by Jason Brant
She jerked it back with a cry and twisted under the seat, hoping to all but disappear from his view.
The din of screams around them reached ear-piercing levels.
The bearded man shot him twice in the chest.
Red stains appeared in his white shirt as he slammed back into the seat behind him. He landed atop a horrified man of forty.
The man in the suit tried to raise his gun arm again, though the movement was sluggish, as if the pistol weighed fifty pounds. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth, curving around his chin.
Another gunshot cracked beside Christie, the sound thunderous in the confines of the subway car. Her ears rang, nostrils burning from the smell of the fired round.
A third hole blossomed in his chest.
He stared at the bearded man for a moment before his eyes fell to the floor, and he remained still. The commuter underneath him squirmed and screamed as he attempted to extricate himself from the dead man atop him.
Christie felt her gorge rise, bile stinging the back of her throat.
A dry heave racked her stomach.
More gunfire erupted as she fought against the urge to vomit.
The man beside her peeked through the window before ducking down again.
“Freeze!” a booming voice called from somewhere on the platform.
Christie prayed it was the police. She promised herself that she would work harder to better herself if she could just make it out of the damned subway alive. There was so much she hadn’t done. The idea of dying while wearing her slutty bar outfit made her want to throw up all over again.
The bearded man peered over the bottom of the window for several seconds. “Shit.”
Christie could barely make out what he said over the squealing passengers and the croon of Chris Robertson in her ear.
“Drop your weapons!”
The man spun and knelt in front of her. “Put your other earpiece in and get ready to run.”
“What?” Christie tried to look him in the eyes, but couldn’t hold his gaze. She was scared shitless of him. Instead, she stared at the gun in his hand. Her throat clenched at the sight of it.
“We don’t have time for this.” He grabbed her wrist and yanked her out from under the seat.
Glass lacerated her thighs.
Christie attempted to wrench her arm free, but his vice-like grip held firm. “Let go of me!”
“I’m trying to save your life, you moron.” He released her wrist, grabbing the earbud dangling by her stomach. “Put this in your ear. When I start to run, you follow. Don’t stop no matter what happens next. Do you understand?”
“This is your last warning! Drop your weapons!”
Christie gaped at the man, but she didn’t do as he said. She couldn’t understand what listening to music had to do with him shooting the place up. Not being able to hear what was going on around them seemed impossibly stupid.
And dangerous.
He jammed the bud into her ear and grabbed her wrist again. She winced against the pain from him shoving the earpiece in too far, but she didn’t dare pull it out. The crazed look in his eyes demanded her compliance.
The music blared in both ears, adding a surreal layer to the madness around Christie. She felt like she was stuck in the middle of a movie with a bad sound mix, where the film score blotted the action out.
The bearded man dragged her behind him as he hustled down the aisle in a crouched position. They stopped by the open door that had finally cleared of fleeing pedestrians. Most of the people in the car were now squirming themselves into and under the chairs. They retreated even further as Christie and the man approached.
Her captor looked through the door and grunted.
He moved past it, pulling Christie along.
Stopped in front of the dead man.
He plucked the earplugs from the dead guy’s ears and jammed them into his own.
Even though Christie had fallen into a full-blown panic, she still felt repulsed at the idea of the two men mixing earwax.
They paused there, both kneeling down, the man watching out the door.
Christie looked over his shoulder. She spotted a handful of police officers at the far end of the platform, standing at the bottom of the stairs leading to the street above. The cops aimed at the men in the suits ten meters in front of them.
The man in black was the only one who wasn’t aiming a pistol back at the officers. Instead, he held up a device that was utterly foreign to Christie. She squinted at it, hoping to get a better look.
It was a black box only a few inches wide and tall, but that was all she could make out.
A high-pitched sound blared throughout the platform and subway car.
Christie couldn’t make it out because of the rock music hammering in her ears. She reached up to pull one of her earbuds out, but the man in front of her swatted her hand away. He stared into her eyes, vigorously shaking his head.
More confused and frightened than ever, Christie would have ignored him and done it anyway, but the reaction of everyone around them held her hand.
The fifty or so people standing, lying, kneeling, and hiding all stiffened.
Their faces fell slack.
Shoulders slumped.
Mouths drooped open.
Eyes went vacant.
Even the cops stood there with slack expressions, their guns dangling down by their hips.
The bearded man burst forward, hauling Christie behind him. They stayed low, moving quickly, weaving their way through the motionless crowd on the platform. The people gaped at nothing, as if they were entranced by the high-pitched sound they’d heard.
Christie looked up at them as the man pulled her along. She stared into their vacant faces, terror overwhelming her. She’d heard of this happening once before.
The Massacre at Arthur’s Creek.
And God help them all, it was happening right now.
The men in the suits were on Christie’s left, their attention focused on the cops.
The man in the black suit spotted them as they crossed the halfway point of the platform. He lowered the box in his left hand and raised a pistol in his right.
