Red Right Hand

by Chris Holm

  But it had held on long enough—and now, their train had arrived.

  Segreti was in position.

  It was time.

  Despite Hendricks’s teasing, it turned out Cameron was a genius for putting the BART app on his phone. If this went as planned, her foresight would have played a major role in saving her life. If it didn’t…best not to think about that. Given how beat up he was—his knife wound throbbing, his face flushed, his brow beaded with sweat despite the platform’s relative cool—he didn’t like his odds if this meet went south.

  Yancey stepped off the train, eyes darting everywhere. He pushed Cameron ahead of him as he walked, his left hand gripping her shoulder so tightly, his knuckles were white. His right hand was obscured by his sport coat, which was draped to conceal the gun pressed to her side. Hendricks put his right hand on the butt of the SIG Sauer he’d taken from Reyes; it was tucked into the waistband of his pants, his shirt pulled down to cover it.

  When Yancey’s eyes lit on Hendricks, Hendricks gave him a nod, scarcely more than a subtle raise of his hat brim. Yancey smiled wolfishly and maneuvered Cameron toward Hendricks, the morning commuters oblivious around them.

  She had a poncho slung over her bound wrists, a silly hat on her head and sunglasses on her face. Despite the getup, it was clear to Hendricks she’d been viciously beaten. Her shoulders hitched slightly as she struggled not to cry.

  “Where the fuck’s Segreti?”

  “Let the girl go and I’ll tell you.”

  “You’re outta your goddamn mind if you think that’s how this is gonna go down. You’re a wanted man. I’m law. If you force me to, I’ll gun you both down here and now.”

  “Easy,” Hendricks said. “Just keep cool and we can all get what we want.”

  Yancey laughed. “No chance of that,” he said. “That ship sailed for me when Segreti resurfaced. All I wanted was that fucker to stay dead when I killed him.”

  “As I understand it, he’s not the only one who died that day.”

  “Which makes his resurfacing all the more regrettable. Now those people died for nothing.”

  An announcement blared. Hendricks cocked his head and listened.

  “I’m sorry,” Yancey said, “am I boring you?”

  “Not at all,” Hendricks replied. “It’s just, that announcement was for your train. If I were you, I’d hurry up and catch it.”

  Yancey squinted in puzzlement at Hendricks, then followed Hendricks’s gaze toward the train departing for San Francisco on the other side of the platform. And in the nearest car, he spotted Segreti slumped across two seats, his eyes closed, one wrist cuffed to the metal grip on the seat beside the aisle.

  Cameron saw him too and said, “Michael, no, you can’t—” but Yancey silenced her with a jab of his gun barrel to her ribs.

  “He alive?” Yancey asked.

  “Last I checked,” Hendricks replied. “But he was…uncooperative…when I told him about our deal, so I had to drug him.”

  Yancey snorted. “That sounds like the Segreti I know.”

  Hendricks took a small silver key out of his pocket and extended it to Yancey. A handcuff key. Yancey had to let go of either Cameron or the gun to take it. He elected for the former and snatched the key out of Hendricks’s hand. Then he grabbed Cameron once more and tried to yank her backward, toward the train. Whether he intended to use her as cover until the last second or bring her with him was unclear, but either way, it wasn’t going to happen. Hendricks had a hold of her.

  They played tug-of-war for a moment with the scared young woman caught between them. The train hissed. The doors began to slide shut. Yancey was forced to make a choice.

  He released Cameron. She fell forward into Hendricks’s arms.

  Yancey turned and ran. The doors nearly closed on him as he leaped through.

  Hendricks watched him go and held Cameron close while she trembled in his arms, tears spilling down her cheeks. Then, at once, she tensed. Over Hendricks’s shoulder, she thought she caught a glimpse of a familiar face in the crowd. Familiar, but unwelcome. One of Yancey’s men. But as soon as she thought she saw him, he was gone.

  “I—I think they followed us,” Cameron managed through her sobs. “Yancey’s men, I mean. I don’t know how they could’ve, but they did. We need to move.”

  “It’s all right,” Hendricks told her. “You’re safe now.”

