Shine

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  “They didn’t leave a note, even in our secret places.”

  “You weren’t supposed to come home until tomorrow, though. Christmas Eve.” The day I was supposed to fly back home, but wouldn’t.

  He nudged aside the curtain above the kitchen sink, taking a quick peek into the tiny backyard. “Nae footprints in the snow.”

  “There weren’t any out front, either. So if they left, it was a while ago.”

  “They’d leave a note for Martin. He’s at work, so we’ll pop round to see him, see if they’ve rung.”

  “Can’t we just call him from the house here?”

  “We could.” He smiled at me. “But this way we get a proper breakfast.”

  The cab driver let us out on the corner of a busy street near the Botanic Gardens, next to a huge stone church.

  Zachary led me to a small courtyard beside the building and headed for the double doors.

  “Martin works in a church?”

  “Ha. No’ hardly.”

  Inside, the place turned out to be a bar. There were a few pews, stained-glass windows, crosses, and even a choir box, but the rest was pure pub. I felt like Alice stepping from one part of Wonderland into another.

  We pushed through the crowd of pre-Christmas revelers. Halfway down the bar, I saw Martin poised at the Guinness slow tap, joking with a customer.

  He spied us, and his initial look of delight turned to confusion. He handed off the pint and hurried down to greet us at the end of the bar.

  “A’right, mate!” They clasped fists across the counter, and Martin examined Zachary’s black eye without comment. Then his gaze fell to my left hand. “Laura!”

  “You can call her Aura,” Zachary told him. “We don’t need the cover, now we’re back.”

  “I don’t see youse takin’ off the rings, though.” The glimmer in his eye faded as he turned back to Zachary. “Dinnae panic, but your da’s in hospital again.”

  Zachary cursed as he gripped the bar railing. “For what? When? Is he—”

  “I said ‘dinnae panic,’ didn’t I? It’s only dehydration and fever, like last time. Your ma took him first thing this morning. She just rang and said they’ll keep him a night or two, maybe have him home for Christmas.”

  “I hope so.” Sighing, Zachary sat on the bar stool. “Visiting hours aren’t till noon. Give me your phone so I can tell Mum we’ll come then.”

  “You’re family,” Martin said. “You can visit now.”

  “Aura’s not, and I won’t leave her behind, so give me yer fuckin’ phone.”

  “A’right, a’right.” Martin handed him his cell, then tapped the bar in front of me. “Can I fetch ya a pint?”

  It was barely eleven a.m. “Just a Coke, thanks.” I watched Zachary’s face as he put the phone to his ear.

  “Voice mail,” he said. “Mum must be in the room with him. Can’t use her mobile there.”

  “Try the hospital and see if they’ll put you through to his room.”

  “He’ll be under a new false identity. I’ll leave her a message to ring Martin with the name.”

  I went to the ladies’ room, and when I came out, Zachary and Martin were deep in a serious conversation. Martin looked in my direction, and instead of smiling at me, his lips went straight and tight. He gave Zachary a nod of resignation, then a brotherly pat upside the head, a grasping gesture that Zachary returned.

  “What’s up?” I asked when I reached the bar. Martin had moved away to serve another customer, leaving behind a Coke for me and a neon-orange soda for Zachary.

  “Martin said last night there were men in dark blue uniforms here looking for me.”

  “Oh my God, Nighthawk? What if they come back?”

  “Don’t worry—we’ve a plan. No’ a sophisticated plan, but it’s the best we can do short notice.” He sipped his soda. “I think.”

  “Do you trust Martin?”

  “With my life.” He watched his friend ring up an order at the cash register. “Even with your life.”

  Martin signaled the other bartender. “Gonnae go outside.” He mimed smoking a cigarette. As he passed us, he took his cell phone back from Zachary with what looked like a nod of understanding. The plan, no doubt. He disappeared through double wooden doors into what must have once been a church vestibule.

  I fidgeted with the clear quartz pendant beneath my shirt, nervous at the thought of the Nighthawk agents searching for us. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since our last brush with death. “We should call MI-X.”

  “I just did,” Zachary said, but didn’t look happy about it. “They’ll be here at half past eleven.”

