No Free Man

by Graham Potts

  Elliot kicked the door and it slammed on his hands. He yelped and pulled the trigger, spraying the room with bullets. She gritted her teeth while holding the door. He rammed the door and it jolted, her pistol dropping to the floor. He rammed the door again, sending her sprawling across the floor of the storeroom.

  Elliot dived on top of her pistol and rolled over, raising her weapon as she climbed to a kneeling position.

  The man was gone.

  She heard two gunshots and a man gurgled and thudded to the floor. There was a grunt and a crash, three more gunshots, a groan, and then silence. Elliot crept slowly to the door. She raised her pistol and took a deep breath.

  A hand seized her wrist and she was yanked out of the storeroom. She twirled through the hallway and slammed into the wall, her arm folded across her chest. She was trapped.

  Grey eyes glared at her and she felt her face flush with anger. “Let me go so I can shoot you,” she said, squirming against his grip.

  “Thanks, it’s great to be here,” Stephen Murphy said.

  “You expected me to bake a cake?”

  He wrinkled his forehead. “You don’t even know what goes into a cake.”

  “Eggs, milk, flour.” She tried to twist free of his hands but he wouldn’t let go. “Butter, bleach.”

  “Now I remember your cooking,” Murphy said, nodding knowingly.

  “You bastard,” she hissed, writhing against the wall. “Just wait until you let me go. I’m going to—”

  Murphy let her go and she slid down the wall, landing on her feet. “You were saying?”

  Elliot gripped the barrel of her pistol and swung at his face. Murphy blocked the punch and chopped her forearm. She cried out and dropped the pistol. She followed up by raising her knee at his crotch but he grabbed the back of her thigh and wrapped his hand around her neck. He lifted her up, sending her crashing into the wall again, and he held his body against hers.

  He pulled her close and kissed her deeply, her legs coiling around his waist, his lips lingering on hers. His breath warmed her skin as their lips parted and she opened her eyes slowly. He gazed at her, clenching his jaw when she pressed the cold steel of his own knife to his throat.

  “You son of a bitch,” Elliot said breathlessly.

  “You’re upset,” Murphy said. “I can tell.”

  “This is just one big joke to you, isn’t it?”

  “C’mon, Slim.”

  “Don’t call me that!” She increased the pressure on the knife.

  His face softened and he cleared his throat, the blade drawing blood. “You don’t understand.”

  “You killed him,” she said. “You promised to bring him home but he died and then you ran away.”

  His eyes darkened. “I ran away? Which face are you hiding behind today?”

  “Shut up,” she snapped.

  “Who are you pretending to be? A cop? A cleaning lady?”

  “I swear I’ll put you on the ground with your friends.”

  “I don’t have any friends,” Murphy said.

  “Don’t lie to me,” Elliot warned. “These are Nikolay’s men.”

  Murphy’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know that?”

  Elliot’s mouth fell open and she shrugged.

  “Were you expecting these guys?”

  She lowered the knife and her face fell.

  Nikolay didn’t send him.

  “Freeze!” a woman shouted. “Don’t move.” “I said don’t move,” the Russian growled.

  Singh dropped his pistol and held his hands in the air. He’d made it to the fifth floor too late. A dead body was slumped in the hallway outside Elliot’s room and she was gone. The only thing left was a duffel bag of clothes and a Chanel suit on a hanger.

  “Where’s the woman?” the Russian asked.

  Singh turned around slowly and stepped towards the boyevik, stopping next to the television. “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  The Russian glared at him. He was athletic, with sinewy muscles that were hidden under a loose-fitting business shirt. He had a scar along the top of his bald head that made his skull look as though it had been assembled incorrectly, one half overlapping the other. The Russian pushed his slung rifle behind his back and pointed his pistol at Singh, his stance wide, his grip steady. “Open your jacket.”

  Singh obeyed and grabbed his lapel with a thumb and forefinger. He pulled his jacket aside and revealed the badge clipped to his belt.

  “You’re a policeman,” the boyevik observed. He laughed without humour, stepping closer. “What were you planning to do, arrest me?”

