by Sean Black
The road ahead was wide open. Lock slowed and pulled over, giving the car behind a chance to pass. It edged up behind him a little, but made no move to go around them. The radio chatter moved up a notch. A second later he saw flashing lights behind him. He eased off the gas pedal, and hit his turn signal to indicate he was pulling over to the side of the road.
He waited for the police cruiser to pull in behind him. He kept the Audi in drive, the engine running, and watched his mirrors.
The police cruiser stopped about twenty-five feet behind him. The driver’s door opened, and a lone patrol officer stood behind it, his service weapon drawn as he started to bark instructions.
‘Driver, turn off the engine.’
The cop sounded young and nervous. Lock tuned in more intently to the chatter in his ear. Other units were on the way, but their ETA was about seven minutes away. Decision-making became a little harder. A lot would depend on how the young patrol officer reacted. The situation was further complicated by the fact that Lock had no plans to shoot an innocent cop. If it came down to it, and his only option was to kill someone doing their job, then he and Malik would both have to take their chances in custody, leaving Ty on the outside to figure out what the hell was going on.
‘Turn off your engine.’
Lock raised his hands, but made no move to turn off the engine. It was still in drive, the only thing preventing it from moving his right foot on the brake pedal.
Now the cop had a decision to make. It was likely that he would have a dash cam fitted. That meant he was going to be unwilling to take a shot at a driver with his arms raised in plain sight. If he was bright, he would hold his position and wait for the cavalry. But Lock could already tell from the rising anger in his voice, as the young officer barked at him for a third time to switch off the engine, that he wasn’t going to wait. He didn’t want to be sitting here like a dummy when his colleagues arrived, even though that was the smart thing to do.
Lock kept watching in the rear-view as the cop shuffled around the lip of the open driver’s door, and started to move toward the back of the Audi. Lock kept his arms nice and high and still.
His service weapon punched out in front of him, the young patrol officer moved down the side of the Audi. He was too jumpy to notice the Malik-shaped bundle in back although, to be fair to him, all the windows in the Audi, apart from the windshield, were tinted.
The cop was next to Lock’s door now. The gun was pointed straight at Lock’s head.
‘Are you deaf? Turn off the engine.’
Slowly, Lock moved his neck so that he was looking straight at the cop. ‘Didn’t want to lower my hands with a gun pointed at me,’ he said. ‘I have a sidearm. Now why don’t we just sit here until you have some back-up?’
‘Okay,’ the cop barked. ‘Get out of the car.’
The cop kept his right hand raised, the gun still up, as his left hand opened the driver’s door. Lock watched his hands, and waited. The cop was watching Lock’s hands too, making sure they didn’t move and that he didn’t go for his gun. Another few seconds passed. Lock lowered his arms fractionally so that his elbows were almost resting on the steering-wheel.
‘What are you doing?’ the cop said, eyes like saucers.
‘Thought you’d want my gun,’ Lock said innocently.
‘Just don’t move, okay?’
‘Okay,’ said Lock, his arms freezing in place.
The cop moved the door another fraction. When the solid edge was between the barrel of the gun and Lock’s head, Lock jabbed down hard on the gas pedal, turning the wheel down to his left with his elbow. The Audi shot forward and to the side. The back end of the car slammed into the cop’s hip.
The officer fired but he was already going down as he pulled the trigger and the shot went high. Lock put his hands on the wheel and pulled out onto the road. In his side mirror he could see the cop rolling on his side, his hand clutching his hip. Lock killed his headlights, and stayed off the brakes as he drove.
He probably had between thirty seconds and a minute before the cop made it back to his unit and got on the radio. Lock reached a four-way stop. He hung a right back toward the interstate.
45
They pulled up next to a single-story red-brick building at the edge of the college campus. Kelly was in the front passenger seat, Tromso driving. Ty was sitting in back.
Kelly got out and slammed the door. She didn’t say a word to either Tromso or Ty. Ty was waiting for her to walk round and let him out, but she kept walking. She opened a door leading into the campus security building and disappeared.
