Up and down the halls for a while, Megan in tow with her arms crossed and feet stamping. Finally, down the escalator. The baggage claim was mostly empty, so he stopped there, looked far and wide.
“What?” Megan said. The pout on this girl, Jesus.
“How about climb through there.” He pointed a finger-gun at a baggage carousel.
“No way. We can’t do that.”
“Why? Because it’s illegal?”
Megan held back, calmed down, said, “That doesn’t lead out, though. It goes into a maze or something.”
“Then it leads out. All the trucks that take stuff to the planes, we can grab one of those before they catch on.”
“Yeah, that’s just it. They will catch on.”
Lancaster popped his lips, swooned his fingers like magician. “Like I’ve said all along. You can take off now, you want. No biggie.”
Megan was close to tears, and Lancaster wanted to backhand her. Love at first sight always ended up like this—never the beach and the sunset, always the twisted crash and burn. He closed his eyes and wished she’d vanish like a ghost. If Terry were here, he would probably have a good escape route. Should’ve listened to the guy instead of gone all Blaze of Glory on him.
She said, “I thought you were my new life, not the end of it.”
“End of the new life? End of the old?”
“End period.”
He pfft a sharp breath, said, “They won’t shoot you. Look at you. They’ll want you for strip-searching, turn the hose on you. And that’s before the guards in prison fuck you bloody most nights. Far from dead, least until your looks fade.”
She was slack-jaw stunned. “I can’t believe you just said—”
“Two choices,” he said, holding up a V and showing her the front and back of it. “You come with, or you go bye-bye. And you have to decide, mmmmmmmm, now.”
And Lancaster snapped his fingers.
And he turned away like he was James fuckin’ Dean all the sudden.
Megan watched him take a few jive steps before she felt the pull—magnetic, urgent—and shuffled behind him.
Right up to the empty baggage carousel, the worn black conveyer belt, the scuffed plastic flap, without pausing to reconsider, Lancaster stepped up, crouched down, and crawled through. Megan followed, a bit delicately.
Lancaster anticipated what happened next, the second he was through the flap.
The airport went apeshit.
Alarms donging pleasantly followed by a voice asking people to evacuate the terminal.
Lancaster hoped he still had enough surprise on his side. First guy he saw with a gun, he was zooming in. Disarm, deactivate, no time to dismember. He visualized it, microseconds seeming like hours, until he was game-day ready to emerge into the bowels of the airport.
*
The one guard gone for water, Alan sat still until a wave of passengers from the exiting plane made a nice shield for him. He was up, weaving, fast as he’d ever been, already inside the door when the beefy guard shouted Hey, you!
The door was swinging closed, and Alan hustled for the handle, but it kicked open again, banged his shoulder, and he nearly collided with an annoyed guy in a business suit. He brushed past, faced a steady stream of people, the corridor was wide enough that he didn’t have to squeeze through tight holes.
Halfway down, he heard the guard’s voice behind him, “Stop that man!” Alan hoped it would scare people rather than rev them up, though the way things had changed, everyone in coach might tackle him, helping defend America, getting a spot on Today to tell Katie Couric how heroic they felt.
Instead, these people looked confused. One woman let out Oh my God. The others went limp. One look at Alan was enough—Shit, guy’s bigger than me. Shoot his ass. He kept moving, creeping, rolling past like was tripping, hoping the pilot wasn’t some armed maverick waiting to take him out. Ahead to the right was a pile of valet bags, an attendant sorting through as a handful of passengers crowded around. They blocked the door leading to stairs leading to the tarmac. Alan decided to fuck Excuse me and bowl them over if necessary.
They watched him rush ahead, only realizing at the last minute that this wasn’t a good place to be. The passengers ducked inside the plane or flattened against the wall. Alan tripped over a folded stroller, nearly tumbled, grabbed the attendant and steadied himself.
The guard was coming fast from the other end of the corridor, Alan turning to see the guy only twenty feet away. Nineteen. Eighteen.
