The Unknown

by Brett Battles

  “Where the hell did you go? I thought something had…” He realized Clarke was alone. “Where’s Brunner?”

  Clarke came halfway down the steps. “I thought you’d be gone longer.”

  “What?”

  Kincaid prided himself on his reaction time, but Clarke’s words confused him enough that he didn’t see the gun in his partner’s hand until it was pointed at him.

  “Sorry, Darius,” Clarke said.

  A bullet hit Kincaid in the chest, slamming him back against the wall between the two cabins. He rolled and fell to the floor facedown, halfway into cabin 14.

  Pain radiated across his torso, and he barely felt Clarke put a hand on his shoulder to turn him over.

  “Was geht hier vor?” a man said from the corridor, asking what was going on.

  Kincaid felt Clarke’s hand move away from his shoulder, and heard the spit of Clarke’s gun again.

  Kincaid clenched, but when he experienced no new pain, he knew the bullet hadn’t been meant for him.

  At the sound of footsteps heading up the stairs, he pried his eyes open and turned his head.

  Clarke had moved back to the top and was leaning over someone lying on the hallway floor.

  Kincaid tried to say something but couldn’t get the words out. It didn’t matter, anyway. Clarke had already hurried out of sight, toward the front of the train.

  Kincaid tried to push himself up, but barely got his chest off the floor when gray started pushing in at the edges of his vision.

  No, he thought, fighting to stay conscious. No, no, no.

  But the haze continued to expand.

  I can’t…I need…to…to…

  The world around him continued to collapse, until, for a brief moment, he could only see gray.

  Then it all turned black.

  Edgar Clarke pulled his hand away from the conductor’s neck. The man was dead.

  Shit.

  Eliminating Kincaid was something Clarke had really hoped to avoid, but he wasn’t about to let his temporary partner get in the way of a big payday. Hence the bullet he’d put in Kincaid’s chest.

  The conductor, on the other hand, had been an unforeseen complication. Another couple of minutes and Clarke would have had Kincaid’s body in one of the cabins, preventing it from being discovered for hours.

  But no.

  Mr. Nosey Conductor had to show up at the most inopportune moment. Clarke had had no other choice than to take him out also. Now, even if Clarke moved both bodies into the cabins, the conductor’s disappearance would raise an alarm a whole lot sooner than planned.

  Screw it. Better to not waste time moving them and join the others.

  He bolted down the corridor and hurried into the next sleeper car. When he reached cabin 2, he rapped twice on the door. “It’s me.”

  The door inched open, allowing a gust of cold air to smack Clarke in the face. Astrid looked past him, checking if he was alone, then pulled the door all the way open and let him squeeze inside.

  Cabin 2 was a two-person compartment with bunk beds, which meant it had marginally more room than the single-bed economy cabin he had been waiting in earlier. With four people inside, however—even with Brunner lying on the lower bunk—it didn’t feel any larger.

  “Where’s the bag?” Astrid asked, her voice raised enough to be heard above the noise of the train coming in through the glassless window.

  “Kincaid came back,” Clarke said.

  She froze. “And?”

  “I had to take care of him.”

  “That still doesn’t explain where the bag is.”

  “Before I could grab it, a conductor showed up. I-I killed him, too.”

  “Not ideal, but if you had no choice…”

  “I didn’t.”

  “The bag?”

  “I didn’t think it was worth the risk.” He explained what had happened, and how he’d left the body in the corridor.

  Astrid’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “You should have moved him.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered. Someone would have still seen the blood.”

  She gritted her teeth. “Dammit.” She turned to Esa, who was standing by the window, looking up at the sky. “Are they in position yet?”

  Esa glanced at her. “Almost.”

  “Give the signal. We need to go now.”

  Esa picked up his radio and spoke into it, in a language Clarke didn’t understand.

  A few moments later, a rope with a padded loop on the end dropped into view, next to the window.

  Esa picked up the walking stick he’d carried on board, stuck the hooked end out the window, and snagged the rope on his first try.