Tromso reversed the patrol car out of the space he had just pulled into and drove away. Ty knew better than to say anything. This was not a good development, but the last thing he was going to do was show fear to an asshole like Tromso.
Tromso drove them back through the campus. It was still dark. There was no one about to see them. They pulled out onto a street called Buffalo Drive. Ty stared out of the window. Tromso kept flicking glances at him from the front. The fat cop shifted in his seat as Ty continued to ignore him.
They drove past a strip mall at the edge of town. Still Ty didn’t say anything.
Finally, the silence got the better of Tromso. ‘Want to know where we’re going, tough guy?’
Ty finally looked at him. ‘Not really. Why?’
Tromso tried to shrug it off. ‘Figured you’d want to know.’
‘Let me guess. Somewhere quiet with no witnesses?’ said Ty.
Tromso’s piggy eyes flicked back to him. ‘You’re good.’
‘I know,’ said Ty.
‘You could save me a lot of trouble and just tell me where your buddy is?’
‘I could,’ said Ty. ‘But I’m not going to. And, by the way, it takes a lot more to scare me than some fat fuck of a mall cop.’
They were out in the boonies now. Trees folded in on the patrol car from both sides. A truck hauling lumber roared past. Ty stared out of the window. There was a glimpse of light through the trees. Sunrise couldn’t be too far away.
Ty had to remind himself not to get complacent. The idea of someone like Tromso ending his life, where others had failed, struck him as comical but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.
They pulled off the blacktop road. Tromso stopped the patrol car, opened a gate with a sign that read ‘Private Property’ and a couple of buckshot-riddled tin cans tied to the post, and drove through. He stopped, and got back out to close the gate. Ty watched him impassively from the back seat. He didn’t doubt that Tromso was capable of taking him out. Hell, the guy had brazenly torched the scene of a multiple homicide. But Tromso wanted Malik before he killed Ty, and there was no way that was going to happen. A year in Gitmo wouldn’t make Ty dime out a friend so, however this went, Tromso was not going to be a happy bunny.
The track sloped upwards. It was narrow. Branches whipped against the patrol car as it climbed. The road curved right in a wide loop, then flattened out. Ahead was a log cabin with a covered porch.
Tromso parked in front of the cabin and got out. He disappeared inside and closed the door. A few seconds later, he was back.
He opened Ty’s door. ‘Get out,’ he said.
Ty was already fairly sure he hadn’t been brought out here ‒ into the woods where no one could hear you scream ‒ for a measured discussion. They could have had that back at the station with coffee and a nice warm interrogation room. So, given that he was almost certainly about to take a beating, he had made up his mind not to make things easy for Tromso.
As Tromso reached in to grab him, Ty allowed himself to lean back in the seat and aim a boot square at the cop. It hit Tromso in the chest, sending him windmilling away, arms flailing. He landed on his backside.
Ty’s heel must have caught Tromso flush in the solar plexus because he struggled to catch his breath. It took him a full minute, by Ty’s estimation, to lever himself back to his feet. His face was bright red, and his eyes seemed to have receded
even further into his head. His right hand fell to his belt and, for a split second, Ty wondered if he hadn’t miscalculated. Maybe Tromso was just stupid and angry enough to shoot him, after all.
Then he saw Tromso’s hand reach around and pluck out the Taser from its pouch on his belt. Ty was still lying flat, the soles of his boots pointed out toward the cop. Tromso walked round to the other side, opened the door and fired the Taser. Ty did his best to get out of the way, but with his hands cuffed behind his back, he couldn’t move fast enough.
The Taser’s two wire barbs embedded in the side of his neck about two inches above his shoulder. His body jolted as the first pulse of electricity hit him. His back arched, and his muscles tightened. The air around him seemed to press in against him and for a second he thought he might pass out.
The pain kept coming. He was having trouble breathing. He tried to speak but his mouth wouldn’t open. His teeth were grinding ‒ he could hear them, though that was all he could hear.
