by Jack Wilder
Stone uncapped the water and drew slow, short sips, swishing the icy liquid to get rid of the cotton mouth. “Shit. I don’t have a gun anymore, either. I lost mine in the fight with Cervantes, and never replaced it.”
Wren drank her own water in long gulps, then paused. “What do we do?”
Stone shrugged. “Get on the train. Hope he doesn’t see us.”
“What if he does?”
Stone gathered his good leg beneath him and held on to Wren’s outstretched hand, climbed laboriously to his feet. “I’ll deal with that if we come to it.”
He realized as he spoke that he still had the knife in his pocket. He withdrew it and held it in his palm. Stone was ready to be done with violence. He wanted to be home, to lay in his bed and watch ESPN. Work on his Monte Carlo. Take Wren out for ice cream, find an empty meadow in the countryside and make slow love to her on a blanket beneath the stars.
He stuffed the water bottle in the cargo pocket of his shorts and held on to Wren as they moved toward the northbound train rails. Stone spotted the man Wren had seen. He was thick and brawny, but on the short side, with bare, tattooed arms and low-hanging shorts. He was turning in slow circles, scanning the crowd like a man looking for someone in particular. He let the crowd slurry around him while he stood on his toes and consulted a cell phone every once in awhile. Stone halted behind a pillar, hiding from view in a place where they could still wait for the train to show up.
Wren buried her head against his chest and breathed in, breathed out, fighting panic.
A deafening roar and the shrill squealing of grinding brakes announced the northbound train’s arriving from the Baclaran end of the line. The announcer squawked, and Stone found it easier to translate the Filipino than to understand the garbled, accented English: “Pahilaga sa Monumento…susunod na hinto, Libertad…” Northbound to Monumento…next stop, Libertad. “Iwasan ang pagtayo malapit sa pinto…” Stand clear of the doors…
The blue, white, and red train ground to a stop, and the knotted mass of people waiting to board shifted forward. Stone hobbled forward as fast as he could, letting the crowd guide him while he kept an eye on the man looking for them. Wren was hidden in the crowd, blending as well as she could considering her skimpy garb. Stone, however, towered head and shoulders above most of the crowd, and his face, neck and shoulders were covered in blood. He stood out like he was wearing a flashing neon sign.
The man saw him, glanced at his cell phone and frowned in clear confusion, then followed the crowd onto the train, shoving through to make headway. Stone pushed Wren through the crowd to the end of the car, put her back to the wall and stood in front of her, watching as their pursuer pushed and shoved toward them through the jam-packed car.
A warning burbled on the overhead PA, and the doors closed with a hiss. The car jerked, and lurched into motion, quickly picking up speed as it left the station and moved out into the daylight. It was well past dawn now, with the sun washing over the landscape, shedding long shadows. Riders exchanged desultory conversation, listened to iPods, spoke on phones, swayed in silence, stared out the window, all unaware of the unfolding danger.
Stone held the folding knife in his palm, pressed his thumb to the nocked edge, ready to snap it open. The other man kept his hand in his shorts pocket, which Stone realized was hanging low, misshapen by the weight of must be a small handgun of some sort, a Walther PPK or similar.
Adrenaline rifled through him, making his blood sing. He planned out his movements. In close quarters like this, with such a small blade, his best bet was the femoral artery. It would be quick, low-profile.
The two men were face to face now.
“Where you gonna go?” The man had a soft voice, contrasting oddly with his brawny, tattooed physique.
“Let it go,” Stone warned. “Let us go.”
“You come now. Be easy. Or dere be trouble.” The man lifted his fist from his pocket, letting silver flash.
Stone readied himself, unfolding the blade slightly. “You haven’t heard from your boss in awhile, have you?” The thug narrowed his eyes. “No, you haven’t. Know why? He’s dead.”
“Kalokohan.” Bullshit.
“Call him. Right now.” Stone lifted an eyebrow. “See if he answers.”
“You try pool me. Shut up now.”
Stone forced a laugh. “Would I joke about something like that? Cervantes is gone, man. I pumped an entire clip into his sorry ass. Give him a call. See what happens.”