  I checked my watch. Twenty minutes.

  “I should’ve called them the moment we crossed into Northern Ireland.”

  “Why didn’t you?” I asked.

  “Because I’m a coward. Because once they’re here, I’ll have to tell them everything. About the Children of the Sun, about Nighthawk.”

  “About last summer.”

  He kept his eyes down. “Aye.”

  “If you won’t tell them, I will.” I put my hand on his arm. “You need justice.”

  “I know! I know,” he repeated softly. He scratched his ear, then straightened up and grabbed the laminated menu between the salt and pepper shakers. “But first I need a full Scottish breakfast.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Fried egg, baked beans, haggis, black pudding, white pudding, sausage.” He handed me the menu. “You should try it. It’ll give ya strength.” I needed some of that. “Black and white pudding, is that like chocolate and vanilla?”

  Zachary was still laughing when Martin burst in.

  “Upstairs,” he said. “Now.”

  Zachary grabbed my hand, and we pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar. A door marked PRIVATE led to a hallway with stairs and an elevator.

  “It’s the men from last night,” Martin told me. “There’s five of them this time. Two went around back to make sure youse don’t escape.” He handed Zachary a key. “Take her to the top. I’ll stall them here until reinforcements arrive.”

  “Stall them how?” Zachary asked.

  Martin shrugged. “Create a diversion. Maybe start a row.”

  “In a West End pub? Good luck with that.” Zachary took my hand and helped me step over the chain that blocked off the staircase. Martin ran back into the bar, shouting something about Rangers.

  I dashed up the stairs behind Zachary until we reached the third floor. He unlocked a door and ushered me into—whoa.

  Morning sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows on either side of the . . . whatever this was. A cathedral? An auditorium? On my near left, at one end of the giant room, was a small stage flanked by two Gothic arches with thick red curtains.

  “What’s this place for?” I asked Zachary as he locked the door behind us.

  “Parties, wedding receptions. The bride and groom sit up there.” He pointed to the far end of the room, where a balcony with a table and two chairs overlooked the hall, about fifty feet up.

  “For me it’s been a bit of a sanctuary,” he whispered. “Look up and see why.”

  I did and gasped. The ceiling held the richest blues I’d ever seen, paintings of dolphins and saints side by side. The zodiac constellations stretched on either side of the center length. At our end were pillars and more Gothic arches reaching toward the ceiling in sunset colors. Neatly painted letters ran along the underside of the crossbeams.

  The nearest read, IF WE ARE TRUE TO EACH OTHER, THEN WE SHALL BE AS STARS. I took Zachary’s hand, as if on cue.

  Newgrange and Dowth had held an ancient, mystical magic, but this place made me believe that magic lived in modern times. It could still be birthed by the human mind.

  “Now then, we’ll need weapons.” He strode past the stage and swept aside one of the red curtains. Cases of liquor were stacked in this small backstage area.

  Zachary flipped the lid on two boxes of wine and pull
ed out a pair of bottles. “Red or white?”

  “Uh, this isn’t the time to drink.”

  “They’re no’ for drinkin’, they’re for bludgeonin’. Here, this one’s lighter but’ll do the job.” He handed me the bottle of white wine, then hoisted one of the red bottles by the neck and took a small practice swing. “Good action on that.”

  “So now what?”

  “Hopefully, MI-X arrives and ends the battle before it starts.”

  “What do we do if they don’t come in time? What if Nighthawk comes through that door? Do we hide here and smash them over the head when they find us?”

  Zachary turned to me. “I won’t go back to 3A, and I’ll die before I let them put you there.”

  I shook my head. “I mean specifically, what do we do if Night-hawk comes through that door? Hide here and smash them over the head when they find us?”

  “I didn’t say it was a sophisticated plan.”

  I parted the curtain to the main room. “We should hide in the balcony, where they can’t surround us. They’ll have to come up that little spiral staircase one at a time.” I lifted the wine bottle. “Easy game of Whack-a-Mole.”

  Zachary thought for a moment. “You’re a genius. Help me with these bottles.”

