one of the wires supporting a pig below and his hand slid down it before coming to a halt, leaving four or five feet of blood-red cable. Thorne heard the distant clatter of Blake’s Glock hitting the concrete below.

  The platform creaked and groaned around them. It was old and rusted-through and wasn’t designed for any of this.

  “You motherfucker!” Blake shouted.

  He continued to shout obscenities, but Thorne ignored him and began to pull himself up. His arms were weak from hanging so long and his shoulder wound burned. He drew level with the walkway and he was able to reach his long arms across it and grip the thin metal slats in his hand. He rested there for several seconds, his chest gasping for air. He knew he couldn’t rest long, his muscles were seizing up. He gritted his teeth for one final effort, dragging his chest, then his hips up onto the metalwork.

  Below, he saw that Blake had wrapped his right leg around the cable to act as a brake and he was reaching across to a cable closer to Thorne’s position. His hand reached it and he drew the two cables closer together. With his upper body strength, Blake would easily be able to climb back up and they’d be right back to fighting it out. Thorne was breathing heavily and the cold air was shutting his body down.

  Another fight with Blake wouldn’t go any better than the last. He needed a gun, or another weapon to bridge the gap in their fitness levels. Hell, he’d take a monkey wrench at this point. He thought wistfully about the hunting knife he’d given Kate. Most likely it was lying somewhere on that office floor, unused. It was no use thinking about it, it was gone. He looked around for anything he could use. Both the 1911 and the Glock had fallen over the edge, there were no guns. The top of the guardrail was made from a metal pipe, but each section was about ten feet long. Even if he could remove it in time, it was too long to be a practical weapon. Finally, he glanced toward the stairs. There might still be time to retreat and get Kate clear.

  His attention was drawn to the warehouse floor. Sara Dawson had dug herself out from under the gas cylinders, and dragged herself across the concrete to the side wall of the office and was using it to get to her feet. She was shaky now, but that wasn’t going to last. His window was closing. Thorne looked over the edge and saw Blake just below, less than six feet away. It appeared he’d stopped to catch his breath. Blake saw him and let go of one of the wires and pulled another gun out the back of his pants. He pointed it at Thorne’s head.

  “Easy, Thorne. You and me ain’t through.”

  “You can’t aim and climb at the same time.”

  “Sit your ass down. Hang your legs over the edge. I bet I can draw this and shoot you
before you can stand back up.”

  “Why would I? You’re going to shoot me anyway.”

  “I won’t. I need you to pull me in. Sit.”

  It was bullshit, but Thorne lowered himself back down and sat with his feet hanging over the edge. If you do what someone wants, they don’t question what you’re doing. They think they’re making you. Thorne saw an opportunity, and one might not come again. Blake nodded and put the gun away. He resumed his climb. It was slow going and exhausting to watch, but it gave Thorne the chance to get his strength back. Blake had to constantly re-wrap his legs on the wires after he moved one up to take his weight off his bloodied hands.

  Thorne had a theory about why Blake hadn’t shot him and it had nothing to do with needing his help. It was always better to keep using the same weapon even though re-loading ate extra seconds. Each gun handled slightly differently. Once you knew your pistol, you stopped thinking about it. The weapon became an extension of your body; you aimed and fired without a second thought. You became fluid, a machine.

  The gun Blake had just drawn was his backup weapon. It had been stuffed down the back of his pants all day and was for emergencies only. Blake hadn’t shot him, because he couldn’t. He hadn’t chambered a round and he needed both hands free to draw back the slide.

  “I used to think you lost a part of yourself over there,” Thorne said. “That incident with the girl, I thought you changed. I thought my friend died with that girl. But you didn’t, did you? You were always crazy. I don’t know why it took me so long to see it.”

  Blake grinned at him. He was right in front of him now.

  “You know why I call you brother, Thorne? It’s because you and me are the same. Like peas from a pod. If I’m crazy, you’re crazy. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, it’s who we are.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But I’m a lot less sentimental.”

  Thorne brought his foot down hard in the middle of Blake’s face. He heard a crunch like he’d stepped on a cockroach, as bones folded in on themselves around the wooden heel of his shoe. When he moved his leg clear, Blake was already falling toward the floor. He was unrecognizable. A hole the size of a fist had appeared where his nose had been and a thick comet-trail of blood followed along behind. Blake’s arms appeared to embrace someone all the way down. The fall lasted no more than a second but it felt longer, time stretching out. Thorne absorbed every detail: the droplets of blood that seemed to hang in the air; the swept-forward Jesus arms; and the single blink of his old friend’s eyes before the back of his head flattened out on the concrete.

  Sara screamed and ran toward Blake’s body.

  Thorne got to his feet and moved smartly along the walkway to the stairs. The fight had taken a lot out of him and he needed to use both hand rails coming down the steps. He glanced back, looking for Sara, but all he saw were the rows of frozen animals. As he reached the warehouse floor, he heard her scream again. It wasn’t the kind of scream they used in horror movies, this sounded like something being ripped from inside Sara Dawson.

  He’d killed Blake and hadn’t left her a face to kiss goodbye.

  Sirens approached. They were close, less than a block.

  He ran to Cabot’s side and dropped down on one knee. He removed his latex gloves and put two fingers lightly against the lieutenant’s neck, right under the ear. The pulse was weak, but steady. He sighed. Cabot could still be a problem for him. All things considered, it would be a lot simpler if Cabot was dead when the police arrived. No loose ends, as Blake would’ve put it. He chewed on his lip. He could press down on the carotid artery under his fingers and hold it like that for a few minutes, starving the lieutenant’s brain of oxygen. Within his dark world, Cabot would fall sleep and never wake up. It wasn’t the worst way to go.

