The Deal

by Holly Hart

  We take the elevator down. Stella goes stiff in the lobby, hesitating at the door. I pull her close. “Two minutes. Three tops. You and me on that bus, riding into the, uh, sunrise.”

  She leans into me like she’s sleepy, ducks her head, and toes the door open. I yank my hood over my eyes, and we stagger out together.

  The lamp over the door hits us like a spotlight. Stella flinches, but keeps going. Nobody hails us. Nobody shoots us in the back. We keep walking. Stella’s trembling so badly I’m surprised she’s still walking, and I realize it’s her ankle. It’s wobbling: she’s barely holding on. I slip my arm around her waist and hold her up as best I can.

  “Just a little more,” I whisper.

  She nods. Fails to suppress a hiss of pain. I keep my eyes on the end of the block: almost there. I half-carry her past the bodega, some mom-and-pop place with a faded sign. Ten steps to go. I’m murmuring encouragements. She’s biting her lip. Trying to walk normally, not to give us away.

  “I hear the bus.”

  She lifts her head. Tries to walk faster.

  The second we’re around the corner and out of sight, I scoop her up and run. We make it just as the doors are closing. I lunge forward and jam my foot through, in case the driver decides to be an asshole about it.

  For the first few blocks, neither of us says anything. Only when Stella’s building, and the cars parked out front, are completely out of sight does she open her mouth.

  “Starkey said you’re a war criminal.”

  Well. So much for small talk. “I’m—”

  “You’re going to tell me the truth. All of it. None of this ‘I did a terrible thing’ bullshit. No vague ‘it’s worse than you think’. Everything. Details.” She crushes my hand in hers. “And then I have something to tell you. Maybe. Depending on what I think of you when you’re done.”

  “Can we at least get off the bus first? Get someplace safe?”

  She leans her head on the window, eyes closed. “Where are we going?”

  Good question. “Give me a second. I’ll think of somewhere.”

  Stella snorts, but she leaves me her hand. Two blocks later, it comes to me: the perfect hideout, right under Magnus’s nose. The one place he’ll never think to look. Eight blocks later, I pull the cord. “This is our stop.”

  41

  Stella

  As hideouts go, it’s pretty chintzy. No power, no running water, no wifi. No carpets. I toe at the floorboards: damp and spongy.

  Jack sniffs the air. “Sorry. Didn’t expect this much mildew.”

  “What is this place?”

  “Used to be a spa, I think. Magnus bought it years ago, when he wanted to get into real estate. Forgot it in six weeks flat. He’s got ten, twenty places like this, just...boarded up, doing nothing.” He wriggles out of his ridiculous yellow hoodie and spreads it on the floor. “Here. Sit.”

  It’s a relief to get off my ankle. I lean back and stretch my legs, ignoring the paint chips that flake off the wall and settle across my shoulders. Jack stalks around the room, checking the windows, the exits, the upstairs. Stalling. No one’s been here in years. I toss a chunk of plaster at him when he starts looking in closets.

  “Hey. Time’s up.”

  “There could be squatters, transients....”

  “But there aren’t.” I twirl my finger at the vast, empty lobby. “No trash. No graffiti. No anything. Sit your ass down.”

  He sits. And starts talking immediately, like he’s scared he’ll lose his nerve. “So first of all, there’s war crimes, and then there’s...war crimes, like you’re picturing—torture, genocide, the dark stuff. What we’re talking about, it’s not that.”

  “But people died.”

  Jack nods. He’s staring into the gloom, focused on nothing.

  “So... What are we talking about?”

  “Blakemoor. It’s different now, but when I signed up, it was all large-scale security. We’d go into disaster areas, war zones, lock that shit down. Enforce curfews, break up crowds, maintain order—police stuff. Only, it wasn’t taking off. There were problems with logistics, communication, guys crossing the line—total clusterfuck.”

  “And—and you blame yourself? For being there?” Brief hope flares in my chest: if that’s all it was....

  Jack scoffs. “No. That’s just...setting the scene.” A paint flake breaks loose and lands on his nose. He brushes it away. “Me, I was doing my job. Starkey, too. We were trying, but it wasn’t like military life. It was like...like they recruited all leaders. Promised all of us command. Ended up with a bunch of alpha dogs in a cage, snarling it out for a bone.”