  We each lugged a case of wine to the bottom of the balcony’s spiral stairway. They were too heavy for me to carry up the stairs quickly, so Zachary took mine and his in turn.

  Then we waited. It was now 11:20. Only ten more minutes until MI-X were supposed to arrive. I hoped they were prompt.

  “This building used to be a church, I take it?” I asked Zachary.

  He nodded. “I don’t care much for real churches, but this place feels, I dunno, sacred.”

  “I think there’s a whole other side of you I’ve never seen.”

  He gave me a cryptic smile. “You will.”

  As I leaned over to kiss him, the door below burst open with a bang.

  Zachary and I crouched on either side of the stairway opening, far enough back from the edge of the balcony that we couldn’t be seen from the door. We waited, gripping the necks of our bottles, ready to fight off anyone who might come for us.

  But no one did. Instead, an eerily calm voice rang out. “Come with us or your friend dies.”

  Chapter Forty

  Zach, don’t do it!” It was Martin, sounding like he was struggling. “Augh!”

  “What the—” Zachary strode toward the edge of the balcony. I hurried behind him.

  Five men in midnight-blue uniforms stood on the polished parquet floor. One of them held Martin in a tight grip, while another pointed a pistol at his head.

  The Bland Man stood off to the side. “Mr. Moore and Ms. Salvatore.” He extended his hand like he was inviting us to a garden party. “I am Agent Timian and I would prefer to avoid bloodshed, especially yours.” His accent was a flat American one, maybe Midwest. “Please come with me.”

  “We’re not going anywhere.” Zachary dropped his wine bottle on one of the chairs. Before I could stop him, he climbed over the railing, using the table to steady himself. “If you hurt him, I’ll jump.” He dangled his legs over the edge of the balcony, and I wanted to scream.

  Timian shrugged. “Go on then, jump.”

  “You’re bluffing,” Zachary said. “You need us alive.”

  Timian looked at his fellow agents, then back up at us. “I hate to break it to you, son, but—we only need her alive. Not you.” He pulled out his own gun and pointed it at Zachary. “So be a good boy and come down from there.”

  “No!” I strode forward and clambered onto the balcony railing beside Zachary.

  “Aura, what are you doing?” he whispered.

  I kept my eyes on him instead of the distant wooden floor. I’d never been fond of heights, but I was even less fond of doing what Nighthawk wanted. “I’m not going anywhere, either.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “You were insane first.”

  “Children!” Timian shouted. “Let’s not be foolish.” His words were scolding, but there was trepidation in his voice. He’d probably been ordered to take me alive no matter who else got hurt in the process.

  Down the street, a church bell sounded the half hour. We’d done it. We only had to keep this standoff going a few more minutes, and then MI-X would—

  The door crashed open again. I yelped in surprise and started to slip off the railing. Zachary lunged to push me to safety, losing his own balance. As I tumbled back over the table, I saw him disappear.

  “Zach!” I leaped to my feet, legs tangling with a chair. Zachary had caught himself and was hanging on to the railing with both hands, while down below, five boys—including Martin, who had broken free—were fighting three of the Nighthawk agents.

  I reached out for Zachary.

  “I’ve got it,” he said. “Guard the stairway. They’re coming!”

  I rushed to the back of the balcony just as one of the agents’ heads appeared at the top of the stairs. I picked up a bottle, drew back, and smashed it atop his head. His skull crunched, and he slumped forward unconscious, twisting around as his hand caught the banister.

  The agent lay faceup, his gun exposed. I unsnapped the holster and withdrew the weapon. To my right, Zachary was hoisting himself over the railing onto the balcony, blood from his knife wounds seeping through his shirt. Shouting his name, I slid the gun across the floor to him. Then I picked up another bottle to strike the next agent coming up the stairs.

  Agent Timian. As I lifted the bottle, he delivered a bruising block to my arm, sending a shaft of pain up to my shoulder. The bottle flipped end over end, then fell to the floor, out of my reach.

  As if in slow motion, I saw Timian pull his own weapon and point it at me.

  “No . . .” Instinctively I put out my hands and backed away. I wanted to cover my face but couldn’t take my eyes off the pistol barrel’s pitch-black center.