  “No.”

  “Kill me?” The boyevik clicked his tongue, taking another step. “You can’t kill me. You have to obey the law.”

  Singh slapped the man’s hand and the pistol went off. The television screen burst and the man dropped the pistol, turning away to cover his face. Singh grabbed the Russian’s rifle sling, twisting it around his neck and yanking tight. He threw the Russian over his back and sent him crashing to the floor.

  Singh collected the boyevik’s pistol and stood over him, aiming at his head. The Russian groaned and rolled on to his back. “There are laws,” he wheezed.

  “They don’t matter to me.”

  Singh fired.

  “Stay where you are.” Hartigan aimed her pistol and tried to steady her trembling hands. They were silhouettes lurking in puddles of darkness ten metres away. She was eager to make the arrest but resisted the urge to run, stepping cautiously.

  Remember your training.

  “Turn around and face me,” she demanded.

  Murphy and Elliot obeyed, their hands hanging loosely by their sides.

  “Hello, Emily,” Murphy said calmly.

  “How do you know my name?” She felt prickles on her back and her blouse was clinging to her skin. Her coat suddenly felt heavy.

  “Yours is one of the names on my watchlist,” Murphy said.

  Hartigan’s mouth went dry. The emergency lighting flickered to life, bathing the hallway in orange light. She saw his face. “You’re Stephen Murphy,” she croaked.

  Murphy’s eyes hardened. “Where did you learn that name?”

  “Through her,” Hartigan said, gesturing to Elliot. “She’s been a big help.”

  Murphy glared at Elliot.

  “This isn’t a good time, Emily,” Elliot said calmly, ignoring Murphy. “You should leave.”

  “Shut up,” Hartigan cried. Three dead bodies were at their feet and she could see another man’s legs sticking out through the doorway beside them. Her stomach turned.

  “Take her advice,” Murphy said, looking down at one of the bodies. “You don’t belong in this hallway, Emily.”

  Sweat was pouring down Hartigan’s face and she bit her sleeve with her teeth and shook off her coat. “Down on your knees.” Nine metres to go.

  “No,” Murphy said. He crouched and lifted the dead man’s shirt.

  Hartigan tried to swallow. What do you do when they say no? “Please.”

  “Lee’s going to get you killed, Emily,” Murphy said.

  “Stop calling me that!” Her voice cracked.

  Murphy peered up at her, eyeing her curiously before turning his attention to the dead Russian. The man had gauze taped to his abdomen and Hartigan almost retched as Murphy massaged the bandages with his fingers.

  Hartigan took three more small steps and licked her dry lips. Eight metres to go. “You’re under arrest,” she said.

  “What are you doing?” Elliot asked Murphy.

  “What does this look like to you?” Murphy asked, pointing at the gauze.

  Elliot frowned. “Incisions from laparoscopic surgery.”

  “Radical nephrectomy?”

  “Doesn’t that require bigger cuts?”

  Murphy shrugged, massaging the bandages again. “What am I, a doctor?”

  Elliot rolled her eyes and crouched beside him, stabbing the knife into the floor.

  “Hey!�
�� Hartigan shouted, sweat stinging her eyes. “Are you two listening to me?”

  Murphy grabbed Elliot’s hand and pushed her fingers down on the man’s side.

  “What the hell is that?” Elliot asked, kneading the man’s skin.

  “Capture protocol.” Murphy reached for the man’s arm and held it so she could see his wristwatch.

  Elliot’s jaw fell open. “Oh, shit.”

  Murphy straightened up. “Emily, you have to get the people out of the hotel.”

  “Okay,” she said, shuffling closer. “But you have to come with me.”

  “Emily, there’s no time for this,” Elliot said.

  Hartigan shook her head and adjusted her grip on the pistol. Four metres. “We can help you. Lee can help you.”

  “You don’t know anything about your partner at all,” Murphy said.

  Hartigan ran the back of her hand across her forehead. “Please, put your hands up. Get down on your knees.”

