The Deal

by Holly Hart

  Maybe she’ll hold onto a few good memories: running in the park; lazy mornings in bed; making fun of Starkey, that time.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. Erik. I pick up—why not? Nothing’s stopping this train.

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s a sniper. He’s going to shoot her.”

  I sit up so fast my knee smacks the steering wheel. “What? When?”

  “Magnus found her notes. She, uh—she knew about Nagler’s kid. Planned to use him as leverage, to get the real dirt. Blakemoor—we got so much to lose, and she knew; she had—”

  “Fuck Blakemoor—where’s the sniper?”

  “He’s got—he’s a worm. Nagler. Hundred percent spineless...worm. He’d have spilled his guts, ruined—ruined....” Shit—he’s drunk. Off his face.

  “Erik! The sniper! Where’s it happening?”

  “Dunno...didn’t say. Told me to sit here and wait, so I’m waiting.” He laughs. “Not even sure I should be warning you. Probably better—think your little crush goes both ways? ‘Cause I...’cause I happen to know—she—”

  “Jesus Christ!” Drunken moron! I toss the phone on the seat and peel out. Screw where the sniper is: I know where she is. Justice can wait one more day.

  37

  Stella

  It’s like stepping on a twig—just a snap, out of nowhere, and Starkey misses a step. I open my mouth to say something, and the wind’s knocked out of me as he slams me against the wall. A sick sense of déjà vu washes over me. This time, I’m fighting like hell. This time—

  “Stop. Sniper.”

  Everything comes to a halt. I can’t feel my own heart. Starkey’s bleeding, nickel-sized drops pattering to the ground, too fast, too heavy.

  “You’re—”

  “Ssh. Get inside. Stay away from the windows.” He pushes my passport into my hand, and a wallet that isn’t mine. “Everything you need. Go. Don’t look back.”

  “What about you? Aren’t you—”

  “Can’t get on a plane like this.” He’s crowding me to the door, shielding me with his body. “Walk fast, once you’re inside. Buy your ticket and blend with the crowd. Don’t stand alone. Don’t be a target.” He winces and narrows his eyes. “And when you land, disappear. Don’t wait for Jack. If you see him, run the other way.”

  “What? Why—?”

  His face contorts. “He’s a war criminal. He’d do anything to avoid prosecution. Anything.” Starkey gives me a push. “Now, go!”

  He’s...what? “But—”

  “Go!” He shoves me harder. I wobble, going over on my ankle, and nearly tumble into the terminal. By the time I’ve righted myself, Starkey’s gone. And I’m neatly framed between the glass doors. I can worry about his parting words later. Right now, I’m walking. Or hobbling. But quickly. Double-time.

  I’m halfway to the ticket counter when I spot her: Katrina. She’s looking the other way, but I’d know that profile anywhere, that severe blonde bun. She’s doing a slow sweep, scanning the ticket lines. Five seconds, maybe ten, we’ll lock eyes. I hold my breath. Running would bring her down on me in an instant. I could scream, but the nearest guard is by the bathrooms, halfway down the terminal.

  Hide—I need to hide. A row of chairs looks promising, but there’s space underneath. She’d spot me kneeling. The bathroom? No—I’d never get past her. A trolley piled high with suitcases: that’ll have to do.

  I slip behind the trolley, careful not to move too fast, and crouch low. This works. I close my eyes and inhale, mind racing. She probably knows I’m here. Sooner or later, she’ll come looking, and when she does, I need to be somewhere else. Far away.

  Laughter rings out, right behind me. I whirl, nearly jostling the suitcases. There’s a little kid pointing at me, chortling out loud. “Mommy! That lady has to pee!”

  Oh, my God—really?

  Her mother looks over. “No, honey—I think she has a sore foot.” She shrugs, apologetic. “Sorry, sweetheart!” So loud—they’re so loud. Katrina’s got to be looking. She’ll guess; she’ll come over, and...shoot me in the middle of the airport?

  No, not that. She’ll force me outside, like Starkey did at the party—and then I’ll be shot. By the sniper, while she walks away.

  There are three cabs at the taxi stand, lit up and waiting.