  “You touch her and I’ll blow your fucking head off!”

  I wheeled to see Zachary pointing the first agent’s weapon at Timian. His hands shook, but his gaze was fierce and steady, as was his voice.

  “Eight weeks of hell,” Zachary snarled. “I’m never going back. You won’t take me, and you won’t take her, do you hear me?” His roar echoed throughout the hall. “If you move one inch closer to her, I will kill you.”

  Timian must have seen the crazy in Zachary’s eyes. He lowered his gun and took a step away from me and toward Zachary. “Look, I understand how you—”

  The world exploded in noise. I screamed and covered my ears. Timian stopped, his mouth opening and closing but forming no sound. Had I lost my hearing? Air seemed to come in warbling waves, pressing against my head.

  Blood spurted from Timian’s neck. He dropped to his knees, then his side.

  Holy shit, Zachary shot him.

  I turned to Zachary, expecting to see him holding the just-fired gun. But he was lying on his back, gasping, knees bent and heels scraping the floor.

  Below his right collarbone, a new dark red spot blossomed like a rose. Blood.

  Another crack came from the room downstairs, as Martin slammed a bat onto the outstretched arms of a rifle-wielding Nighthawk agent.

  “Zach!” I ran to kneel at his side. “Can you hear me?”

  His eyes were wild. “Aura, what happened? Why am I—”

  “Shh, shh.” I peeled off my cardigan and pressed it against his wound. “It’s all right, it’s all right. Just talk to me.”

  “He—I didn’t—I didn’t shoot him.”

  A young man bellowed below, “Someone call an ambulance! Two men have been shot!”

  Zachary’s gaze roamed the ceiling beyond me. “Two? Was I shot?”

  “Yeah, but you’re gonna be fine.” I looked over my shoulder to see Timian staring at me. He mouthed the word Help as one scarlet-coated hand reached out.

  Timian’s blood pulsed slower. He was dying, apparently from the same bullet that had pierced Zach
ary’s body, then continued its deadly flight.

  Martin bounded up to us, stepping over the unconscious agent on the stairs. He saw Zachary.

  “No!” He skidded to his knees beside us. “Listen to me, mate. You’re not going anywhere.”

  Zachary’s breathing was thick, and when he coughed, blood dribbled from his mouth. “Cold.”

  “That’s right, ye’re going into shock, but that’s what’ll save your life.” Martin took off his shirt and wiped Zachary’s face. “Boys, tear down one of those curtains and bring it here.”

  A familiar chilling voice spoke in the auditorium below. “I don’t believe this. I can’t even see my own body?”

  Agent Timian.

  I looked at the Nighthawk’s still figure. “He’s dead.”

  Zachary squeezed my hand. “Ghost?”

  “Don’t worry. He can’t come up here, because of you.”

  “Keep him,” he rasped. “He knows.”

  Knows what? I wondered. Then I realized what Zachary meant: Agent Timian could be a witness to everything Nighthawk had done in the name of protecting SecuriLab’s profits. Maybe even Flight 346.

  “Go,” Zachary pleaded.

  “I can’t leave you.”

  “Not dying.”

  How do you know? I wanted to ask him.

  “I’ll stay wi’ him,” Martin said.

  “Why the hell did you shoot him?” Timian railed below at his fellow agent. “I was standing directly behind. Where did Nighthawk recruit you from, Kindergarten Cops?”

  I took a last lingering look at Zachary. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  He swallowed and panted out one word, “Promise.”

  “Someone dim the lights,” I called as I hurried down the stairs. A few seconds later, the auditorium went dark but for the soft Glaswegian morning drifting through the stained-glass windows.

  And the violet glow of ex–Agent Timian.

  “I can’t believe I was killed by friendly fire.” Ex-Timian jumped back as one of Zachary’s friends ran toward the stairs, a red curtain bunched in his arms. The ghost shuddered at the near contact with the dreaded color, then focused on me again. “Do you know how many bodyguards I’ve killed to perform my duties? Back in ’95, I took out a principal of the Cali drug cartel.”