  He’s stalling again. Circling the point. “What happened?”

  “Okay, so... It’s a beautiful day. Hot and sunny. Blue sky, horizon to horizon. Me and Ferris are out on patrol....” Jack wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. I can hear his watch ticking in his pocket. Outside, a bicycle bell rings. He’s staring into space again. Staring, and not talking.

  I nudge him cautiously. “So...you and Ferris?”

  “He’s—he was one of the ones who died.” Jack draws himself up, visibly pulling himself together. He lowers his head and clenches his fists. A muscle twitches in his neck.

  “I’m sorry. For your loss.”

  He laughs at that, for some reason, a harsh bark that echoes off the walls. “For my—” More laughter, deep and rolling. “For my loss! Fucking hell!”

  I press my lips together. “Maybe you’d better tell me the rest.”

  “The rest. Right.” He tilts his head like he’s picturing it. “So, beautiful day, on patrol with Ferris, and boom. Rolling thunder. Smoke blocking the sun. Civilians everywhere. We’re running toward the blast. Ferris goes up the main drag; I circle round the back. I’m... There’s this dog, kind of following me. I remember that: just this shaggy brown dog, like...your generic vision of what a dog should be.”

  The more he gets into the details, the more his eyes glaze over. I snap my fingers to catch his attention. No response.

  “That’s when the second explosion hits. Nearly sends me flying. And these guys come tearing out, two of them, in balaclavas, but...I....”

  I reach out, stopping just short of touching his arm. He’s like a live wire, sparking with tension. I’m afraid of his reaction. He’s grinding his teeth, eyes darting back and forth, following action only he can see.

  “Where are you, right now?”

  He makes a choking sound.

  “Jack?”

  “I’m here. With you. I know where I am.” That muscle’s jumping again, right below his ear. “But I’m there, too. Like a double exposure. Both at once.”

  I stroke his bicep carefully. He twitches and jerks.

  “I know it’s not real. Don’t worry. I won’t...choke you, or do anything violent. Lose control.”

  “Does it help to close your eyes?”

  “No!—no. Makes it worse.”

  I wait for him to settle back into his skin. Water’s dripping somewhere nearby. Can’t tell if it’s in here or outside. Four different conversations drift in and out of earshot, easily audible through the glassless windows.

  “Magnus and Erik,” he croaks, at last.

  I startle and jump. “What? Where?”

  “No—it was Magnus and Erik. Running away from the carpet factory. That they just got through blowing up. That was the war crime: targeting of civilian property. Intentional destabilization of the region.”

  “Why—wait... Was there anyone inside?”

  “No.” He relaxes minutely. “It was a holiday. No casualties. Just dozens of people suddenly out of work, angry, nothing to do. Nothing to eat.”

  “So they were, what? Stirring the pot?”

  “Keeping the area unstable. Not to the point of boiling over. Just to the point we could tamp it down and come up smelling like roses. A riot here, a robbery there—Blakemoor to the rescue.”

  “To whose rescue?” I can’t help myself. “Any of th
ose people get their jobs back?”

  “No. No, they didn’t. We did, though.” Jack smiles a strange smile, one that tugs down at one side. “Six new contracts, nine extensions, fifty percent personnel growth, all in under a year.”

  “So you thought you’d join in? Get a piece of the action?”

  “Fuck, no.” He’s getting that faraway look again. “I wanted to report it, right then and there. Erik...he wanted to talk it through. Begged me not to turn them in. Not till I’d heard their side. That was my first mistake—listening.” He glances at me and looks away quickly, like he can’t meet my eye. “So we talk, and I’m all, hell, let’s blow the lid off this bitch. But it’s easy for me. I’m not—I wasn’t involved.”

  “Stay with me.”

  Jack presses both hands to his face. There’s nothing I can do for him: I can almost feel him sinking. Losing himself.

  “So Magnus, he can’t risk opening his mouth. He’s got me convinced they were duped, him and Erik. Ordered to skip a check here, leave a gate open there, and before they know it, they’re responsible for some messed-up shit. No choice but to shut up and go along. No choice.”