The cronies standing behind him followed suit, all taking aim.
Christie screamed.
They fired.
Bullets impacted the floor at her feet just as she moved behind a large, red-haired man who stood ramrod straight. The barrage of gunfire impacted his body, shielding Christie.
Blood misted onto her face and hair.
Her screams hit another octave, her throat burning.
The bearded man who pulled her forward jerked violently, and then canted sideways, landing on his shoulder. His grip wrenched even tighter, sending bolts of pain into her forearm and up her bicep.
He grunted, rolled to his back.
Stared up at her.
The gunfire subsided just as he released his grip.
“Run,” he grunted. Crimson spittle burst from between his lips. “Run!”
Christie looked to the armed men. Two of them were reloading. The rest glared at her for a moment. The man in the black suit stalked forward, eyes locked on the bearded man.
“Run, you fool!” The dying man’s voice was little more than a breath. His muscles relaxed, head lowering until it touched the floor.
Christie backed away as Black Suit reached the bearded man and knelt in front of him. She moved faster, passing the police officers who still stood in place, their expressions dormant.
The man in black ran his hands over the bearded man’s body, searching his pockets and waistband. The scowl on his face deepened. His head snapped around, gaze locking on Christie.
One of the cops in front of her twitched.
Like a ripple in a puddle, the other people around them moved in similar spasms.
The man in black stood up quickly and walked backward to his men, his eyes locked onto Christie. He didn’t speak, merely glared at her.
And then the spell
encapsulating those on the platform broke. Their eyes cleared. Mouths snapped shut. Growls escaped the throats of two women standing between Christie and the stairwell. They glowered at her, madness in their stares.
The armed men moved away from the train, putting distance between them and everyone else. Their backs approached another set of stairs at the far end of the platform.
Their movement drew the attention of the officers, who now wore sadistic grins.
Christie used the distraction to her advantage and spun around, sprinting for the stairs.
Pistols barked behind her.
She kept going, struggling to keep her wits. Her shoulder slammed against one of the women at the bottom of the stairwell. The collision sent the crazed woman sprawling to the floor.
The other reached out, snatched a handful of Christie’s hair. “Where you going, slut?”
Christie cried out as the woman yanked harder, spinning her around. She faced her attacker, barely able to keep from shrieking in terror. The woman had short, light brown hair and round, wire-rimmed glasses. She was short and had a touch of gray at her temples. Christie would have guessed her to be at least fifty years old.
The armed men reached the other set of stairs. They were still walking backward, firing at the oncoming crowd.
“Hang around for a while,” the woman hissed, pulling Christie closer. “Play with us.”
The woman’s free hand lashed out, her nails raking across Christie’s cheek and nose.
More of the insane commuters stormed across the platform, heading for the stairs, for Christie. They would be on her within seconds if she didn’t extricate herself from the woman’s grasp.
Putting both of her hands on the woman’s shoulders, Christie shoved with all of her panic-fueled strength. Pain blossomed on her scalp as a clump of her hair tore free at the roots, taking bits of flesh with them.
The insane woman staggered back, her feet tangling, and fell to the floor. Her limbs flailed as she tried to get up. She managed to trip three of the people hustling across the subway station.
Ignoring the pain in her face and scalp, Christie spun and sprinted the final few feet of the platform. She hit the stairs at full speed, taking them two at a time, refusing to look behind her.
Lewd calls echoed up the stairwell.
The gunfire from below ceased.
Christie burst into the empty street and cried out in relief. She’d expected to find a spattering of people walking around, but she saw no one. A traffic light hung over an intersection ahead, flipping from red to green. A handful of cars eased through the intersection.
The voices down the stairs grew louder, their threats and taunts more grotesque.
Christie raced down the sidewalk before cutting into a dark alley and disappearing into the night.
2 – A Visit from Mr. Clean
The crosshairs in the scope hovered a few millimeters above and to the left of the center of the target. They jiggled ever so slightly.
Bree Manning slowly exhaled, held her breath for a full second, and then squeezed the trigger.
The rifle kicked back against her shoulder.
An echo reverberated through the open range and surrounding forest.
Bree sat the butt of the rifle down on the shooting table, the barrel held in the air by the attached bipod. After pulling off a pair of earmuffs, she leaned over and peered through a spotting scope.
“Not bad,” she whispered.
The bullet had hit the target an inch high and a half an inch to the right. Considering the shot had been from two hundred and fifty meters away, and in moderate wind, she couldn’t complain too much.
No one else was at the outdoor shooting range so early in the morning, which was just the way she liked it. Most people weren’t crazy enough to wake up and practice their craft at the ass crack of dawn. It worked for her though, because she didn’t have any hunters or wannabe tough guys hitting on her.
The range was little more than a long field with targets at one end and a pavilion with five shooting tables under a tin roof at the other end. It was plain, simple, and private—exactly what she desired.