  “You don’t understand,” she protested.

  “Believe me, kid. I do. You’re scared. Rattled. No one followed you, I promise. Now c’mon, let’s get out of here.”

  He cut her free of her zip-tie with the X-Acto knife, took her hand, and tried to lead her to the up escalator and the street. But Cameron remained fixed in place and didn’t move until the train pulled out of the station, sending Yancey through the Transbay Tube once more.

  41.

  THE HARDEST PART wasn’t the fear of dying, Segreti thought. It wasn’t the uncertainty. It was pretending to be asleep.

  Segreti’s mouth was open, his muscles relaxed. He watched through his eyelashes as Yancey leaped through the closing doors onto the train car and slammed into its unsuspecting passengers.

  “Watch it, asshole!” A wiry punk in a Dead Kennedys T-shirt wheeled on Yancey and shoved him. Yancey pistol-whipped him in the face, and he went down bleeding.

  The passengers recoiled, shouting and pushing toward the exits, but it was too late; the platform doors were closed. The train shuddered and began to move.

  “Listen up!” Yancey yelled, holding his government-issued credentials in the air like a badge. “I’m a federal investigator, and I have reason to believe there’s a bomb on this train car! For your safety, I’m gonna need you all to proceed to the adjacent cars immediately!”

  Panic rippled through the crowd. People scrabbled over one another as everyone attempted to squeeze through the narrow doors at once. Soon, the car was quiet save for the clatter of the tracks.

  Yancey strolled down the aisle toward Segreti. As he approached, Segreti closed his eyes completely, worried that parted lids would give the ruse away. Yancey reeked of cigarettes and aftershave. His shadow painted the backs of Segreti’s eyelids a deeper black.

  Yancey backhanded Segreti across the face. Segreti’s lips split against his teeth and began to bleed. It took a supreme force of will for Segreti to keep his eyes closed and allow his head to loll, but he knew he had only one shot of leaving the train alive, and he had to make it count.

  “Wake up, shithead,” Yancey said. “I want you to look at me and know that, after all these years, I’ve got you. That there’s no one coming to save you this time. That there’s nowhere left for you to run.”

  Yancey leaned in close and punched Segreti in the gut. Segreti doubled over but failed to open his eyes, so Yancey slid into the row of seats behind him, yanked him upright by his hair, and rested the barrel of his gun against the nape of Segreti’s neck.

  “Aw, c’mon, Segreti,” Yancey continued. “Killing you won’t be as satisfying if you’re not awake when I do it. I confess, this setting ain’t my first choice for an execution, but lucky for me, one of my company’s subsidiaries operates the security cameras for the entire fucking BART system, including the ones in this train. All our surveillance systems are equipped with an emergency backdoor, so it’ll be a breeze for me to wipe the hard drive before anyone’s the wiser—once I send a copy to your buddies at the Council, that is. Which means I get the pleasure of painting this train car with your brains, and there’ll be nobody to dispute my version of events. I’m thinking of going with When I tried to bring him in for questioning, the crazy bastard went for my gun, but I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Yancey!”

  The call came from the front of the train car. Segreti peeked through slit eyelids once more and struggled not to flinch. Reyes stood just inside the doorway to the adjacent car, his left pant leg caught on his empty ankle holster, a compact Remington R51 nine-millimeter in his hand.

>   “Christ, Reyes,” Yancey said, “I thought I lost you miles back. You can lower your weapon—this fucker’s unconscious.”

  “How about you lower yours?” Reyes said.

  Yancey didn’t. “I don’t know how much you heard just now, but this ain’t what it looks like.”

  “Good. Because it looks like you were about to kill an unconscious man in cold blood. You told me this guy was a person of interest in the bridge attack, but this seems more like a personal vendetta to me.”

  “You know, son, I’m starting to get the impression you don’t like me very much.”

  “Not particularly, no.”

  “Then tell me what I need to do to, uh, rebuild our relationship.”

  “How about you start by letting me turn this man over to the FBI?”

  “Sure thing,” Yancey said. “In fact, I’ll deliver him myself.”