Alan wrapped his arm around the attendant’s neck, some wrestling hold, which stopped the guard at fifteen feet, wild guess. Too damn close, anyway. That’s when the alarms went off, faint in this corridor away from the terminal, but still heartstopping, Alan doing fear and extra sweat, not listening to macho guard yelling at him, gun straight. No time for a stand-off. Alan pushed the attendant towards the guard and reached behind him, pushed the door open, and nearly fell outside.
The engine whine was louder than anything he’d ever heard, white noise wiping out the alarms, the corridor shouting, the workers on the ground scrambling. Vests and baggage trains and orange sticks and ear protection, Lights flashing in the fading light, world going to gray, and Alan took the stairs in three big steps, came down hard on an ankle, felt it like a snap. He only let the pain reach him for a second before he ducked low and took off under the wing across the tarmac. Other planes stopped now where they were when the alarms rang—a line heading out to the runway, another incoming, almost to its gate.
The ankle, every step like a blade stabbing it. Alan kept going. He was disoriented. He wanted to find the Veterans Boulevard side, make a run for it where he could hitch a ride or blend into the crowds and traffic. To get that far, he needed to find the runway, find the parking garage. The goddamn Delta terminal wasn’t giving directions, hiding the world beyond its walls.
Get out there, get a better view.
The ankle hurt like holy shit and he was sure others behind him would be quicker.
Don’t think that way. Until they stop you, don’t stop.
Voices in your head, Alan thought, were all talk, no action. He kept going, skipping to keep weight off the ankle, speeding him up. A glance behind him. The lights of an airline cart, catching up. They hadn’t shot him yet, probably planned to whip around, cut him off. Still until they did, maybe a minute or less, he didn’t give up the skipping, skipping, skipping to freedom. The guards in the cart would get him to the ground, clamp the cuffs on, and this would be over. Maybe in prison, he could work in the library, something peaceful. At least he had new bulk, more muscle. No one was going to punk him out. Besides, regardless of three murders, if they could even pin all three on him, he could still turn on Lydia. She was the mastermind, the bigger fish. And all his dirt on the businessmen and politicians he used to work for, little clean up and blackmail jobs, had to be worth something to reduce his time.
Thinking like that, he slowed his pace, the skip going to a slo-mo gallop before he stood still and raised his hands, tried to make it easy on everyone.
Goddamn it if the cart didn’t stop, bashed right into him, full speed.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Terry’s arm was shoulder deep in a trashcan when the alarms sounded. He and Lydia were in the parking garage at the Monte Carlo, Terry hoping aloud that Crabtree would’ve ditched the keys in the trash like any low class crook. If it were up to Terry, this guy always talking, the keys would end up farther away, a trash can in a men’s room in one of the concourses.
“Hurry,” Lydia said, the voice over the speakers and the alarm asking visitors to evacuate the terminal. She wondered what it was all about—her disappearing with Terry or Alan getting iced by Lancaster. Just as quickly, she didn’t want to know. This was about survival. Alan, sure, there was love, and that would haunt her. The best she could say was at the end she didn’t give him up. Leaving was better than betraying, enough so she would be able to sleep at night.
Terry hit someth
ing mushy and recoiled like a scared squirrel. “Gross.”
“Look, what about your car?”
Terry lifting the bag from the can, took it over to the wall next to a Seville, a nice hiding spot, and dumped the trash on the ground. The keys tinkled enough for Terry to zero in like sonar.
“Got ‘em.” He lifted them high and smiled like a goofy frat boy. Lydia remembered Alan describing him like that. It was pretty much spot on.
“Can we go now before we’re cornered?”
Terry hurried around to the Monte Carlo, unlocked and opened the passenger door. He helped Lydia into the seat, those too-soft hands not as fumbly as Alan’s. He clicked her seatbelt, checked it with a good tug, then shut her door and bopped around to the other side. Terry seemed a hundred degrees happier out of the terminal, ready to go anyplace other than here. He plopped into his seat, same silly grin, and cranked up.
“Ready?” He lifted the parking stub from the dash, wiggled his fingers deep in his pocket and came out with a few one-dollar bills. “Have to pay to park, you know.”
“Just drive, please. What if they stop us?”