Bree slid off the stool and jogged to a grassy area to her left. Her Ford Bronco sat in the early morning shadows, parked beside a gravel driveway that meandered through the woods to the range.
The whoop of a distant helicopter crept over the trees.
After warming up with a couple of knee raises, Bree sprinted thirty meters, spun around, and ran back.
She repeated that process three more times.
Sweat beaded her brow, covered her back.
Her breathing grew labored.
Heart raced.
Bree jogged back to the rifle and secured the butt against her shoulder. She looked through the scope, sighted the target.
The reticle jiggled much more than in her previous shot. There was no chance Bree could hit the target with her pulse jackhammering.
The helicopter drew closer, the drone of the rotors growing louder.
Taking three deep breaths, she forced herself to relax. She focused on calming the reticle, her concentration blotting out birds chirping in the forest and the increasingly annoying helicopter.
She exhaled slowly.
Held her breath.
Squeezed the trigger.
As she looked through the spotting scope, the clamor of the helicopter grew to surprising levels. The thing was flying low. Much too low considering where Bree was at the moment.
The only time aircraft flew at such elevations in that neck of the woods was when the DEA was searching for pot plants.
Even though she was curious to see what kind of bird was buzzing the treetops, Bree had to see where her shot hit.
“Boom.” She made a fist, pumped it.
The bullet had hit three inches left of dead center.
Not too shabby. There was room for improvement, but no one would have considered that a bad shot. She stood and quickly walked out from under the pavilion. Wind and dust slammed into her face as she looked up and saw the helicopter fifty meters above her and descending.
The damned thing was going to land on the range.
“What the hell?” Bree held a hand up, shielding her face.
The black helicopter lacked any kind of identifying markings on the side or tail. The plain appearance of it didn’t sit well with Bree. Its skids sat down gently in the grass. The engine began to slow down, the racket easing up a bit.
After several seconds, the back door slid open and a man in a suit stepped out. He jogged toward her in a hunched position, eyes squinting against the wind swirling around him. As he drew near, he motioned for her to walk with him over to the pavilion.
Bree considered refusing to do anything he asked unless she saw some identification, but she decided against it. She’d always been a slave to her curiosity and needed to know what was going on.
They walked over to where her rifle sat, its barrel pointing to the sky. The sound of the helicopter quieted down to a loud purr. They stopped beside her table and faced each other.
Bree quickly scanned over the man.
He wore black, slightly scuffed shoes. His off-the-rack brown suit seemed about a size too small around the chest. The way his neck, chest, and shoulders bulged pointed to a lot of time slinging iron around. The early morning sun gleamed off his freshly shaved head.
He wore sunglasses that concealed his eyes.
Bree could recognize a detective a mile away. She’d known a lot of them in her day. They had a certain cadence to their walk, a degree of intensity to the way they surveyed their surroundings. The question burning in her mind was why a cop would be riding around in an unmarked helicopter.
Her eyes finally settled on his left wrist. A scar ran down the back of his hand, another traced along the center of his thumb. Pink, shiny flesh covered the part of his wrist she could see. Something bad happened to him not too long ago.
While she examined him, he returned the fa
vor. Though she couldn’t see his eyes, his head had tilted as he looked her over.
He asked, “Bree Manning?”
“Why do detectives always start with questions they already know the answer to?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I get that you do it to perps in the hope they’ll trip up on some little detail, but why does that always bleed over into your regular conversations?”
“Another smartass. Just what I need.” The bald man grinned. “I like you already.”
“Yippee.” Bree arched her eyebrows. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Well, I didn’t realize that we wore our interrogation tactics on our sleeves.” He nodded his head back at the helicopter. “But in my defense, this is obviously anything but a regular conversation.”
Fair point, Bree thought. She stared at him, waiting to hear what he actually wanted.
“You spent four years writing tickets and arresting drunks with the Philadelphia P.D. and another two as a S.W.A.T counter-sniper.”
Bree’s eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t even a question. Now you’re just reading me my resume.”
The bald man’s grin faltered. “It’s a little early to be at the range, isn’t it?”
“Never too early for hard work. How about we skip the small talk and you tell me why you just landed an unmarked helicopter in the middle of nowhere to talk to me?”
“I have a few questions for you. Depending on how you answer them, you might get a job offer.”
“I have a job.”
“Do you?” The bald man stepped back, inspected her setup on the table. “We’ve been told that you’re under suspension pending an investigation into you firing into a crowd of people. Against orders.” He bobbed his head at the rifle. “Nice. That a Remington 700P?”
Bree ground her teeth. “I had the shot, so I took it. That psycho would have killed the hostages if I didn’t.”
The shooting had occurred a month ago. Bree and her team had responded to a hostage situation at a used car lot of all places. The perp had surrounded himself with hostages to keep from getting shot. Strict orders had come down to hold fire. The hostage-taker had grown more agitated by the minute and was about to murder an elderly woman when Bree had taken the shot.