  “Listen to me, Emily,” Murphy said. “Unlike Lee, I’m trying to save your life.”

  “You’re trying to trick me.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because I’ve got the gun,” she said, her voice shaking.

  “You’re not going to shoot me.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “The safety catch is on.”

  She stopped breathing, her mind turning into molasses. Her thoughts became static and she couldn’t remember where the safety catch was or how to turn it off.

  “Like I said, Emily,” Murphy said softly. “You don’t belong in this hallway.”

  Hartigan’s legs trembled and her chest tightened.

  “Just put down the gun,” Elliot said. “Turn around and walk away so we can evacuate the hotel.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Don’t make us do this, Emily,” Murphy said.

  “Please,” she whimpered.

  Elliot moved quickly, ripping Hartigan’s pistol out of her hands and lifting her from the ground. Hartigan tumbled over Elliot’s back and crashed to the floor, the air wheezing out of her lungs. Elliot looked down upon her, holding the pistol in the air.

  Hartigan closed her eyes.

  I don’t want to die.

  There was a burst of pain and then nothing.

  Murphy propped Hartigan against the wall and brushed the hair out of her eyes. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a stone wolf, pushing it into Hartigan’s hand and rolling her fingers closed.

  Elliot glanced towards the stairwell door. Singh would be close. “You need to go,” she said, looking back at Murphy. “Now.”

  “You already made that pretty clear,” he said, his face taut.

  No! That’s not what I meant. Elliot tried again. “You don’t—”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” he said. “I thought it was another fake identity but you’re really a cop.”

  “What?” she choked.

  “You were helping the agency with the investigation.” He retrieved his knife from the floor and sheathed it under his coat. “I thought you were joking at the pub, but you really want me back in jail.”

  Elliot took a step back. “What are you talking about?”

  “My name,” he growled.

  “No!” she cried. “I wouldn’t—”

  “You already did, apparently,” Murphy said. “I never told…” He growled a curse. “I don’t even know why I…” He looked up at the ceiling and ran his hand down his face. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

  She stared at him, her eyes wide.

  Stay!

  The word was trapped beneath the anger bubbling inside her. “I never even…” Her eyes hardened. “No. You know what? Fuck you.”

  “Right back at you, Slim.” Murphy shook his head and brushed past her, placing his hand flat against the stairwell door. “I am sorry, Simone. For what it’s worth, for everything.”

  “I don’t care,” she whispered. “I won’t forgive you. I can’t.”

  “I never asked you to.” He pulled the fire alarm, and pushed through the stairwell door.

  Elliot jumped when the door slammed shut.

  CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA THURSDAY 15 SEPTEMBER 11:12 PM AEST

  Singh finished cleaning the blood from Hartigan’s forehead and tossed the washcloth into the bowl on the bedside table. He reached into his pocket and grabbed the stone wolf he’d found in her hand. He stood it on his palm and it seemed to tremble on his skin. That’s when he realised his hand was shaking.

  A uniformed policeman knocked on the door of the hotel room. “Excuse me, Agent Singh.”

  “What is it?” Singh stuffed the small statue back into his pocket.

  “We’ve moved Natalie Robinson to a new hotel,” the policeman reported. “She’s fine. She was unharmed.”

  “Good.”

  “Also, one of your men wants your opinion on something in the storeroom.”

  “It can wait,” Singh said.

  “He said it was urgent.” The policeman cleared his throat. “I can watch her, if you like.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Singh said, buttoning his jacket. “Show me what the problem is.”

  The constable led Singh into the storeroom where a detective was crouched next to one of the bodies. The detective showed Singh the bandages on the victim’s abdomen. “What do you make of these?” he asked.

  “They’re incisions made for laparoscopic surgery. It’s usually done to remove a gallbladder, appendix, pancreas or kidney.” Singh rocked back on his heels. “This looks like a kidney removal, a nephrectomy.”

  “Well, this guy and all his friends have the same incisions,” the detective said.