“This might be one time where I won’t bother trying to talk our way out. Hopefully, they’ll take the money and raise the gate. If not, we bust through the gate.”
Lydia smiled despite her tone. The façade breaking down, but she didn’t feel bad about it. This cocky little bastard, ready to be molded, no problem. As Terry made his way out of the maze and onto the ramp heading out, she said. “As long as there’s more to that plan.”
“There’s always more. Where we going, anyway?”
“Far away,” Lydia said, more breath than voice. Then, “Someplace warm, though.”
Terry nodded. “Sure, sounds nice.” He guessed that in a couple hours, she would be overwhelmed by his charm and pretty much agree to Antarctica if he suggested it. Not quite what he had in mind. Not much warmer, either. “Nice and toasty.”
“There’s a body in the trunk,” Lydia said.
“Hey, no problem.”
*
The baggage cart’s impact was rough but not fatal. Instead, the worst part was Alan’s leg getting caught under the front bumper at a bad angle. The bone snapped and his knee twisted. He fell, smashed his nose on the pavement and went dizzy. Blood on his hands. Face throbbing. Jesus.
He heard a petite voice, familiar, “There, you got him. His leg’s broken. Can we leave now before we get caught?”
Another rough voice, a man, familiar but ragged. “What made you think I was an eye for an eye, limb for limb guy?”
Alan propped on his elbows, turned his head left, almost threw up. He saw Lancaster approaching, uniformed up in the vest and hat. Megan behind him. The pain went secondary and the escape impulse kicked in. He tried to move forward on his elbows, a few inches. More nausea. He held it all down. Wanted to lift his leg. It wasn’t cooperating, his thigh rising, the calf rubbery, hanging down. Seeing that, he finally puked. Blood and puke all over his arms.
Lancaster kicked Alan in the face, full force with a heavy-duty boot. It split his skin from cheek to temple. Another kick to the neck. Another dozen to the shoulder. Working his way down. Alan prayed for the guards to hurry up and get there, prison looking better every second.
“Fucking shoot me, you lard-ass son of a whore!” Lancaster kicked as he spoke, rumbling louder than jet noise, working his way down Alan’s body. “Ungrateful, we got you that car and you shoot me?”
Alan tried to speak, all coming out as a cough, bile, more blood and puke.
Lancaster stomped the broken leg.
Kill me, Alan thought, but he wailed high-pitched, old Sammy Hagar yell without girls and sex and rock & roll. Only serious goddamn pain, the kind he’d spent his whole life avoiding.
“You followed me to the woods,” Alan said, sputtering effort in every word. “You were going to kill me. Tell me you weren’t.”
A little more pressure on the leg. “I can kill you anytime I want and you have to like it, not fucking shoot me. Know what you’re wishing right now? Wishing you were a better aim, you fat boy freak-fucker.”
Megan hopped in place like a little girl. Alan liked that. Must’ve been close to the light, the pain more cold than anything else, his eyes not wanting to stay open. Where the hell were those guards? It felt like an hour since Lancaster showed up.
“Leave him alone, Lancaster. Jesus, look at him.”
“He’s still moving, ain’t he? Not done yet.”
“Were you really going to kill him? Was that why he shot you?”
Another kick, probably ruptured a kidney. Alan’s face was swelling, and he had chills. Barely able to glimpse of Lancaster and Megan.
Lancaster took a step back, grinning. Fists ready to strike the final blow. He said, “The guy this asshole shot paid us to keep him alive. We failed. I didn’t want to kill Crabtree, you know? I’ve roughed him up before, sure. That’s the way of the jungle. Alpha male keeps the little ones in line.” He knelt, inches from Alan’s face. “Right, buddy? Wasn’t that the way it always went? You never shot me before.”
“You deserved it,” Alan said.
“I deserved respect.”
“Okay, you do. Fine, I was wrong,” Alan said, trying for sincerity. Don’t let the fear do the talking. “I’ve learned my lesson. It won’t happen again.”
Lancaster spit at him. “It’s too late for that. You’re over. But thanks for groveling. Good job. Oh, and I killed your little side show girlfriend, too.”