“Maybe he dead, maybe not.” The gun came out entirely, held flat against the man’s thigh, mostly disguised by his hamhock-fist. “Maybe I kill you, take her.”
“Maybe you can try. You’ll die like all the rest who’ve tried.”
People around them shifted, hearing the tension in the voices, some understanding the words. Stone held his palm against his thigh and unfolded the knife. The soft click of the blade snapping into place was lost in the noise of the rushing train.
Stone was a heartbeat from pouncing when the train jerked and slowed, the PA announcing, “Libertad!”
Bodies pressed and crushed and jostled, shoving and ducking. He caught a glimpse of the man holding on to a rail, fighting the motion of the crowd like a leaf stuck against a rock in a rushing river. Then the crowds waiting at the Libertad stop boarded, and the rush began in reverse, the two bunches of travelers mixing and merging like meeting waves, congealing momentarily and then parting. The door closed, and Stone held his ground while the tattooed thug pushed toward him, his eyes hard, glittering with the threat of violence.
“Why are we doing this, man?” Stone asked. “Cervantes is gone. You have to know how many of your friends I’ve taken out at this point.” Stone murmured the words, pitched just loud enough to be heard. “Put it away and get off at the next stop. Nothing has to happen. Just let us go. We just want to go home.”
“I don’ tink so. Not so easy. Many of prends, yes. For dem, you die.”
Gunfire would result in injured bystanders. Stone had to hit first, and hit hard, so that wouldn’t happen. Some men just thrived on the violence, the conflict. When those kind of men had the promise of bloodshed in their teeth, they wouldn’t let it go, wouldn’t back down, logic be damned.
A breath, a pause, time slowed to treacle as Stone shifted his weight with the motion of the train, ignoring the screaming in his thigh as he forced his weight on the muscle. Another breath, and he lashed out, blade held low, hammer-style, extended from the bottom of his fist with the blade toward his body. Strike into the thigh, high on the leg, near the crotch, drag the blade through meat. Withdraw. Step back.
The pistol clattered as it fell from surprised, limp fingers. Stone bent and scooped up the dropped weapon and shoved it into his waistband, watched as the man sagged back into the crowd. No one screamed, no one saw. The man’s eyes glazed, fluttered, his mouth worked vacantly, silently, voice leached by agony. Pants leg darkened by blood, the liquid sliding underfoot, pooling unnoticed. Someone shoved, and the tattooed man stumbled, lurched, fell into someone else, who shoved him as well, thinking he was drunk.
The train stopped again, and Stone grabbed Wren’s wrist, pulled her with him into the exodus. The crowd dispersed outside the train, and others boarded. The doors closed, and the train chuffed as it began drawing away. Now a scream rent the air, audible even over the noise of the crowd and the roar of the train. The human body held a lot of blood, and the femoral artery carried much of it, especially in the Scarpa’s triangle, where Stone had sliced him open.
It was peak morning hours, so another train arrived within three minutes, and Stone and Wren followed the crowd on board. Adrenaline still ran rampant through Stone, who noted that security guards were already swarming through the station, walkie-talkies held to mouths. The transit authority security guards had a much quicker response time than the city’s police, it seemed.
The map of stops printed on the wall of the train informed Stone that they had only two more stops before the Uni
ted Nations stop, which was where he was planning on exiting, since it was closest to the Embassy. Wren held on to his arm, both supporting him and herself.
“Is it easy for you?” she murmured up to him, her liquid brown eyes conflicted.
“Is what easy? Killing someone?” Stone rubbed his hand on his shorts, feeling the blade in his pocket. “No. It’s never easy. I do what I have to, to keep you and me alive, but it’s never easy.”
“Will you have nightmares about it?”
Stone sighed. “I already do, sweetheart.”
“I keep…I keep seeing his eyes. He looked so—so surprised.” Wren’s voice shook. “Every time I blink, I see it. Red…so much blood.”
“I wish I could have done that for you, Wren.” He buried his nose in her hair. “I would have. I should have.”
Wren didn’t answer, just pressed her face to his chest and breathed, shaky, feeble breaths.