Finally, the shock wave fell away. Tromso grabbed the back of Ty’s shirt, and hauled him out. His head struck the edge of the car door, as the cop pulled him onto the cold, damp ground.
There was another spike of pain as Tromso hit the Taser again. Ty’s body rose, his back arching once more, his limbs going rigid as the current flowed through him. He opened his mouth, gasping for air as the pain kept coming.
He felt a brief agonizing bite as Tromso reached down and ripped the two Taser spikes from his neck. He lay there for a moment before Tromso hauled him to his feet. His legs felt weak. His head pounded. But there was relief that the sharp spikes of pain from the Taser had stopped.
Tromso grabbed the cuffs, yanked them down hard to take control of him, and pushed him toward the cabin. Ty stumbled across the open ground and through the door.
Inside, it was dark and cold. There was an old wood-burning stove in one corner, a table with a chipped Formica top and three chairs standing opposite. Yellowing newspapers were spread randomly on the floor. There was a single kitchen counter with a sink and a draining-board.
Tromso pushed him toward the table and sat him in one of the chairs. The cop’s face was still flushed, and he was making a wheezing sound. Ty was out of breath. Being Tasered would do that to you.
Tromso’s gasps from hauling him out of the back of the car made Ty feel better. There was an outside chance that the cop might be able to Taser information out of him, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to beat it out of him. He’d tire before that happened. Of course, at some point the tables would turn and Ty would really lay down a beating on the fat man.
The cop took a moment to catch his breath. ‘You’re telling me where he is one way or another.’
Ty stared at him. If it hadn’t have been for what he’d done to Malik, and now to Ty, he would have felt sorry for him. Pain was not a great method for extracting information. America had learned that the hard way. Sure, if you tortured a person they would cough something, but rarely would it be actionable. More often than not they would give you what you wanted to hear. Tromso had another problem, too. Ty didn’t know exactly where Lock was taking Malik. For operational reasons, Lock had given Ty the general area but nothing as specific as an address. All in, it was going to make for a long day.
There was the crunch of tires outside as a vehicle rolled up the driveway toward the cabin. Ty studied Tromso’s reaction. That would tell him whether it was good news or not. Tromso looked nervily toward the door, but didn’t panic. ‘Last chance to tell me where he is.’ He walked across to the door and grabbed the handle. Ty remained silent. ‘Have it your way then,’ said Tromso, and disappeared outside.
Ty tried to crane his neck to see who had arrived, but it was no use. The door was shut. He moved his hands and tried to slam the cuffs against the back of the chair. Sometimes, if you got real lucky, you could bump handcuffs open.
This wasn’t one of those times. He tried twice more, but all he got out of it was sore wrists where the inner edge of the cuffs cut into them.
He could hear Tromso talking to someone outside. It sounded like one other person, an adult male, who answered in a voice so soft that Ty couldn’t make out what was said.
‘Yeah, he ain’t going to give him up easy,’ Tromso was telling the other man.
Thirty seconds of conversation told Ty that Tromso was the junior partner in all of this. The words were tumbling from his mouth in an excited jumble. The other man was giving him yes-no answers, his voice low and controlled.
The conversation stopped. Ty kept waiting for the door to open. It didn’t. Seconds passed. Then minutes. Ty tried his trick of bumping the cuffs against the back of the chair again. It didn’t work this time either. He was stuck.
Finally, he heard two sets of footsteps. The door opened. Tromso walked in, his face set, a soft brown leather bag in his hand. It had a snap clasp. It looked like an old-school doctor’s bag, the kind that featured in movies when the local doc arrived to deliver a baby. He set it down on the table. Ty was waiting for him to start calling for hot water and towels. He didn’t say anything. He turned and left, pushing past the man framed in the doorway as quickly as he could.
This man was large and lean. He was dressed in black boots and black work overalls. His face was obscured by a black ski mask. He ignored Ty, walked across to the leather bag, opened the clasp and, with gloved hands, took out a series of knives and scalpels, laying them carefully on the counter.