  I hate the way he says that—no choice—throat choked with hopelessness. Feels like he means now, and every day leading up to now—the last ten years.

  “So I get ‘em taking notes—Magnus and Erik. Any non-routine order, anything against protocol—I take that down. Cross-reference it with incident reports. And the pattern that comes out...well, long story short, it’s too organized. Got to be coming from high command. Someone out of country, getting daily updates from every battalion. So my reaction’s like—go to the press. Blow that whistle.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Never got the chance.” It’s not cold, but he’s shivering, rough little spasms and shudders he can’t seem to bring under control. I rub the back of his neck, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Two weeks before I’m scheduled to rotate home, it’s me and Ferris again. Out on patrol. And that’s the last thing I know. One second I’m lacing my boot, the next, I’m in the middle of bumfuck nowhere—trussed up in a shed so abandoned it’s literally sinking into the sand. There’s, like, half a dune in this thing. Half a dune, me, and Ferris. And McHugh—Starkey’s boss.”

  Jack suddenly leans forward. His chest heaves, and he presses his hand to his mouth.

  “Don’t fight it.”

  “I’m okay.” He gags audibly and swallows twice. “Haven’t eaten. I’ll be fine.”

  “Is this... Are you almost done?” I’m not sure how much more he can take.

  “Yeah. Yeah. Almost done. We’re...we’re in the shed.” Jack licks his lips. “Ferris and McHugh, they want to know what I know. Names and dates. Who I’ve told. Who’s talking. Ferris has this bayonet, and he’s—” Jack gulps. “You don’t need to know.”

  “Skip over that part.”

  He gropes for my hand. “It’s getting dark. McHugh goes for a leak. And I think I’m hallucinating, because I hear voices out there. Him, Magnus, and Erik. Talking like...like they’re saying hi on the street. Ferris is laughing....” Jack laughs, too, and I’m not sure whether he’s imitating Ferris or going off the rails.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Mm.” He hangs his head between his knees, breathing through his nose. I rub his back till the shivers die down. “Sorry. I.... Never mind. I’m.... Just, that’s when I know I’m dead. Because Magnus and Erik are in on it—they’ve got to be. Playing both sides the whole time. So I headbutt Ferris. Got my hands tied, my feet...so I ram him. Only—only he ducks down, last second, and I run into his blade. He’s holding me up—actually holding me up by the bayonet—fuck...fuck!” He curls one arm over his belly, protecting his scar.

  “Oh.... Jack!”

  He hardly seems to hear me. “And Magnus is standing there, gears ticking over in that head of his. I can see him over Ferris’s shoulder. Looking from me to him, like... I thought he was scared. But I think he was trying to choose which of us.... Which of us to....”

  “Keep breathing.”

  Jack wheezes and chokes, sputters ungracefully. “I—just a second....” A coughing fit overtakes him, and he pounds his chest. It feels like forever before his breathing returns to normal. He wipes at his streaming eyes. “Well, that was dignified.”

  “At least you didn’t throw up.”

  “Pff.” He sniffs and exhales hard. “Fuck it. Erik shot McHugh. Magnus did Ferris. We—well, they—buried ‘em in the desert. I was on my back. Bleeding out on the sand.” There’s a weird expression on his face, somewhere between anger and disbelief. “After that, once the dust cleared, well... We decided we should get something out of it.”

  “Get.... The Blakemoor takeover? That’s how you did it? Blackmailed your way to the top?”

  “Yep.” He groans and buries his face in his hands. “We’re like...hell, here we are, bringing corruption to light—and what do we get? Knifed in the gut? Guilty consciences all around? So we went to Nagler. Showed him what we had. By the time we were done, he’d have given us his firstborn, let alone his job.”

  It hardly sounds possible. “Just like that, huh?”

  “Well, I mean, it took a few months. A lot of red tape to go through—a lot of restructuring. But I think he was tired. Tired as I am, right now. Keeping a secret too long... It wears you down.”

  I stare at the floor, taking it all in. He didn’t kill anyone: that’s what I was most afraid of. I can almost understand why he did what he did. I can definitely understand why he’s sick of it. One thing’s still bugging me: “Why does Starkey think you were in on it?”

