by Holly Hart
Wow. “Y’know, threatening no quarter’s technically a war crime, as well.”
“Only when you’re at war, darling.” She tips me a ridiculous wink.
“Ugh. Don’t do that—don’t talk like her.” I drop my phone into my pocket and lie down beside her one last time. “You really want to do this? Last chance to back out.”
“I should be asking you that. You’ll still get in trouble. For not coming forward.”
“I deserve it.” Her hair’s spread out over the pillow, those glorious black curls I’ve admired from the start. Fun to play with, the way they spring back when pulled. I twirl one around my finger. “Whatever you do, don’t leave this room. I’ll be back for you—or someone will. When it’s safe.”
She turns her head my way, just enough for a sweet, chaste kiss. “I’ll be waiting. No matter what.”
45
Stella
There’s not a lot to do with Jack gone. With the mildew smell showered out of my hair, half the snacks filched from the minibar, and an infomercial playing on TV, I find myself at a loss. I dig through the pockets of my stolen coat, hoping for an iPod, maybe a fidget spinner, but there’s nothing more interesting than a coupon for Gold Bond. An expired one, no less.
I flick over to the news, but the Nagler story’s not on. Nothing about Jack, either, but it’s only been an hour. Forty-nine minutes.
There’s a weird feeling in my stomach, somewhere between hunger and nausea. Wasabi cashews and Dr. Pepper might not have been the greatest dinner. Comfort food would be nice: chicken soup, Greek salad, mashed potatoes. Plain yogurt and crackers. A nice, fresh apple. I curl under the covers and wait for the news to get interesting. Ten minutes later, it does.
“Breaking news on the Nagler shooting: we now have reason to believe this was not an isolated incident. A second former Blakemoor employee, John Starkey Jr., was treated for minor gunshot injuries at NewYork-Presbyterian/Queens, and released earlier this evening. His injuries were consistent with a long-distance ballistic impact.”
A shot of a much younger Starkey, clean-cut in his army uniform, pops up on the screen.
“Mr. Starkey is also a twenty-year army veteran, honorably discharged following injury in the line of duty. He was gunned down while attempting to catch a flight out of JFK.” The announcer glances at her co-anchor, flashing an insincere smile. “No word on whether he’ll be reattempting that vacation, but it sure sounds like he deserves it!”
I click the TV off. My stomach’s really starting to hurt, a low, cramping pain that’s spreading to my back. Curling up tighter doesn’t help. I roll onto my belly, but there’s no relief to be had. A thin tendril of panic twines around my heart. This could be bad. Or it could be indigestion. If I leave here, and it’s nothing, Jack’ll have a fit.
If I don’t, and it’s something, I won’t forgive myself.
I bundle myself back into Starkey’s jacket, and the puffy coat over the top. I look like the Michelin man—barely recognizable. Just to be safe, I flip up the hood and pull the drawstring tight. A quick note to Jack, left prominently in the middle of the bed, and I’m ready to go.
This’ll be fine. I’ll probably wait half the night in emergency. By the time I’m seen and ready to go, it’ll all be over.
46
Jack
They’re watching the penthouse. It doesn’t matter. I’ll go in through the garage. If I don’t make it out....
I’ll make it. I have to. I key in the gate code and nose my stubby red hatchback through the opening. It might handle like shit, but this car’s the perfect camouflage. Not only is it embarrassing, but I barely fit: my knees are wedged tight under the wheel, and it wouldn’t take much of a speedbump to bounce my head into the ceiling. I ease into someone else’s parking space and whip out my phone. Signal, check. And...Safari, Wordpress, drafts, and...publish.
Feels anticlimactic. The button doesn’t even make a clicky sound. It just loads for a moment, and returns me to the edit screen.
Right. Time to do this. Grab the evidence, torch the evidence, and—
Thunder booms overhead, huge and deafening. The ground vibrates. Tiny cracks web the drywall, and the fluorescents sway overhead. Not thunder. Explosives—I lift my hand, signaling Ferris straight....
Not Ferris. I’m here, not there, and this isn’t the time for...for....