Two stops later, they debarked the train, just as a vague announcement went over the PA about a delay in the schedule. Stone clenched his teeth and hustled them through the crowd, weaving to avoid contact with the security guards. He doubted anyone had seen enough to even identify the perpetrator as American, much less describe him, but he was covered in blood from his wounds and the earlier fights. It was best to get clear, just in case.
Descending to street level was easier than ascending, fortunately, as Stone could hold the rail and hop down each step. They found themselves on United Nations Avenue, heading west. Sirens howled somewhere far away.
He hobbled slowly, glancing behind him at the oncoming traffic, waiting for a taxi. He couldn’t make it on foot to the Embassy. He just couldn’t. The adrenaline was flooding away, leaving him shaky and tired and numb, as well as dizzy from blood loss.
An ancient white Toyota slid to a stop in front of them, hailed by Stone’s waving hand. Wren slid in first, and Stone next, lowering himself with a trembling arm.
“US Embassy, please.” He barely recognized his own voice.
“Maybe hospital betta?” The cabbie was a young man with long hair and a scraggly beard.
“No, just the Embassy.”
“Okay-sure.”
Fortunately the cab ride was gentler than the last one, and it was a matter of minutes before the cab bumped to a halt in front of the white stone and black iron gates of the Embassy of the United States of America. Stone dug in his pocket, found it empty.
“I don’t—don’t have any Pesos,” he mumbled, feeling himself fading quickly.
Wren shoved a pile of bills over the seat, not bothering to count. “Come on, Stone. I’ve got it covered. Get out for me, okay?”
He was dizzy, weak, but he shoved the door open and hopped away, nearly falling. Wren was there in moments, her skimpy, stolen dress hiked up and baring most of her flesh. “You need some clothes,” he said.
“That’s the last thing I care about right now.” Wren glanced toward the gate. “Will they let us in? I don’t have a passport. I don’t even know where it is. In my purse? That was gone a long time ago. When they first took me, I think.”
“They’ll let us in,” Stone growled.
A blue-uniformed guard wielding an assault rifle approached them, young and hard-eyed and intense. “State your business.”
“I’m Lieutenant Stone Pressfield. I’m a retired Navy SEAL. My girlfriend was kidnapped.” Stone couldn’t get all the words out right. “I got her back. We need…we need help. Let us in.” She wasn’t his girlfriend, but it just came out, slipped out.
The guard’s eyes raked up and down Stone’s body, taking in the numerous injuries. “I’d say you need medical attention, sir. You look—”
“I know, dammit!” Stone snapped, reverting to military posture, ramrod straight, glaring down at the young man. “But first, we need to get off the street. I need to brief someone about what happened. Goddamn it, I just—I need to sit down.” He felt himself stumbling, falling.
Wren tried to catch him, but he was too heavy. He felt hard arms go under his armpits, dragging him. He fought to get his feet underneath him, to walk, but darkness was encroaching, weakness and exhaustion and blood-loss and hunger dragging him down. Radios squawked, garbled. He felt himself laid down on a cold floor, and then Wren’s soft, warm hand touched his face.
“Stone? Are you okay?” Her voice was afraid.
He blinked, fluorescent lights overhead blinding him. “I’m okay,” he mumbled. “Just tired. Stay with me, okay? Don’t leave my side, no matter what.” He had to stay awake, had to make sure she was safe. He’d gotten her this far, he couldn’t let go now.
But he was so tired, so weak. It hurt, it all hurt. His whole body throbbed like fire.
Voices around him, English, both native and accented. He was lifted up, jostled, eliciting a groan, set on a stretcher. “Wren?”
“I’m here. We’ve got an escort of soldiers. They’re taking us to a hospital.” More movement, vehicle doors closing, engines rumbling.
“Americans? Don’t trust anyone.”
“Lieutenant Pressfield.” The voice was gravelly, the voice of someone used to shouting. Stone opened his eyes to see an older American man, lean and weathered. “I’m Commander Daniel Stanton. Your friend Nick alerted us to the situation. We’ve had people looking, but all we’ve found is your…handiwork. You don’t have to worry anymore. We’ll take care of everything from here”
“Commander…Wren lost her passport. She needs medical attention too.”