  Now or never.

  I bolt for the exit, head ducked low.

  38

  Jack

  She’s not here. Starkey, either. There’s blood—a great, messy pool of it, and a trail leading to the curb. No cops, though. Nobody milling around. So they’re alive—or they were when they left. Which couldn’t have been long ago. Blood’s still fresh, and Starkey hasn’t called.

  All I have to do is wait. He’ll get her to safety and check in. Five minutes, ten—unless he can’t.

  There’s a lot of blood. He could’ve gone off the road. Pulled over and passed out. Or it’s her blood.

  I close my eyes, just for a second. Can’t play what-if, not now. All that matters is where they went. Not home: Starkey’s not stupid. Not LaGuardia, either. Trailing blood through an airport is a quick way to get detained. That leaves Port Authority—a way out, anonymous, not far from here. Either that or a hospital.

  As if on cue, my phone vibrates. “Go ahead.”

  “We got separated at the airport. Sniper on scene.” Starkey’s breathing is heavy, labored. The blood must be his. “She made it inside, but I got winged. Had to get out.”

  Okay. Okay—so she’s safe. Sleeping in first class, with any luck. “Where are you now?”

  “Hospital. Cops are on their way—I’ll be a while.”

  Of course. They’d have reported the gunshot wound. Doesn’t matter. It’s all coming out, anyway. “Take it easy. You did good.”

  “Wait!” He grunts, like he’s trying to sit up. “You’re going to let her go, right?”

  What? “Let her go?”

  “She won’t come back. She’ll leave you alone. There’s no reason—she’s not a loose end.”

  Not a loose end? “Wait—you think this was me?”

  There’s a long silence on the other end. I’m starting to think Starkey’s passed out, when he clears his throat. “I don’t know. That’s the God’s honest truth.” Fabric crinkles, and he groans. “Hope it wasn’t.”

  The line goes dead. I sit down heavily on the curb. That’s what he thinks of me? After all these years? Am I that big an asshole?

  A taxi pulls up behind my car, honking loudly. I flip him the bird, but it’s time to go. Nothing left for me here. I slide behind the wheel and power on my phone. It’s not really my business, but I’m curious: the name of the airline should be on my credit card account. I can match it up with outgoing flights, guess at which one she took. Picture her there, in the hard times to come.

  No pending charges.

  The cabbie honks again, and I lay on my own horn.

  No pending charges?

  She didn’t take her purse. Couldn’t have paid for herself. So if she didn’t book a ticket....

  A volley of honking assaults my ears.

  “All right! Fuck! I’m going!” I pull out, already speed-dialing the bank. Got to be a delay in the system. An error. Something not working the way it should. Stella got out—she must have. If she didn’t....

  She did.

  39

  Stella

  It’s still the same doorman, back at my place. He lets me in, promising to drop by a new key first thing. I manage a grateful nod, but I’ll be out of here at dawn. This place isn’t safe past tonight.

  Everything looks smaller than it did. And it’s cold in here, the profound chill of an abandoned home. No hint of warmth caught in the carpet, the curtains, the quilt folded at the foot of the bed. There’s a staleness to the air, and dust—a lot of dust. I cough and rub my eyes.

  It’s just a place to crash. Tomorrow, I’ll think about where to go...and how to get there. I could bus it up to Canada, lose myself in the prairi
es. Or farther north—Greenland, maybe. Iceland. Somewhere he won’t think to look. Somewhere to disappear.

  I crack the curtains. A sliver of light angles in from the street. It’ll have to be enough: has to look like no one’s home. He might swing by, once he knows I’m not dead.

  There’s still a nightie folded under my pillow, a summer one, too thin by far. I crawl under the covers in my clothes, burrow my head into the pillow, and close my eyes. The bed I slept in for years feels too soft, unfamiliar. No longer my own. I wriggle uncomfortably, missing Jack’s warmth.

  Jack. Why bother putting me back together, if he meant to have me shot? Or was I the sacrifice the whole time? These last three weeks, sitting with me, cooking for me, helping me hop around the penthouse—was that guilt? An apology for what he was about to do?