  “There’s no need,” Reyes replied. “I called them from the station. They’ll be waiting for us on the other side of the tunnel when we arrive.”

  Yancey sighed. “I really wish you hadn’t done that.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because, whether you believe me or not, I promise you, Segreti’s a lowlife piece of shit. You, on the other hand, may be a dick, but you’re still one of the good guys. And now I can’t let either of you walk out of here.”

  Yancey grabbed Segreti’s collar. Yanked him backward in his seat. Ducked behind him. And aimed his gun at Reyes.

  With Segreti in the way, Reyes didn’t have a shot—and at this distance, Yancey couldn’t miss.

  Reyes watched helplessly as Yancey’s finger tightened on the trigger. Then Segreti opened his eyes, slipped his hand free of its cuff, and twisted in his seat. He drove an open palm into Yancey’s shooting arm as Yancey’s gun roared and stuck his other hand into the pocket of his sweatshirt. Reyes tensed for impact, but the shot went wide and blew a hole in a nearby window. Wind, cold and metallic, whistled through it.

  Three more gunshots quickly followed. Yancey jerked upright in his seat. Then he swayed a moment and slumped into the aisle, the revolver falling from his hand.

  His eyes were wide. His face was pained. His stomach blossomed red.

  Segreti rose from his seat, the .45 Hendricks had given him trained on Yancey. In his seat back were three bullet holes, their edges scorched by muzzle flash.

  Yancey cupped his hands over his stomach, trying in vain to keep his blood where it belonged. It bubbled up between his fingers when he pressed down. Yancey’s face paled, then slackened. His hands fell away. His sightless eyes stared vaguely toward the ceiling. He was gone.

  Segreti aimed his gun at Yancey for thirty seconds longer, making sure, and then he lowered it.

  “Thanks,” said Reyes, his gun still aimed in Segreti’s general direction. “You saved my life.”

  “No problem,” Segreti replied.

  Reyes nodded toward the handcuffs dangling from the metal handgrip on the seat back. “How’d you manage to slip those things?”

  “They’re not real—they’re plastic toys. Got a hidden release button on the side. Buddy of mine broke into a fetish shop on our way here and stole ’em.”

  “The same buddy who sprung you from our custody at the Broussard house?”

  Sadness flitted across Segreti’s features at the mention of Lois’s last name. “That’s the one.”

  “You didn’t have anything to do with what happened at the bridge, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Then how about you put the gun down and tell me why Yancey wanted you dead?”

  “It’s a long story,” Segreti said. He kept his weapon pointed at the floor but didn’t drop it. Reyes slowly lowered his.

  Reyes looked out the window at the darkness blurring by outside. The car rattled down the tracks, empty but for the two of them, Yancey’s bleeding corpse sprawled in the aisle between. “Seems like we’ve got time.”

  “Hey,” Segreti said, “did you mean what you said about the Feds or were you bluffing?”

  “I wasn’t bluffing. I gave ’em a ring when I began to suspect that Yancey wasn’t what he seemed. They’ll be waiting for us at the station.”

  “Goddamn it. I can’t let them take me.”

  “Why not?”

  “The people Yancey worked for won’t stop coming for me until I’m dead. And if I’m in custody, they’ll know right where to find me.”

  “I don’t get it—what does Bellum want with you?”

  “Not Bellum,” Segreti said. “The other ones.”

  “What other ones?”

  Segreti frowned. “You got anybody in your life you care about? Friends, family, pets, whatever?”

  “Sure. Doesn’t everybody?”

  “The lucky ones do. And if you count yourself among them, you’re better off not knowing.”

  “Fine. Don’t tell me who’s after you, but you should tell the Feds, at least. I’m sure they can protect you.”

  “You have no idea how fucking wrong you are,” Segreti said. “The worst part is, I actually thought I’d gotten clear of all this shit. Now I realize there’s no escaping your past—anywhere you go, it’s always right behind you. Hey, you ever hear of a guy named Heraclitus?”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. It’s not important. What is important is, I’m sick of this life—it ain’t mine anymore. And the truth is, I’d rather go out on my own terms than wait around for the fuckers Yancey worked for to catch up with me.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Reyes said. “You and me are walking out of here together, okay? The rest will sort itself out. You have my word.”