I blink, confused. It matches—then and now, here and there, one and the same. I blink again, and he’s still with me: Erik, large as life, slowing down as he spots me. The smell of smoke—no. Exhaust. It’s exhaust: I’m in a garage. And he’s pulling a gun—a handgun, not a rifle, and...”Shit!”
I dive between two vehicles. He doesn’t fire. I can hear his boots on the concrete. Coming closer. I drop down, scoot under someone’s minivan, and pop out the other side. Need to get one of those reinforced columns between me and him. Lure him close and knock him out. Can’t linger. Can’t fuck up.
“I’m not going to shoot you.”
Sounds like he’s sobered up, at least. I edge toward the open, keeping my head below window level.
“That was your place, just now. Whatever evidence you had, it’s history. Up in smoke.” Asshole’s right: my safe was a blastproof model, but not temperature-proof. That hard drive’ll be melted to shit. Which...kind of suits my purposes.
I gauge the distance between me and the nearest column. Eight feet. A quick drop and roll, one good jump....
“Just give me your word, and I’ll let you go. That you won’t come after us.”
He’s lying. I can feel it.
“I mean, fuck—we were brothers. Still are. I never wanted this. Just, that bitch of yours, digging around like a—”
I make my play for the pillar. Erik cocks his gun. I press my back to the concrete, making myself as small as possible.
“You goddamn marines—you’re all the same. Semper I, fuck the other guy. Isn’t that it?”
I bristle. He’s calling me selfish? I resist the urge to lob one back at him. Plenty of shit I could say....
“I mean, it’s fine for you. You got your...your malls, your skyscrapers, your waterfront whatever-the-fuck. You can’t let us have this one thing?” He’s stalking me, circling the column. I tense, ready to move. “We agreed—or did you forget? Blakemoor’s ours!”
I can’t let that one go. “We also agreed to shut down the black ops. Or did you forget?” I sidle around, keeping a foot of concrete between me and him.
“That was ten years ago! Shit’s changed—all the bad press; ten times the competition. You’d know, if you—”
“Stop right there.”
Starkey? Fuck’s he doing here?
Erik squeezes off a shot. There’s cursing and scuffling—and sirens, fast approaching. I abandon cover, breaking for the exit.
“Halt!” Starkey’s got a rifle on Erik and a grim look on his face. His jaw’s set in a hard line and his eyes are blazing. It’s me he’s looking at, over Erik’s shoulder. “It’s still going on?”
Erik shakes his head, like he didn’t just admit it.
“Did you know?” He’s still talking to me.
“On my mother’s grave, I just found out.” I chance another step back. Time’s running out. “Look, I can prove it—I’ve done something about it. Do you have your phone?”
Starkey scowls at that. The barrel of his rifle’s swinging between us. Can’t be sure who he’s aiming at. His lip curls.
“I swear, this is over! I’ve—”
“Enough!” He drops his shoulder, gearing up to fire. I want to run, but I can’t look away. His eyes narrow, still locked on mine. His face twists into something hellish, barely human. “You. You’re a disgrace—to your uniform. Your country. Your service. To everything I stand for!” The muzzle roars.
Erik goes down like a sack of potatoes, flat on his back with a hole in his chest.
“Starkey, what...what the...?”
He turns his rifle on me. “Is she alive?”
“Is she alive?”
I nod, hands in the air. “She’s fine. In a safe place.”
“You said you did something. What was it?”
“I—I....” Erik’s head’s canted at a broken-doll angle, sightless eyes staring through me. He’s dead. Dead, in the here and now.
“Eyes front, soldier! I said, what did you do?”
I drag my attention back to Starkey. He’s not looking great. He’s gripping his rifle fit to break it, swallowing like he might throw up.
“Stella’s blog. The Countess BeeBee thing. I... She did a story. Everything—it’s all out there now. Posted ten minutes ago. It’s over—or it will be. You’re....” Free doesn’t seem like the right word. Maybe there isn’t one.
Starkey lowers his rifle, scrubbing at his mouth.
“John, are you—”
“Go.” He jerks his head toward the stairs. “Slip out with the evacuees. I’m....”
“Starkey?”
“Just get back to her. She’s... Well, I’ll let her tell you.”
He knows? Knew before I did? How the...?