  I’m never going to sleep. I roll over on my back and stare at the ceiling. The paint’s cracked some more in my absence. Or maybe it was always like that. Reminds me of doilies...dried mud...spiderwebs....

  I sit up with a gasp, hazy and disoriented. Did I fall asleep?

  Somebody’s here, sharing my air. I pull the covers to my chin like a kid hiding from the boogeyman. The darkness feels occupied. Crowded, even. I can’t hear anything, see anyone, but there’s a prickling at the back of my neck, a lump in my throat.

  I cast about for anything that bludgeons or crushes or stabs. There’s a lamp by the window, heavy and lethal, and tragically out of reach. Beating him to death with a slipper seems farfetched. On the nightstand, I spot a snowglobe: Christmas in Vienna. I reach for it, slow and easy, flinching at the faint slosh of water.

  “Hello?”

  It’s him. Jack.

  I press my back to the wall, clutching my weapon.

  “Look, whatever Starkey told you, I swear there’s no danger. Not from me.”

  The bathroom door creaks. Boots clunk on tile. I hear the scrape and crinkle of the shower curtain, the linen closet opening and closing. I’m shivering—fuck. Breathe.

  “He’s okay, in case you were wondering. Stitched up and on his way home.” Jack’s closing in. I can actually see him coming, a subtle shift in the light as his mass blocks the crack in the door. “I guess he might’ve said something to you. Warned you, maybe.”

  I grip the snow globe so tight the base grooves my fingers.

  Jack opens the door. “Oh, there you—”

  I hurl the snow globe with all my might. It bounces off his shoulder, hits the doorframe, and explodes in a spray of glitter and glass. Jack dusts off his arm. He’s smiling, actually smiling, like any of this is funny.

  “I’m all...wet. And sparkly.”

  “Stay back. Please.”

  Jack glances toward the window. The streetlights flash orange in his eyes. “Mind if I sit down?”

  Suppose it might be better if he wasn’t towering over me. I nod, and he settles himself on the edge of the bed.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Checked everywhere else. Thought you’d have caught a bus, got the hell out of Dodge.”

  “No money.”

  He sighs. “Guess you ditched my credit card.”

  I watch him warily. He’s hunched over, shoulders slumped. His hand’s bleeding, where the glass must have nicked him.

  “Why aren’t you on a plane?” There’s a hollow note to his voice. Defeated.

  “Katrina was there. Guarding the ticket counter.”

  Jack looks up, startled. “Katrina? Her, too?” Outside, tires screech. Someone swears.

  “Fuck. Fuck. We need to get out of here. Now.” He looks around. “Where’s your jacket? The one Starkey gave you?”

  “Hall closet—what’s happening?”

  “No time—come on.” He’s calm, but there’s an urgency to his voice that has me trailing after him in spite of myself, letting him help me into my jacket. He zips it to the chin and straightens the collar. “Can you run, if need be?”

  I shake my head.

  “All right. We’ll—”

  Glass shatters in the bedroom. I feel a breeze on my cheek—the window! Why—?

  Jack hurtles down the hall and slams the door. An instant later, thick smoke’s rolling under the door, billowing up in thick plumes. I turn to run, but Jack catches me by the elbow.

  “Is there another way out of here, besides the front door?”

  “The fire escape.”

  Jack frowns. “They’ll be all over that. What about a garage—underground parking?”

  “No—are we trapped?”

  “I’ll get you out.”

  The smoke’s advancing. We retreat to the kitchen, then the hall. My eyes sting and water. There’s nowhere left to go. Except—

  “The roof!”

  “What?”

  “Top floor balconies wrap around.” I cover my mouth and cough. “There’s one corner kind of...hanging over the roof of the next building. We could jump. Maybe.” The smoke’s getting thicker, acrid and choking. We’re running out of choices.

  “All right.” Jack slings my arm over his shoulder, practically carrying me out the door. He squats down when we reach the stairwell. “Get on. It’ll be faster.”

  I clamber onto his back. He hitches me up and starts to run, taking the stairs two and three at a time. We burst onto the roof, and the door hisses shut behind us. Jack pauses. “Which way?”

  “Over there, past the pigeons.”