  “Your word,” Segreti echoed. “I’ve heard that one before. Even, once, from him.” He nudged Yancey’s body with his foot. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you’re gonna hafta see this—but if it makes you feel any better, I’m sick. The Big C. I didn’t have long left anyway.”

  “Whatever you’re thinking about doing—” Reyes said, but by the time the words cleared his lips, it was too late.

  Segreti inhaled sharply. Raised the .45 to his head. As Reyes screamed for him to stop, he pulled the trigger. His head snapped back, and his body fell to the floor.

  42.

  CAMERON AND HENDRICKS watched Segreti die on the nightly news as they sat holed up in a shitty hotel room. The train’s surveillance cameras captured the whole thing. It was a somber, horrifying affair, traumatic enough that Cameron had to look away. Hendricks watched every second of the footage, though. He felt he owed Segreti that much.

  The train was halted soon after. The passengers were forced to hike single file down the tunnel’s narrow service walkway to the nearest station—still Oakland, at that point. The tunnel was shut down for hours afterward so it could be inspected for damage and so the crime-scene techs could do their thing, and BART service between the cities was suspended.

  The news identified Segreti by name and peddled a slanted version of the whole sordid tale. A gangster in hiding. A retired federal agent recognizing him and making it his mission to track him down, hell-bent on bringing in the one who got away. A bloody altercation leaving both men dead. One was painted a two-bit lowlife, the other a hero.

  If you asked Hendricks, that wasn’t far off—only they had it backward which was which.

  Segreti’s death didn’t dominate the news cycle for long. Later that evening, the White House announced that government operatives had raided a body shop in South San Francisco and—after what was described as a protracted gun battle—had killed two members of the True Islamic Caliphate, one of them the man from the video. Inside, they found handguns, assault rifles, and a pair of partially assembled explosive vests, as well as a map of San Francisco on which the Federal Building and several targets in the Castro District were marked.

  The statement never mentioned Bellum by name, but come Wall Street’s morning bell, their stock soared nonetheless.

  Hendricks’s memories of the
next sixteen hours or so were spotty. His wound was in bad shape, and a brutal fever had taken hold of him. He slathered it with antibiotic ointment and popped aspirin like Tic Tacs until his fever broke. Cameron was so worried about him, she refused to get checked out at the nearby urgent care clinic until he threatened to go off his meds. It turned out she needed stitches and a tetanus shot, but thankfully, Yancey and the assholes at the hospital hadn’t broken any bones.

  When Hendricks was feeling well enough to move, he and Cameron parted ways. She seemed bummed but didn’t argue. “Guess it was silly of me, thinking I could help you…do what you do,” she said.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “You did all right out there. And I may still need a favor from time to time. IDs. Aliases. A little background work, maybe. You know—the kind you can manage from your dorm room, well out of the line of fire.”

  “Deal,” she said. “But I’m not going back to college, not until I decide what for.”

  “What are you going to do in the meantime?”

  She shrugged. “There’s a lot of advocacy groups out there that need volunteers. I think I’ll try to do some good while I figure out what’s next.”

  “Something tells me you’ll do plenty.”

  They hugged. She squeezed him so tight, his stitches hurt. When she finally let him go, tears brimmed in her eyes. “Do me a favor out there, would you?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t die.”

  Hendricks smiled, but said nothing.

  He didn’t want to make a promise he couldn’t keep.

  43.

  CHARLIE THOMPSON STOOD in an apartment full of boxes and wondered where the hell she’d put her keys.

  Officially, she’d moved out of O’Brien’s house four days ago, once her transfer had come through. That’s when the movers picked up her boxes and drove them here. But unofficially, she’d been sleeping at a hotel every night since the shit went down in San Francisco. Hard to believe that less than three weeks ago, she and Kate were engaged. Now she was single, living in a condo with a partial view of Lake Michigan, and working out of the Milwaukee field office.