  Thorne looked across to the office and saw Kate standing in the doorway watching. She flashed a smile at him as their eyes connected. Her face was pretty banged-up, but the smile was glorious and it squeezed his heart. He lifted his hand away from Cabot’s neck and stood up. So much for the loose ends. Kate walked toward him then stopped, her head darting to the right, her smile vanishing.

  He turned slowly, already knowing what was behind him.

  Sara advanced toward him holding Ashcroft’s Smith and Wesson in front of her, it’s barrel pointed directly at his chest. He held his hands part way up to show her his hands were empty, and in what he hoped was a calming gesture.

  “Easy, Sara, easy. The cops are about to break the door down. You shoot me and there’s no way out of this for you. Lower the gun and we can talk about this.”

  Sara said nothing. She continued to come toward him, her gun arm straight and steady. He moved away from Cabot and began to step sideways and backward, forcing her to turn with him like two hands on a clock. The movement neutralized her forward motion, although she was too close now for that to matter.

  Outside, there was a screech of tires followed by a dozen heavy doors slamming shut. She turned her head a fraction to listen to what was happening.

  “There’s still time to fix this, Sara. We can tell them Blake kidnapped you, same as Kate. That he forced you to do the things you did. We can do this.”

  She jerked her head from side to side, her teeth clenched together. Sara was falling apart, but she still hadn’t shot him. Tears ran down her cheeks and she wiped them away angrily using the back of her hand.

  “You gotta pay for what you did to him.”

  “Lady, I’ve paid enough. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life in prison over that asshole? Be my guest. Just don’t tell me you weren’t going to kill him yourself when the money came through, because I’ll never believe it.”

  “You got me wrong. I’d never hurt Aidan, except for pleasure.”

  Thorne nodded.

  “I must admit, it sure was satisfying stomping on his face.”

  She sobbed, her gun arm dropping then coming back up.

  “You’re going to wish you hadn’t said that.”

  Behind her he saw movement. He kept his eyes locked on hers.

  “It’s not the same, is it? Shooting an unarmed opponent, I mean. If it were, I’d already be dead. Last time around I was a threat to you. I had a gun, I forced you to defend yourself.” Thorne let his hands drop to his sides. “But now…now there’s nothing left to fight for. No Blake, no painting, no payout. It’s over, Sara. All of it. I think we both know that he wouldn’t do time for you if he was where you are now. He’d make a deal before the cops arrived. If he was consistent about anything, it was about looking out for number one.”

  Sara’s face hardened and the pistol rose slightly.

  “I guess you can ask him when you see him.”

  The figure behind her stepped closer, his focus sharpened. Kate. She grabbed Sara by the hair and yanked her head to the side before plunging the hunting knife into her neck below the ear. The gun dropped from Sara’s hand, and she fell to her knees. The movement pulled the knife out and Kate stabbed it in again, this time at the front near Sara’s throat. Blood pulsed out with each heartbeat, filling the air around them with the hot smell of death. The blood reached out across the floor and sprayed across his face and chest. Kate pulled the knife out again and immediately sank it straight down, into Sara’s shoulder. The blade disappeared entirely, leaving only the handle sticking out behind the collarbone. Sara pitched forward onto the floor and gurgled for several long seconds, then was silent.

  Make sure it counts, he’d told her. This counted.

  Kate glared at him.

  “Was it really necessary to bait her like that?”

  Thorne had no answer for her. Instead, he went to her and held her tight in his arms. After a moment, the tension left her body and he felt her relax. He couldn’t tell her the truth, he could never tell her that. Sara Dawson had to die and Kate was the only one in a position to make it happen. He’d manipulated her to kill and he didn’t feel good about it. He felt her ribs expanding and contracting in his arms and
smiled.

  Simple pleasures, sometimes they are all you need.

  “That’s the most screwed up thing I ever saw.”

  His eyes slid across to Cabot. The lieutenant had rolled onto his side and was watching them carefully from the floor, his head resting on his outstretched arm. His face was pale and pinched with pain, but Thorne thought he also saw a trace of humor in his eyes. He doubted Cabot felt sorry for Sara after what she’d obviously done to him; what sympathy he had was likely pooling on the floor under his jacket.

  Thorne nodded at him, as if to say are we cool?

  Cabot winked in return.

  Around him, he sensed movement in all directions and close to twenty figures emerged. They carried MP5s, wore full combat gear and bulletproof vests with FBI emblazoned on the front. The machine-guns were dipped to knee level, ready to be brought up and fired in a split second. Thorne looked from one helmeted face to another, looking for Mancuso or one of the other agents he might recognize from Santa Cruz, but he saw no friendly face. This was a SWAT team, hostage rescue, not investigation.

  “Hey guys,” Thorne said.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Thorne piled his belongings up on the bed, ready to go. There wasn’t much, but it wasn’t all going to fit in the backpack he’d brought with him. He’d decided to limit what he took with him to what would fit in the bag he came with, rather than what might fit in the Maserati. He knew that, logically, the simplest solution would be to load up the car and sort it out later, but that wasn’t who he was. Traveling light was a way of life for him. The idea of being able to carry what he needed on his back was one of his major takeaways from serving in the military. Having arrived at this decision, he realized he could live without any of his new clothes. He moved the clothing to one side, making them into a separate pile. It was difficult for him to imagine when he might wear most of them again. Italian suits, designer clothes. The Ashcrofts had tried their best to bring him into their world, but he knew where he lived, and it wasn’t here. He came across the Gap clothes Coop had bought for him after his arrest and paused. It wasn’t just clothing he was going to be leaving behind.