  He charges past the coop. I can see the next building from here. The drop’s worse than I thought: easily twelve feet from railing to roof.

  “I’m not going to make it.”

  Jack sets me down. “Yes, you are. I’ll go first, and catch you.” He vaults over the barrier before I can stop him, landing lightly on the balcony below. I follow more slowly, peering over the edge. The balcony’s not far, nothing like the roof, but I...can’t. I back away, head spinning with images of Jack staggering under my weight, pitching us both over the railing. We’d glance off the roof below, plunge headfirst to our deaths—

  “Hey! Before they spot us!”

  Falling, or a bullet to the brain?

  My ankle throbs. Hoisting myself over like Jack did won’t work. Embarrassed, I turn around and hop up ass-first. I hear Jack stifle a chuckle as I swing my legs over. From there, it’s just a matter of leaning forward and falling into his arms.

  I close my eyes and do it. One weightless instant, and he’s got me, safe and sound.

  “Made it.”

  Jack peers over the railing. “Yeah, but you’re not getting over this. Way too dangerous.” He crouches. “Hop back up—we’ll go together.”

  Oh, hell no. From this angle, the gap between buildings looks wider. Too wide. Easily three, four feet of gaping nothing. I back away, shaking my head.

  “We can’t get back the way we came. And look.” He points down the alley. Eight floors below, near the mouth of the alley, two men are blocking the fire escape. One of them is looking around. Getting impatient. Any second, he’ll glance up, and it’ll be too late.

  I mount up one more time, hanging on for dear life. Jack’s muscles bunch and ripple as he jumps up on the railing. “Whatever you do, don’t scream,” he warns me. He tenses, springs, and we’re airborne. I bury my face in his shoulder—I can’t look. And it’s taking too long. We’ve fallen short of the roof: this is it. Nothing left of our lives but down, down, down....

  Jack grunts as his feet hit the gravel. He stumbles, rights himself, and drops down on one knee. I slide off his back, boneless.

  “See? Nothing to it.”

  I roll my eyes to hide my terror. “Yeah. Well, now we’re on the roof of someone else’s building, with—oh! No way down!” I jerk my head at the door. “See? No handle on this side.”

  “We’ll get in through the fire escape.” Jack reaches for me, stopping just short of pushing my hair out of my face. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed any more. “Can you walk yet?”

  I nod and scramble to my feet, ignoring my knockin
g knees.

  No going back now.

  40

  Jack

  Stella follows me through a janky window on the fifth floor, which slides open when I jiggle the frame. Nobody’s home: the heat’s off, and no one’s screaming blue murder. I look around. This building’s older than Stella’s. Kind of run down, in a hipster-friendly way. I make my way to the bedroom and dig through the closet. A bright yellow hoodie catches my eye.

  “You’re stealing that?”

  I shrug out of my jacket. “I’ll leave a fifty.”

  “This isn’t a store.”

  “Yeah, but ten minutes from now, we’ll be hitting the street. Can’t do that looking like ourselves.” I pull the hoodie over my head. It’s a snug fit, especially over the shoulders. “You should grab some shoes.”

  Stella looks down, taking in her bare feet. She helps herself to a pair of socks and heads for the hallway. By the time I’ve switched my slacks for sweatpants and stuffed my clothes in a plastic shopping bag, she’s snuggled into someone’s puffy winter coat and a pair of Doc Martens.

  “We’re really going out the front door?”

  “Know another way?”

  “No, but... I mean, won’t they be right there? Outside my building?”

  “Yeah. But so’s my car. They know we were in there. Sooner or later, they’ll figure out where we went.”

  I expect Stella to panic—hell, I’ve been expecting it since I broke into her apartment—but she only nods. “What’s the time?”

  I peer down the hall at the kitchen clock. “Eighteen past four.”

  “There’s a bus stop round the corner. Next one’s at twenty-five past. If we time it right, we can walk right onto it.”

  I want to kiss her. She’d probably bite me. I take her arm instead. “Lean on me a little, like you’re still half asleep. Just—just mosey, but don’t talk.”

  “Half asleep; mosey; no talking. Got it.”