“It’s all covered, Pressfield. Relax. You brought it in, son. Well done.”
The sound of a confident military voice did something to Stone, sent him back. He should salute, but he couldn’t move his arm. “Sir.”
“I’ll debrief you after you’ve been looked at, but I have to know. Did you ever make contact with someone named Cervantes?”
Stone fought to keep his eyes open. “Cervantes…he’s dead, sir.”
“You know this for sure?”
Stone met Wren’s eyes. “Yes. 100% positive. I saw him die.”
Commander Stanton leaned back against the ambulance wall. “Good. About time someone offed that fucker.” He glanced at Wren. “Apologies, ma’am.”
Wren’s expression didn’t change. “Don’t apologize. I’m the one who killed him.”
Stanton’s voice reflected his shock. “You?”
Wren flinched. “Yes. You don’t know…you don’t know what he did to me.”
Stanton’s eyes hardened. “I’ve been tracking him for years, Miss Morgan. I believe I can guess what you’ve been through.” He leaned forward. “You don’t have to worry about a thing, from now on. You did the human race a favor, ma’am. I’ll have you two home on a private charter as soon as I can work out the logistics. No press, no mess.”
Stone’s eyes fell shut again, but before he passed out, he felt Wren’s fingers thread through his.
“As long as we’re together,” she murmured.
Stone wanted to agree to that, but unconsciousness overtook him.
19
~Two and a half weeks later~
Wren tossed the teal maxi dress onto her dorm room bed in frustration. Nothing fit right. Nothing looked right. Nothing felt right. She’d tried on a dozen outfits, but none of them were right. Her hair wasn’t right. Her makeup wasn’t right.
She wasn’t right.
Nothing was right.
She’d been back in her dorm for a week, and she should be relieved, overjoyed, happy, excited. She should feel like she had a new lease on life.
She was healthy once more, for the most part. Her ribs only ached a little bit if she moved wrong, her privates were healed. She still felt the chemical need every once in a while, in random spurts. She would wake up from an already fitful sleep feeling the crawling under her skin, the itchy veins and hot-then-cold need for the euphoric drift of the heroin.
Nightmares hounded her. She had to have lights on, all the time. She’d tried sleeping with the lights
off the first night she’d been home. She’d spent the first few days back Stateside with her parents, and she’d woken up screaming, thrashing, sobbing. The darkness had been alive. Waiting. Hungry. The darkness had been waiting to take her back, to drag her into the hole with the scratching, crawling things and the beatings and the needles.
She hadn’t been able to sleep again that night at all. Even with the light on, she hadn’t been able to sleep. Even after being taken to the doctor and prescribed sleeping pills, she couldn’t find any rest. The sleeping pills were worse, really. They would trap her in the nightmares, keep her under so she couldn’t escape them by waking up. She’d be trapped in that black pit, waiting to be punched and kicked, waiting for the needle in her vein. She would start to drift off, and then she would jerk awake, hand clapped over her forearm, huddled against the headboard.
Her parents hadn’t known how to cope, how to help. Therapy, talking through it, only forced her to relive the horror. She’d stopped going, against her parents’ insistence. So, she’d taken a bus back to her dorm room, to hide. The start of the semester helped, nominally. Going to classes let her pretend she was fine. She could forget while listening to an anthropology lecture, or while doing calculus.
It hadn’t been an easy transition back home. There had been news stories, interview requests—which she’d turned down—reunions with her friends and family. She’d spent days in the hospital in Manila, and then more in a hospital Stateside. Psychological evaluations, police reports. Follow-up appointments with her family’s doctor. Visits from just about everyone from LifeBride. Apologies from Nick and Pastor Len and the staff. She accepted the apologies, but didn’t think she’d be going back to LifeBridge any time soon.
She’d had visits from just about everyone.
Except the one person she wanted to see: Stone.
She hadn’t seen or heard from Stone since they’d parted at the airport. He’d hugged her, kissed her, promised he come see her, and now a week had passed, and she hadn’t heard a word.