Exit Strategy

by Charlton Pettus

  * * *

  In the basement of the building on Hoxton Square, Sam frowned. The FBI girl had gotten the message. But she hadn’t called Metro. She’d called some cop in Boston, Herron, the guy who’d handled the Parrish case. It made no sense. That case was closed.

  What the fuck was he up to? What did he know? It kept spreading. This cleanup was turning into a bigger and bigger mess.

  At a certain point the upside didn’t matter. That was the thing with gambling. You had to know when to walk away.

  71

  TRAIN

  For a while they drove smoothly, then the car performed a series of long turns before coming to a complete stop. Maman’s window rolled down and Jordan heard her converse briskly with what he assumed were the immigration police. He couldn’t understand the conversation but it seemed light and familiar. Maman laughed out loud a couple of times. He heard the trunk open and froze under the carpet but after just a couple of seconds it slammed shut. And then they were moving again. He couldn’t see anything but they made a couple more long turns, heading downhill now. Then there was a metallic clatter as they drove onto the train that would take them through the Chunnel. The sound echoed in the close metal enclosure. The car drove another slow thirty or forty feet and then the motor switched off and Jordan heard the throaty rasp of the parking brake.

  Maman glanced in the rearview mirror and gave him a quick encouraging smile. In less than an hour they’d be in England. It was happening. Ready or not. He wished there weren’t so many unanswered questions. What kind of security would there be at Hoxton Square?

  And who would actually be there? And the biggest question of all: Had Stephanie gotten his message? Had she understood? It was too late to turn back; the coaster was over the top. He had to trust her. Everything depended on it.

  * * *

  Fifteen miles in, as the train sped sixty-eight meters under the English Channel, there was a tap at Maman’s window. Maman rolled it down. “Oui, monsieur?” She cried out in protest as the man reached into the car but the cry was cut short when he opened her throat with a long knife. Jordan saw a spray of blood in the mirror and then Maman collapsed out of his view. The driver’s door opened and the man got in, pushing Maman’s still body roughly aside. He leaned down and found the trunk release. Jordan heard the trunk open and another voice behind him.

  Adrenaline flooded his body. In seconds they were going to lift the carpet and find the compartment. The man in the car got out to help his companion. Jordan clawed at the tiny gap he had been looking through while pushing back as hard as he could with his legs. It wasn’t working. His right leg was asleep and the angle was wrong; he couldn’t get any leverage. He felt the carpet slide back and heard an excited cry behind him. With one last desperate effort he slammed against the seat back and felt something give. The entire backseat of the Renault collapsed, spilling him into the car. He rolled, seeing light and two surprised faces behind him. The one with the knife looked familiar. He recovered first and came around to the side. Jordan lunged for the door lock and hit it just in time. All four doors locked with a satisfying click. Eyes wide, he stared through the window at his attackers. They’d have to try and come through the trunk if they wanted him. They’d be headfirst and crawling. He would make them pay.

  The man with the knife said something to his friend and smiled wickedly at Jordan as he held up the keys and the key fob. The fluorescent light glinted green off his gold tooth. Qhaywaan. He pressed the button once and the front door unlocked. Jordan lunged for it and as he did he heard two clicks and all the doors unlocked. Jordan rolled on his back and kicked out at the left rear door with both feet. The door hit Qhaywaan in the chest and knocked him to the wall. Jordan didn’t wait to see what kind of damage he’d done. He pulled open the opposite door and dragged himself out. He heard yelling as he sprinted down the narrow aisle past the long line of cars. As he ran he saw fear and confusion on the faces of all the vacationers. Car doors locked and mothers pulled their children down. He saw a sign for stairs at the end of the front car. He pushed himself and ran hard. He had put a dozen car lengths between him and his pursuers.