“Get out!”
With great effort, I get my feet moving. He’s right: there’s no time to loiter. The sirens are closing in. This is my window: a big crowd to block lines of sight; first responders still getting organized.
Slip away; make sure I’m alone; get back to Stella.
After that...the fallout.
47
Stella
“This your first child?” The doctor’s an older man, white-haired and jocular. Reminds me of my great-grandfather, a little.
“First, yeah.” My teeth are chattering—it’s cold in here, and the hospital gown isn’t helping. Neither’s the ultrasound wand—what’d he do, dip it in ice?—to say nothing of my jangling nerves. It’s all catching up to me, at the worst possible moment, and I need to get a grip.
“The first’s always an adventure. I’ve got six, myself. Can’t count the times me and the wife wound up right where you are now—and I’m a doctor.” He moves the wand into position. “There we go. That’s the worst over with.”
The worst, right. Unless it’s bad news. I force a watery smile of my own, but I’m one huge knot of nerves, shivering and exposed. At least there wasn’t much of a line: apart from some old guy cradling a wailing toddler, I walked into an empty ER.
“And there’s your baby.” He nods at the monitor. “About six, seven weeks; everything looks great so far. Got a heartbeat, right...there.”
It doesn’t look like much, but I can make out the pulse, tiny and regular, thumping away. “And it’s fine? No problem, no... It’s really fine?”
“Looks like a healthy pregnancy.” He nods, peering at the screen. “A little cramping’s normal in the first trimester. Your insides have to do some rearranging, to accommodate that baby—that can definitely cramp a little. Plus, you mentioned some caffeine?”
I flush, embarrassed. “A Dr. Pepper, yeah.” My own heartbeat’s finally slowing. “I think it might’ve been that. All the water you had me drinking for the ultrasound, it actually kind of helped. Barely hurts anymore.”
“Well. There you go. Might want to take it easy for a day or two, but this is a good start.”
He drones on, but I’m hardly listening. I can breathe again. My eyes sting, and I laugh out loud as the relief bubbles up in my chest. It finally feels real, all of it, and I’ve never wanted anything more.
“Hey, it’s all right—you’re both fine. There’s a lot of surprises with the first one, but don’t worry: most of them are good.”
“I’ve never been big on surprises.” I rearrange my gown over my thighs and sit up. “Thank you, though. I’m glad I came in. Needed to see that.” Jack would’ve appreciated it, too, nosy bastard that he is. He’d have jumped at the chance to peek inside me. A gleam of anticipation sparks to life at the thought: he’ll be here for the next one. And every milestone after that, if all goes according to plan.
By the time I’m dressed and on my way, loaded down with pamphlets and prenatal vitamins, I feel like myself again. I’ve survived my first new-mother crisis, and with any luck, Jack’ll be waiting when I get back. He’ll be pleased to hear the baby’s healthy, strong as a horse in there.
“Keep your eyes forward and get in the car.”
I stumble to a halt. Something hard and snub-nosed digs into my back, prodding, urging me on. There’s a limo in front of me, door yawning wide.
“Katrina? I know that’s you.”
“Then you know I mean business. Get in.”
There are people here—a man in salmon scrubs throwing bags in his trunk; two nurses chatting by the loading bay. An ambulance pulls up just beyond them, siren dying down. This is my chance.
“Scream, and I’ll shoot you right here. We’ll be gone before your corpse hits the ground.”
“I’m dead anyway, if I get in there.”
She shoulders me in the back, sending me careening toward the car. “Maybe, but not right away.” Another push, and I’m tripping over my sore ankle, barking my knee on the doorframe. I grip the roof two-handed and shove with all my might, but Katrina’s taller, heavier, with gravity on her side. I squirm and kick, twisting instinctively to bite at her wrist.
There’s a sudden yank from below. Someone’s in the back seat, dragging me by the lapels. I kick out and something crunches, a ghastly, wet sound. There’s a low grunt, and a hard thump below my ribs. The breath whooshes out of me. I drop my hands to protect my belly, and just like that, it’s over. My arms flail, my knees buckle, and I sprawl across somebody’s lap.
“Got her.”