  After pulling the loop inside, he said, “Bring him over.”

  Clarke grabbed Brunner’s shoulder and yanked him toward the edge of the bed. “Okay, buddy, time to go.”

  Looking terrified, Brunner pressed a hand on the wall and jammed his feet against the edge of the bed, trying to keep from being pulled off. “W-w-what’s going on? What’s that for?”

  “Off the bed,” Clarke said.

  When Brunner wouldn’t give up his grip, Clarke grabbed him and twisted him around, then dragged the man onto the floor.

  After he and Astrid manhandled Brunner to the window, Esa pushed the padded loop over Brunner’s shoulders and said, “Put your arms over this.”

  Brunner’s eyes grew even wider as the purpose of the rope dawned on him. He tried to push it off. “No, no, please! Get me out of this!”

  Clarke grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and squeezed. “Do it.”

  Brunner ceased protesting and, shaking, tucked the loop under his arms so that the padding rested tightly across his chest.

  “Good,” Esa said as he removed a ten centimeter-wide strap from his backpack. Sewn to each end was a heavy-duty safety clip. “Now hold still.”

  “What’s that for?” Brunner asked.

  “You don’t want to fall out, do you?”

  “Fall out? Oh God, oh God.”

  Esa connected the strap to the chest padding, ran it between Brunner’s legs, and attached the other end to where the loop closed at the main rope. He then nodded at Clarke, who grabbed Brunner by the arms and moved him directly in front of the window.

  Esa said a few words into his radio, then to Brunner, “As the rope pulls you out the window, tuck yourself in a ball. You’ll be less likely to get hurt.”

  “Tuck my what? Please don’t make me—”

  The rope yanked him backward out the window. In his panic, he didn’t tuck, so his legs slapped hard against the frame.

  Clarke stuck his head outside to watch the helicopter reel in Brunner. The aircraft, an eerily silent Russian-made Ghost 1A1, flew twenty meters above the tracks, pacing the train. Clarke had seen pictures of Ghosts before, but never one in person. It was pretty damn impressive.

  Within moments of Brunner being hauled on board, the rope was dangling by the window again. Astrid went next, then Clarke, and finally Esa. As soon as Esa was pulled into the aircraft, the Ghost banked to the left over a large forest, away from the train.

  Clarke smiled. They’d done it.

  Okay, sure, he hadn’t enjoyed killing Kincaid or the conductor, but except for those two hiccups, the job had gone off without a hitch. Well, he had messed up in not getting Brunner’s bag, but that wasn’t a big deal. Brunner was what Astrid and Esa’s organization was paying for.

  Clarke sensed someone looking at him so he glanced over. It was Astrid.

  “Why the smile?” she asked.

  “Told you I could deliver.”

  “That you did, Mr. Clarke. Thank you for your assistance.”

  “You’re welcome.

  “Just a few loose ends to tie up.”

  “Loose en—”

  She pointed a gun at him, a suppressor attached to the barrel.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he said, grabbing his safety harness and pulling at the clasp. It wouldn’t release. “Are you s
aying I’m a loose end? I’m not a loose end! I’m an asset. You wouldn’t have been able to pull this off if not for me!”

  She tilted her head to the side. “We could have. It would just have been more difficult. As I said, thank you.”

  The spit of the gun was laughably weak for the damage it did. Its bullet ripped through the right side of Clarke’s chest into his lung, deflected off a rib, and lodged in his spinal cord at the base of his neck.

  He slumped forward, surprised he could feel no pain. Lying motionless in his lap were the hands that had been trying to free him. He tried to move them, but couldn’t get even a finger to twitch. His eyelids began to droop, leaving him with an unfocused, half obscured view of the world.

  “He’s still alive,” Esa said, surprisingly close.

  A pause as a hand touched Clarke’s chin and tilted his head up. “Not for long,” Astrid said. “Unlock his harness.”

  A metallic click.

  Clarke would have slumped to the floor if Esa hadn’t lifted him into the air.

  A moment later, Astrid said, “This will do.”