  Singh hunched over the victim and pushed his hand into the Russian’s bandages, massaging his fingers along his side. “It feels rigid.” He pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “Give me a scalpel or a knife.”

  “Um, I don’t know if we can do that.”

  “Just do it,” Singh ordered.

  The detective handed Singh a pocketknife and watched the agent open the Russian’s abdomen. Singh returned the knife and widened the incision with his fingers. “Oh, shit.”

  Inside was what looked like a lump of yellow plasticine. A small metal cube with a long cylindrical pin was stuck to the corner.

  “What’s that?” the detective asked.

  “Plastic explosive,” Singh said. He tore the gloves off and patted the victim’s pockets. “Did he have anything on him?”

  “No, his pockets were empty.”

  Singh noticed that the Russian was wearing a watch and ripped it from his wrist. It was counting down. There were forty-five seconds left.

  “Everybody out, now!” Singh yelled.

  Hartigan sat upright and grasped the side of the bed, her head swimming. She stood gingerly and shuffled to the bathroom. The light was already on and she ran the tap, cupping her hands. She splashed cold water on her face and squinted into the mirror. There was a bruise on the side of her head. It was just above her hairline and it was seeping blood.

  She heard panicked yelling in the hall and went to investigate. Uniformed police and forensics officers burst out of the storeroom and scurried through the hallway, stumbling into each other. Singh emerged from the crowd.

  He snatched her in his arms, sprinting back into the room and rolling over the sofa. Singh reached up as they tumbled, tipping the couch to cover them, holding her to his chest.

  Thunder boomed and the wall burst open. The air around her seemed to squeeze down on her chest before it was sucked away. Shattered glass and plaster rained down from the ceiling and a wave of dust rolled over the room.

  Hartigan opened her mouth and her ears popped. She looked up at Singh. His lips moved but his voice was muffled. All she could hear was ringing. She shook her head and sat up. “No,” she whispered, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m not okay.”

  “I need a room,” Elliot said.

  The m
an at the desk slowly looked up from his magazine. “It’s the middle of the night, lady.” He yawned.

  Elliot dropped a thousand dollars on the desk. “You’ll get another thousand if you wake me in four hours and make like you never saw me.”

  The man’s eyes widened and he turned around on his stool, reaching for a key. “Room eleven,” he said. “It’s right near the back exit.”

  Elliot took the key and slid the wad of cash across the desk. “No questions.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Miss Smith,” the man said, holding his hands up.

  The floor creaked beneath her feet and the exit sign flickered at the end of the hall. Elliot rolled up the edge of the frayed carpet and wedged the exit open before retreating to her room.

  The light inside buzzed and hummed, casting a pale glow over the room. She tossed her satchel on the bed and rummaged through the cupboards of the kitchenette. She found a drinking glass and wrapped it in a towel before crushing it under the heel of her boot, spreading the broken glass on the carpet in front of the door.

  The springs on the bed squeaked under her weight. She retrieved the pistol from her satchel and placed it on her stomach before reclining on the pillow.

  Nikolay didn’t send him.

  Dusty cobwebs clung to the corners of the ceiling, the sticky silk left to flail restlessly on a silent draught. She shivered and stared at the stained ceiling above her. The grey plaster sagged and seemed to bulge before her eyes, as if the night was threatening to burst into the room and drown her.

  Nikolay didn’t send him because he knows.

  Elliot lifted her shirt and retrieved the photographs from the waistband of her jeans. She’d seen them in the pocket of Murphy’s coat and had snatched them instinctively. There were two photographs.

  The first picture made her chest ache. It was faded and smeared with blood but she could still see two people smiling back at her. One was her brother, Darren Harper, and the other person looked like her.

  Is it me?

  It felt like a picture of somebody else. She slowly remembered standing awkwardly in the departure lounge, her brother shouting at Murphy to take the damn photo so that he could carry his sister around with him. Harper was so proud of her, so proud of knowing that he had a twin sister when he’d thought that his brothers in the army were all he had. He wanted to show the photograph to everyone, to brag about how pretty she was, how smart and how funny.