  He took the stairs three at a time. The upper level was just like the one below, a long line of cars stretching out of sight. He saw a lavatory on the right side and sprinted to it, aware of the pounding on the stairs behind him. It was occupied. They were close. He hit the ground and rolled under a muddy green Range Rover. He saw their feet as they reached the upper level. They split up, each taking one side. They moved quickly. Jordan looked under the cars and saw that there was a Sportster four cars back that he’d never fit under. So he started worming his way back toward the men. They were scanning under vehicles as they went but hadn’t seen him yet. A car door opened toward the front of the train and Jordan saw a brown work boot step onto the floor.

  “Oi, you lot,” a voice boomed. Northern, sounded like a big guy. “How about fucking off, eh? People trying to sleep.”

  The man with the knife snarled something and kept working his way up the line.

  “Wot did you say, you fucking cunt?” the man said, slamming his car door and walking back toward them. A woman’s voice, shrill from inside the car. “Shut it, Kim. I’m gonna teach these Pakis some fucking manners.” Jordan could only see feet as the two Afghans converged on the brown boots. There was a momentary scuffle. Jordan used the distraction to wriggle as close to the fighters as he could. This was an area they’d already checked.

  “Jesus Christ! You motherfucker!” the man yelled. “You cut me. I’m going to rip your fucking head off.” More screaming from his car, almost right above Jordan. He apparently lunged at the man with the knife but was too slow. He must have been hit in the face because next he was on all fours with a thread of bloody spit hanging from his lip. He turned his head slowly and looked right at Jordan underneath the car. He seemed puzzled. Then the knife went in between his shoulder blades, all the way to the hilt. Like a bull at the conclusion of the torero he went down. His head was inches from Jordan’s. The Afghan pulled the knife out. There were screams and the sound of doors locking down the train.

  The men quickly moved up the line to where they had left off, ignoring the hysteria in their wake. When they came to the occupied lavatory they converged. Jordan had made it to the front of the car right by the stairs. He just needed a second. Qhaywaan kicked the lavatory door. Then put his shoulder to it. Jordan tensed under the front car. Just as the lavatory door collapsed and both men reached in to seize the hysterical girl inside Jordan slipped into the stairwell.

  He held his breath and listened. He didn’t dare look. He heard the girl screaming, people yelling. No footsteps, though. He hadn’t been seen. He ran quietly down the stairs to the lower level. People’s eyes met his, then looked away; they were frightened. He knew the Afghans would be back once they’d swept the upper deck. He ran down the line, trying to think, trying to push the adrenaline down. It had saved him but he needed to be clear now.

  * * *

  Around the middle of the train, he saw a big Ford SUV. He ran a few cars past it, then slid under and worked his way back. The clearance was high. As quietly as he could he worked his body up into the space between the suspension and the driveshaft. He was pretty sure he couldn’t be seen. He just had to hold on for the twenty or so minutes it would take to reach the other side of the channel. He wedged himself in and waited.

  A few minutes later they were back. The way he was positioned he couldn’t see anything but he heard their voices over the constant clatter. He tensed, waiting for them to pass but they didn’t. Several more minutes ticked agonizingly by and still nothing. Then there was a deafening blast. It sounded like a bomb had gone off. As his ears recovered he heard screaming from all around. Almost instantly, black choking smoke filled the space. And heat. It rolled up the train car in waves. The smoke triggered an alarm and a bright green light started to flash in
time with an electronic siren that rose in repeating whoops. It was utter chaos. Then the train started to slow down. And then, eleven miles from the station at Folkestone, it stopped.

  72

  HELL

  “Parrish’s on the move.”

  “With our friends?” Sam said.

  Dennis shrugged. “Zar Wali hasn’t said anything.”

  “Which way is he headed?”

  “South,” Dennis said. “He’s making good time.”

  “Alive and well?”

  “Apparently. Does this change anything?”

  “Don’t know. Let’s see where he goes.”

  * * *

  The rat, full almost to bursting, chewed its way out through the corner of the box of Wentworth baby lettuces and blinked in the bright sunlight. His leg was scabby and ached some but otherwise life was sweet.