I strain to turn my head. It’s Magnus—I’d known his voice anywhere. But I need to see his face, know I bloodied him for this. He grabs me by the hair and rubs my nose in the leather. The chemical stench of new upholstery sets me gagging.
“Hold still, if you don’t want to suffocate.”
The front door slams and Katrina peels out. Got to keep my head, focus on...on everything. Anything that might help me. I listen to the traffic, but it’s not like in the movies. There are no tunnels, no bridges, no patches of bumpy road—nothing I can identify, tie to a landmark. Time stopped making sense the second my face hit the seat. I count a left turn, a right, and another left, but none of it means anything. I don’t know this neighborhood.
When the acoustics finally change, we’re in a parking garage, not a tunnel. I’m bundled out of the limo and into a pitch-black stairwell. Magnus sets a punishing pace, urging me on, floor after floor, gun at my back. Katrina follows with a flashlight. A hopeless feeling settles into my gut: this place is deserted. The garage was a great empty cavern, and it’s quiet—too quiet. Even the street sounds are sparse, like there’s nothing around.
Emerging into the chill of the penthouse, it all makes sense: this building’s under construction. Bare concrete walls give way to a dizzying drop where picture windows should be. Plastic sheeting snaps and rustles in the wind. I could scream forever up here, and that same wind would carry it away.
“Sit down.” Magnus gives me a shove.
I sway on my feet. There’s nowhere to sit.
“I said, sit!”
A furious response boils up—I’m not a dog!—and I clamp my teeth on it. Some things aren’t worth fighting over. I put my back to the wall farthest from those empty windows and slide down.
“Where’s Jack?”
“No idea.” He could be anywhere by now: the hospital, the hotel, on his way here—maybe he followed us. Maybe he’s outside, even now, waiting to make his move.
Katrina crouches over me, leaning into my space. “Look, you’re going to tell us what you know. Could be now, could be later, but the more you draw it out, the worse it gets for you.” She hugs herself, rubbing her arms. “Brr—this weather! What do you weigh, one-ten, one-fifteen? Aren’t you freezing?”
I’m a goddamn ice cube. “I’m fine.”
“Got a long night ahead of you. Maybe you can burn that jacket... Think you can strike a spark?”
Magnus huffs. “We shut down your blog half an hour ago.” He says blog like it’s a dirty word, something to spit on the floor. “Might as well give it up: What do you have?”
Laughter threatens to break loose. What do we have? Jack’s hunch, my guesswork—and now, Magnus’s own admission there’s something to have. I turn away and say nothing.
“Better if we work together on this.” The wind picks up. Magnus strolls to the open balcony and kicks a chunk of concrete off the side. I don’t hear it land. “I guarantee you, if we go down, Jack goes down. Don’t forget: we know where the bodies are buried.”
The bodies. Right. “Think they’re still there?”
He whirls, eyes boring into me. “What are you talking about?”
“I mean, it’s a desert. It’s made of sand. Things move around. Get unearthed. Carried off by—what do they have over there? Jackals? Vultures?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Katrina gets to her feet. “Bodies or no bodies, it’s three against one. We’ll swear he knew from the start. Masterminded it, even. Think about it: these two snatched their slice of the pie and sat on it. Your boyfriend built an empire. Who’s the Machiavelli of the bunch?”
“You are.” A nasty mix of fear and anger spurs me on. “Flying under the radar, all this time—so sneaky, even Jack had no idea you were involved. You still think you’ll slink off into the night, don’t you? If all this goes south?”
Katrina lunges. My sidelong dive’s just quick enough to deflect her kick to the meat of my thigh.
“Or maybe it’s you! Swoop in like some slutty seagull, fly off with whatever you want? That your game?” She goes for another kick. I roll over, catching it in the back this time.
Magnus sniffs and wipes at his bloody nose. “This is getting us nowhere. C’mon. Let’s get Erik. Couple of hours in the cold ought to soften her up.”
Or harden me into an icicle.... I gather my knees to my chest, trying to fit as much of myself as possible under my coat. Jack will come. Or I’ll find a way out. At the very least, this is a construction site. There’s got to be something—a level, a crowbar, a nail gun—something with lethal potential.