46
As a general rule, someone wearing a mask in the commission of a crime is a good sign. A mask means that the person wants to conceal their identity. Which usually means that, unless something goes wrong, they plan on leaving their victim or victims behind alive. Messed up. Traumatized. Perhaps changed forever. But breathing.
Right now, though, as the man in the mask walked toward him, a long boning knife in hand, Ty wasn’t finding a lot of comfort in any of that. The man stopped in front of him, and hunkered down so that they were eye to eye. He stared at Ty with sparkling blue eyes. They crinkled at the edges as he smiled.
‘You will tell me where he is,’ the man said.
He didn’t have a Minnesota accent, that was for sure. The local accent was pretty distinctive, more Canadian than American. This was someone who hailed from the east coast. New Hampshire, maybe. Not Boston, maybe further north, a little more out in the sticks.
Ty thought about telling him he was correct. Given enough pain, he might well tell him where Malik was. But he didn’t know. That wasn’t going to convince this guy. He looked way too cool for the truth to have any effect. Ty decided on another tack.
‘How much they paying you?’ he asked him. ‘Or is this personal?’ He waited a second, searching the man’s eyes for the slightest flicker of a reaction. ‘You one of them? Is that it? You like little boys too?’
The man’s pupils grew smaller. The man’s lips curled up at the edges in a hollow approximation of a smile. It was too late, though. Ty already knew he had got to him. Not that it was going to save him from the world of pain that was heading his way.
The man put the knife down on the floor, and began to roll up the right leg of Ty’s jeans. His hand grasped the back of Ty’s calf. He started feeling around, a butcher in search of a joint or a hamstring.
A shout from outside. ‘Hey!’ It sounded like Tromso.
The man picked up his knife, and walked to the door as Tromso called again, a nervous catch in his throat. Ty watched him open the door, the knife still in his hand. He had barely cleared the doorframe when there was the crack of a single shot. The man was blown back into the cabin by the force of the bullet’s impact as it smashed into his face, catching him two inches above the bridge of his nose.
The man’s arms flailed, and he staggered backwards. His hands found only air, and he went down, falling backwards, an orange-sized hole blown out of the front of his skull.
Outside, Tromso was screaming at whoever the hell had just taken out his budd
y that he was police. Like that was going to make a difference, thought Ty. Tromso fired his handgun a couple of times. The sniper didn’t reply. He waited.
Ty shook his head, willing himself to sharpen up as a fresh burst of adrenalin hit his system. He used his feet to shuffle the chair forward. He pushed himself up, his hands and forearms raking against the back of the chair. Half standing, half squatting, he made it to his feet, the chair slipping out from under him.
His hands were still cuffed behind his back but he was on his feet. Tromso fired another couple of shots. A car engine started up outside.
Ty duck-walked toward the open door. Trying to keep his balance was next to impossible without his arms free to steady himself, but he made it. The butcher in the mask was stone-cold dead. From the hole in his head, it had been a high-caliber round. At least a .44. Maybe something heftier.
He heard wheels spin. He made it to the door as Tromso took off in the patrol car, taking the keys to the cuffs with him and leaving Ty alone with the sniper.
47
Ty hunkered down in the doorway. A quick calculation told him that the sniper was almost certainly in a wooded area of densely planted birch trees about three hundred yards to the left of the cabin. He scanned the area, but couldn’t see jack.
Tromso’s patrol car had rolled almost out of sight. He could see the trunk bumping up and down as it sped away.
There was the sound of another shot. The brake-lights of the patrol car flared and pulsed. The car stopped. It was too far away for Ty to see what had happened to Tromso, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to go look-see. Whoever was in the woods had been clinical. Two shots, and likely two dead. This wasn’t some weekend warrior.
Still handcuffed, Ty duck-walked back toward the dead man. He turned so that his back was to the man’s corpse and, peering through his knees for a visual, slowly peeled back the charred remnants of the mask. Blood and grey blancmange slopped out, oozing onto the cabin floor. The man’s eyes were dark blood-filled orbs.