  * * *

  This was hell. Flames, smoke, heat. People were screaming; several started their engines as if they were going to drive out. Jordan had no idea where the Afghans were. People started to climb out of their cars. Once it started, the panic had spread and soon everyone was out of their vehicle and pressing to the rear of the train car. Jordan dropped to the ground and peered up the aisle. They had blown up Maman’s car. It was engulfed in flames and the cars closest to it were clearly in danger. A woman’s voice was speaking over the intercom. It was impossible to tell what she was saying but she spoke calmly in English and French—had to be the emergency evacuation instructions. A lot of good that was going to do, Jordan thought.

  He stayed put. After what felt like hours but was probably no more than a couple of minutes, there was a new beeping noise and a rumble through the carriage as the rear of the car slid open like a giant garage door. Men from the train crew were outside yelling in English and French for people to evacuate. Passengers surged out into the tunnel. Jordan waited until the train crew sweeping the car had passed him, then slid out and joined them. They escorted him and one other man they’d found passed out in the back of his car to where the rest of the passengers stood huddled under harsh emergency lights. Jordan didn’t see the Afghans anywhere. He had to get away. The mass of people offered no real protection. And even if it did, he’d be evacuated back to Calais; the burning train was between them and England. He worked his way to the edge of the group. Some people were yelling, trying to be heard, trying to find each other; others stood silent and dazed. No one saw Jordan slip into the tunnel away from the lights and break into a light jog back toward France.

  A couple hundred yards up the track he saw a door with a green light over it. It was heavy steel and had a large vertical handle. There was a red sign next to it saying Service. Jordan looked back down the tunnel and saw that the passengers were being organized into two long lines and they were heading his way. He pulled the handle across and there was a loud hiss of air. The door pushed in but it felt like someone was inside pushing back. It took all his weight to force it open. There was a rush of air coming out. He realized they must pressurize the service tunnel. He stepped in and the heavy door swung shut behind him, the hiss of air rising to a high whistle before it sealed. He was in a small tunnel lit by red emergency lights. He yawned to pop his ears. He jogged down the shaft, which opened out into a larger service tunnel. This ran parallel to and between the two main tunnels. It was well lit and empty. Not for long, he was sure. The tunnel curved gently to the left. If he could get far enough before the train crew got there or rescuers arrived he might be clear. He started to run at a brisk but sustainable pace.

  The only sound was the rhythmic slap of his shoes on the cement and his breathing, three steps to every exhalation, two to every in. His mind surrendered to the rhythm. Images flashed through his head, running up and down the hills of Roppongi, around the Charles in Cambridge, through his old neighborhood in Somerville, chasing his dad’s receding shadow.

  He looked back over his shoulder. Nothing there and he was pretty sure he couldn’t see the door he’d come in through. Things were looking up. Then his luck got better still. There was a car. Not exactly a car, more of a glorified golf cart. The vehicle was parked in a little recess in the tunnel wall. It had a Mercedes logo on its hood. He stopped. It had to be an emergency vehicle; no way it was going to need a key. Sure enough, just a start button. He pressed it.

  Nothing. Then he stepped tentatively on the accelerator and the car leaped forward. Of course, electric. He pulled out into the tunnel and floored it. Not Mercedes’s best work. He could run faster. But this would save his energy. He’d ride until he couldn’t.

  He heard something. At least he thought he did. He released the accelerator and the car came to a smooth silent stop. He strained his ears. Over the constant rush of air through the tunnel’s ventilation system he heard something else, a low hum and the whisper of tires on cement. Someone else was driving in the tunnel behind him. Probably rescue workers. But why come this way? They were past the train. He craned his neck and stared back down the tunnel. Another service car came into sight a few hundred yards back. Even from this distance Jordan was pretty sure it wasn’t rescue personnel. He swore under his breath and punched the pedal. He had a head start.

  73

  PALM SUNDAY

  Two miles farther, the tunnel opened out into an enormous switching cavern. The constant light of the service tunnel gave way to a steadily pulsing emergency light. Jordan saw two sets of rails cross, then disappear into black tunnel mouths on the opposite side. He was debating the next step when he saw headlights flickering in the continuation of the service tunnel. That made up his mind. Rescuers were coming from the English side. He jumped out and moved swiftly into the concealing shadows in the vast cavern.