  The next thing Clarke knew, he was staring at the helicopter’s ceiling, something hard under his head.

  A mechanical sound. Sliding. Followed by freezing air blowing across Clarke’s face.

  “I hate to tell you this, Mr. Clarke,” Astrid whispered in his ear, “but you were always a loose end.”

  In the blink of an eye, the blowing wind turned into a roaring hurricane, as darkness replaced the ceiling of the helicopter.

  Not complete darkness, though. Every second or two, it was punctured by tiny dots of light.

  Beautiful, really.

  Black.

  Then black with white dots.

  Then black.

  Then black with white dots.

  Mesmerized by this repetition, he barely noticed the tree his right shoulder slammed into. A smack to the head a couple of branches later rendered him unconscious.

  Mercifully, by the time he smashed into the ground, he was dead.

  Chapter Two

  “Mein Gott, da ist noch ein weiterer.”

  Kincaid pried his eyes open and forced himself to sit up.

  His chest throbbed from where Clarke’s shot had slammed into his bulletproof vest. He always wore one on a job, but this was the first time it had ever taken a direct hit. Thank God he hadn’t mentioned the vest to Clarke.

  A man came down the steps from the corridor. Before he reached Kincaid, he jerked to a stop, his eyes locked on something off to the side.

  Kincaid turned and spotted his Glock lying in the threshold to cabin 14.

  The man started to back away.

  “I didn’t do it,” Kincaid said in German, each word a struggle. “I was shot, too.”

  He pulled his jacket open, causing the man to back up even faster, but the guy stopped when Kincaid peeled back his shirt, exposing his vest.

  “See.” Kincaid winced as he touched the vest next to where the bullet was embedded.

  “Why do you have a gun?”

  “I’m a…never mind. I don’t have time.”

  Kincaid reached for his pistol.

  “No, no, no! Please!” The man raced back into the main corridor.

  “I’m not going to shoot you.”

  Kincaid gingerly rose to his feet, slipped the gun into its harness, and started up the stairs.

  As he stepped out of the alcove, three conductors entered the car from the left.

  “What’s going on here? What happened?” the youngest one asked.

  “He’s been shot.” This was from a different passenger, who was leaning over the clearly dead conductor.

  Kincaid stepped past them, toward the front of the train.

  “Where are you going?” someone called behind him.

  “He said he was hit, too,” Kincaid’s would-be helper said. “But-but he has a gun.”

  “Stop!” the first voice yelled.

  Someone who was either stupidly brave or had a death wish ran up behind Kincaid and grabbed his arm. “I said stop!”

  Kincaid whirled around, and the man staggered backward.

  “The shooter went that way,” Kincaid said, pointing in the direction he’d been headed. “Unless you want to go after him, you’ll let me do my job.”

  “J-job?”

  Kincaid pulled his gun out again, eliciting several gasps. Without saying another word, he turned back toward the front of the train. Within a few steps he was jogging and then running.

  Each time his foot hit the floor, a shockwave of pain raced through his body, but he ignored them and focused on the only thing that mattered: retrieving the cargo. Nothing could be allowed to turn his attention from that. Not even the fact his supposed partner had shot him.

  The only door he’d heard when Clarke escaped was the loud sliding one at the end of the car, so he ignored the remaining cabins in his car and hurried into the next one. He didn’t let up once he was in that corridor. Though Clarke and Brunner could be in any of the cabins he was rushing past, Kincaid’s first priority was to make sure the corridor in the next car—the very front passenger car—was also unoccupied.

  Several meters before reaching the next door between the cars, the train slowed.

  “Dammit,” he muttered.

  The next scheduled stop was still an hour and a half away. While it was possible this was just a slowdown to let another train pass, the more likely reason was that one of the conductors had told the engineer what had happened and ordered the train be halted. Whatever the case, stopping would provide the perfect opportunity for Clarke to remove Brunner from the train.

  Kincaid shoved open the door and sprinted into the foremost car. Empty.