Megan said, “You did not.”
“Shut it!” He turned back to Alan. “She wasn’t there when I did it. Yep, I fucked her to death in the ladies room here.”
“You’re lying. The police had her.”
“Not for long. And then there was me and her, right up her ass, hard as fucking horses, and then I covered her mouth with my hand—”
Alan winced, “No, man…”
“Yeah, and she couldn’t claw it off, couldn’t shake it off, couldn’t kick me, kinda like you right now, except your fat ass doesn’t turn me on. And I kept pumping.”
Megan pulled at Lancaster’s shoulder. “Come on, you know that’s bullshit. Leave him alone.”
Lancaster grabbed her hair and yanked hard, pulled her face to face, then bit her cheek. She convulsed, slapped him, her cry ramping up as he held on to the skin. He let go, and she had a bloody ring running down her face and neck, still shrilling, top of her lungs.
“You fuck! You bastard! You never, ever—what the fuck, you, you—”
He growled and fake-lunged at her, and she retreated to the cart. Lancaster turned to Alan again, put his hand on the back of his neck. “I see the guards finally getting out here. Here they come. Before I snap your neck, I wanted you to know it was all for nothing. She’s gone, and the money’s gone, and now, you too.”
Pressure on the back of Alan’s head. Lancaster reached with his other hand. Then the cart backed away from Alan, Megan in the driver’s seat.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Lancaster stood and started for the cart. Megan pulled away, a big loop, heading back for the terminal, head on with the approaching guards in SUVs. Then she looped again, full speed right towards Lancaster.
He didn’t budge. “Want to play chicken? Is that it? Come on, crack whore. Give it to me. I dare you.”
She was fast and steady, no wavering, the sirens and lights behind her catching up fast. Showdown, Lancaster’s hands at his sides imitating an itchy fingered cowboy. Alan hoped she didn’t lose her nerve.
At the last moment, Lancaster sidestepped the cart, grabbed Megan’s shirt from the side and tossed her out like a rag doll. The cart kept rolling, the front tires running over Alan’s broken leg before coming to a stop on his body, squeezing him, hard to get the air inside.
Lancaster lifted Megan from the ground, held her at arm’s length, and punched her in the face—once, twice, full bore like a boxer. She leaned back, her leg muscles straining, not gettin
g her anywhere.
Then a gunshot, barely registering with the noise. Lancaster dropped Megan and spun silly, head turning left and right and his eyes wide. Another gunshot exploded, his stomach going red, dropping to his knees. Red dots appeared on his head and chest as cops dressed for combat swarmed from behind the SUV pulling to a stop near Alan and the cart on top of him.
Megan found her feet, stumbled a little, barely made it to Alan’s side before the cops reached her. She stretched on the pavement in front of him, her forehead touching his. He was barely in the world.
“Hold on, Alan. They’re here. You’ll be okay.”
“I, um…don’t feel anything.”
“That’s your mind protecting you from the pain. Feel my energy, we can share it.”
He mumbled something. She couldn’t tell he was still alive until he blinked.
“You know he didn’t kill Lydia. Oh, I’m so sorry, Alan. I didn’t know.”
“Issokay…” Alan said. “You okay. Best you coulda…”
A man in a rumpled suit and his pistol drawn made his way to Alan, barking orders at Megan to back away, then getting a good look at the man. “Jesus.” Shouted behind him, “Get an ambulance, right now.”
He got down on one knee beside them. “That freak over there did this?”
Megan said, “You have no idea.”
“This Lydia Whipps’ kidnapper, or boyfriend, or whatever he was?”
“He’s still alive!”
The detective shook his head. “I’ve seen plenty of folks in plenty of situations. This guy, he’s not going to make it.”
“You know Lydia? Is she okay? Tell Alan she’s okay.”
The cop said, “I was questioning her, and she seemed fine, no trauma, just a little quiet.”
“Where is she? You’ve got her in a safe place?”
He shrugged. “She got away. Some blonde security guard rolled her right out from under us. Must be pretty smart, because this place is in serious lockdown mode thanks to that little stunt your boy pulled.”
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