  He’d wait for the rescuers to pass and continue on foot, that way he could move faster and go down any of the three tunnels, leaving his pursuer to guess. He worked his way mostly by feel to the far left wall. Each time the light strobed on he’d map out the next few steps in his mind. He had just reached the wall when three trucks burst into the tunnel. They were moving fast. The first two were outfitted to fight fires; the last looked like an ambulance. As the ambulance passed with a last rush of air Jordan heard a sound from the France-bound tunnel mouth behind him and turned just as the Afghan leaped. It wasn’t Qhaywaan. Jordan just had time to turn his shoulder so the knife slid past his ear and struck the cement wall with a spark and a bright clang. He was knocked down but rolled to free himself and scrambled back to his feet. He kicked at the Afghan’s knife hand and was awarded a grunt of pain and the sound of the blade skittering over the floor. He ran, hand against the wall in case he tripped. Looking back he saw his attacker frozen on the ground, searching for the knife in one flash, standing in the next and chasing him again in the next. He was younger and faster. And he had the knife. With each burst of light Jordan scanned the cavern for an answer, a door, a weapon. Then he saw something, maybe fifty yards down. There was some kind of tool on the wall, like a long tire iron with a socket on one end. Ignoring the fire in his side and his ragged breathing, he ran faster. He tore the iron off its mount and turned right, out toward the middle of the cavern. The Afghan followed close. Jordan could hear his breathing. He tried to move in a different direction each time the light went out.

  The adversaries circled each other in a strange little hopping dance. Each vying for positional advantage.

  The Afghan lunged in the dark, missing by inches. Jordan brought the iron bar down with all his force. He hit something. The man groaned and when the light came on Jordan saw him on one knee clutching his shoulder. He swung again but missed in the dark. Jordan tripped on the train track and fell sprawling across the other man. He frantically rolled clear as the light came on freezing the blade in midarc. In the darkness he heard it strike cement just next to his ear. He swung the bar, feeling once again solid contact. The illuminated Afghan was bleeding profusely from his temple and
seemed stunned. Jordan stood and when the light came on again he took aim and swung with all the fury and fear and rage in his body.

  There was a sickening moist cracking sound and he felt his weapon shatter something brittle only to expend the rest of its force sinking into something more yielding underneath. The entire right side of the man’s face seemed to have collapsed, giving him a surprised expression. He wasn’t moving. Jordan swung again. He struck somewhere near the shoulder and something snapped underneath the skin and muscle. Somehow every blow seemed to stoke Jordan’s anger. He swung again and again, the exertion making him cry out with each blow. He saw the damage he was inflicting as a series of snapshots in the strobing light. His hands and arms were soaked in red and the Afghan’s head was an unrecognizable mess of blood, bone fragments and tissue.

  And then it was over. Jordan felt the passion suddenly drain completely out of him. His sweat-soaked body felt cold and all of his muscles were spent. He let the bar drop with a clatter to the floor. His chest heaved and breath came out in ragged gasps. Tears streamed unnoticed down his face. He had to keep going. There was still another pursuer out there. He picked up the knife and stuck it gingerly in his back pocket.

  He chose the left tunnel and started to run. His legs felt like deadweight but he forced himself to keep moving. The only light came from dim fixtures on the wall every fifty yards or so. He ran on the relatively flat space to the left of the track. His shoes echoed loudly. He couldn’t plan ahead; he had no idea what he’d do when he reached the tunnel mouth. He’d figure it out when he got there. Then he heard a bloodcurdling scream from behind him. Sorrow and rage in equal parts. Grief and bloodlust. Qhaywaan had found his companion. Jordan froze and leaned against the wall, breathing as quietly as he could manage. A minute later he heard a yell like the baying of a dog on a scent and footsteps coming hard down the tunnel. Fuck. How had he known which one? In the quiet he heard a thick drop of the dead man’s blood splatter on the ground. Of course. He’d left a fucking map.