  “No way to hide it from him, not coming into camp the way I did, guts hanging all over my legs.” He sighs. “He thought we were going public. Agreed to keep quiet till we did. When we took over instead, well....”

  Yeah. I can see where that would look bad.

  Jack tips his head back and scratches at his jaw. He needs a shave. “So, what do you think of me?”

  I swivel my head his way. “Hm?”

  “You said you had something to tell me. Maybe. Depending on what you thought of me, after.”

  Oh. That. I look him up and down, taking him in. He seems drained. Diminished. Like part of him’s still wandering in the past. And I still need time to digest. “It’ll keep a while longer. Let’s take a nap.”

  “But you’ll tell me after? When we wake up?”

  He’s fishing. Looking for reassurance. Wish I had more to give him.

  “Probably.” I drop my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Ssh.”

  The hum of traffic is making me drowsy. I need to sleep, and so does he. I focus on the sounds of the city, and my racing thoughts wind down.

  42

  Jack

  I don’t so much wake up as drop back into my body. Feels like falling, complete with the sudden stop at the end. I grunt as the breath’s knocked back into me. My head’s pounding, heavy with sleep: something must’ve roused me. A dream, probably. Who knows what dust I stirred up on my death-march down memory lane?

  I feel off-balance. Cored out, like I coughed up something I didn’t know was part of me. It’s not the worst feeling. Just strange. Not sure I recognize myself.

  Something sneezes in the dark beyond the stairs. That. That’s what woke me. We’ve got company...of the small and scuttling sort.

  I jog Stella’s knee. She opens her eyes, instantly alert. “Hm? Something happen?”

  A mouse slinks along the baseboard, beady eyes glittering. He stops in a sunbeam to clean his whiskers.

  “That’s a mouse,” says Stella.

  “Mm-hm.”

  “I’m about six weeks pregnant.”

  Oh. I turn that over in my head, trying it on for size. A second mouse joins the first. For every one you see, there’s fifty you don’t—or is that cockroaches? Either way.... “We can’t stay
here.”

  Stella nods. She’s watching the mice. One of them jumps on the other, and they roll around, squeaking. “Where can we go?”

  Nowhere. We can’t hide from this. She needs to get to safety, and I need to take responsibility. But for now, we need shelter. Food. A place to talk.

  “We’ll find a hotel, for today.”

  I pick myself up off the floor. Stella takes my hand and struggles to her feet. A gasp escapes her as she sags against me, ankle giving way.

  “That bad?”

  “Stiff, mostly.” She tests her weight on it, grits her teeth, and nods. “I’m good.”

  It’s strange, stepping into the late afternoon sun with the fuzz of sleep still clinging. My sense of time’s out of whack: feels like we were in there more than half a day. Time enough for the world to change. A new life. Two bodies in the desert. Magnus hunting loose ends with the determination of a bloodhound. The pieces don’t fit.

  Even so, my instinct is to want this. To protect it. Though... What if she’s put the same pieces together and come to a different conclusion? I have to know. “You want this, right?”

  “What?”

  Fuck. That came out wrong. “I mean, this something you’re happy about, right? The, uh—the baby?” Smooth.

  “I’m keeping it.” A chilly wind gusts from the east. Stella shivers. “Where are we? Still Brooklyn?”

  I wince. The wind’s got nothing on the ice in her tone. But now’s not the time to fix this. We can’t be out in the open. I slouch down to hide my height and steer us into the stream of humanity headed for the subway station. Best place to stay invisible is in a crowd.

  We follow the mob down the block and through a sad excuse for a mall, every third store shuttered and empty. I stifle the impulse to stop and buy Stella a gift—as if she’d want anything from here. She’s in pain, anyway, trying to play off her careful pace as a sort of regal stroll.

  “There’s a hotel across the street, past the exit. Fleur-de-Lys or something.”

  She’s not listening. “Do you want this?”

  “Yes.” I shouldn’t: I’m on the run, most likely prison-bound, but I’ve never wanted anything more. “I thought you might not, given the circumstances. You’ll probably—” I bite my tongue. This isn’t the place to tell her she’ll be doing this alone. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”