  Clarke and Brunner must be in a cabin in either this car or the one Kincaid had just come through. At the rate the train was slowing, though, he had no chance of checking them all before the NightJet stopped moving.

  There was no time to hunt for the cargo. The only thing he could do—the thing he must do—was to make sure Brunner stayed on the train.

  Kincaid ran to the vestibule at the end of the car and opened the exterior door.

  Frigid air whipped inside as he pulled himself onto the door and used it as a makeshift ladder to the roof. Though snow was no longer falling, a thin layer clung to the surface of the roof, unbroken but for the spot where Kincaid had climbed up. He crouched to avoid the power wires strung above the train, and shuffled to a place where he could stand and see either side of the cars.

  A large meadow of leafless brush and brown grass sat to the right of the tracks, with no snow. The storm had not yet made it this far east. On the left, the woods came to within seven meters of the tracks. Dark and impenetrable, it would be the perfect place in which to get lost.

  The train slowed more and more until it finally rolled to a halt.

  Kincaid rose to his feet and flicked his gaze from side to side, taking in the whole length of the train. The lights from inside the cars illuminated the railbed, aiding him in his search for any sign of someone trying to escape. But the ground remained empty.

  After a few minutes, he heard a voice, coming from the door he’d used to reach the roof. Thirty seconds later, two conductors and a man in a dark suit exited.

  The trio scanned the tracks in both directions, then huddled together, talking. One of the conductors glanced up and stiffened.

  “Das ist er!” he shouted, pointing at Kincaid.

  The two others spun around. As soon as the man in the suit laid eyes on Kincaid, he whipped up his hand and pointed a gun at Kincaid.

  “Drop your weapon!” the man shouted in German.

  “Easy now,” Kincaid replied in kind, holding up his empty hand. “I’m not the guy you’re looking for. I’m just trying to make sure he doesn’t escape!”

  “Put it down!” the man said.

  “Listen to me,” Kincaid said. “The killer is still—”

  The man pulled his trigger, sendi
ng a bullet screaming past Kincaid’s shoulder, missing him by only a few centimeters.

  “Okay! Okay!” Kincaid yelled as he tossed his gun over the side.

  “Climb down,” the suited man ordered. “Slowly.”

  Kincaid glanced over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t missed Clarke’s or Brunner’s departure. But with the exception of the three men waiting for him, no one else had left the train.

  Where the hell are they?

  “Down! Now!”

  Kincaid climbed off the train the same way he’d gone up.

  The moment his feet touched the ground, the suited man shoved him against the side of the car, chest first.

  “Hands behind your back,” the man ordered.

  Kincaid complied. “You’re making a mistake. I’m not the shooter. I’m one of his victims.”

  After affixing a pair of handcuffs around Kincaid’s wrists, the man pulled him backward a couple of steps and pushed him toward the open door. “On the train. And don’t try anything.”

  As soon as they were all back onboard, one of the conductors closed the door and the other lifted a walkie-talkie and said, “We’ve got him. You can get underway again.”

  “Any problems?” a voice asked over the radio.

  “No.”

  The train began to move again.

  Kincaid was taken to a small cabin, at the end of the third sleeper car, that had a placard on the door reading CREW ONLY.

  “Sit,” his guard told him, nodding at the pair of chairs next to a small table. Unlike the passenger cabins in this car, this room had no bed.

  “You’re wasting time,” Kincaid said. “There’s been a kidnapping. I didn’t see them get off the train when we stopped, so they’ve still got to be here somewhere. You need to be looking for them right now.”

  “I said sit.”

  “Please. Listen to me. Start a cabin-by-cabin search. The victim is a man, approximately forty-five years in age, one hundred and seventy-five centi…” From the look on his guard’s face, Kincaid knew the man did not believe him. “Forget it. I’ll search myself.”

  He only made it a step toward the door before the man raised his gun again. “I have no problem shooting a killer.”

  “I am not a killer. I’m a bodyguard.”

  This was clearly not something the man was expecting to hear, but it wasn’t enough to convince him to lower his weapon.