For the Fight

by Leah Ashton

  Lou’s mind raced as she tried to determine what she should do. She’d never been in a hostage situation before, and she didn’t have any negotiator training. Nate probably did, and she was certain he’d already notified E-SWAT through his comms. There was a whole negotiator team at Elite SWAT. And snipers and tactical operators who knew exactly how to storm a train. And she’d also just called the police – who in case Nate’s comms weren’t working or whatever, they also would’ve called E-SWAT – so help would be coming. Soon.

  But unless there was a truck full of E-SWAT operators who just happened to be having lunch at one of the many Subiaco restaurants and cafés built immediately above this station, she and Nate were alone for now.

  The melodic ding that announced the doors were closing almost made Lou sag with relief. The girl on the bench hadn’t moved. No more hostages.

  But then, a cavalcade of footsteps heralded a group of people running down the steps to the platform. At the front, a woman in a long skirt with straight black hair.

  Behind her were maybe ten more people. Children actually. All girls, in matching uniforms – dresses with green and white checks – a school uniform. A teacher and her students, all maybe twelve or thirteen years old.

  “Wait!” the woman with the long skirt yelled out.

  No.

  The doors were almost shut. One more second and they would be, and the train would be away. The woman and the kids were gathering on the platform. Right near their carriage.

  “Wait!” the woman yelled again, waving her hands about in an attempt to capture the driver’s attention.

  Was it even possible the driver would notice? Did trains have side mirrors? Lou desperately hoped they did not.

  Or would the teacher see for herself the danger they were in through the glass doors and windows that provided such a clear view of what was going on inside?

  Lou glanced at the guy. He’d dropped the gun by his side. It wouldn’t be noticeable from outside. They’d have no idea what they were walking into.

  No.

  The doors shut fully. Lou held her breath.

  Did train drivers ever reopen carriage doors? Lou couldn’t remember the last time she’d been on a train, her district was south of Perth, her commute about ten minutes in her little blue hatchback – definitely no need for public transport.

  She glanced at Nate. His face was a picture of tension, his gaze entirely focused on the guy and that gun.

  Again, the melodic dinging started.

  No-no-no-no.

  The doors slid open.

  Lou turned, and she was immediately facing the teacher and the girls. They were metres away from her, and the moment the doors opened fully, they were going to step onto this carriage and potentially into the line of fire.

  The doors were almost open. One girl reached down and absently scratched the side of her calf, the action so normal and childlike that it seemed impossible Lou could even contemplate allowing them on the train.

  In fact, she couldn’t.

  “Don’t get on the train!” she yelled, although her words were more a screech, and nowhere near as loud as she wanted. “There’s a man with a gun!”

  For a moment everyone froze – the girls, the teacher, everyone in the carriage.

  And then the guy rushed to the open carriage door, dragging Fiona beside him, that gun once again thrust against her head. His thick shoulder bumped Lou hard, and she ricocheted into Nate.

  “Pretend it’s the wrong train,” the man hissed at the teacher. “Pretend good, ’cause if this train doesn’t leave now, someone’s getting shot, you understand me?”

  The teacher stumbled backwards, waving her arms as if trying to herd a flock of sheep away from the train. But she didn’t need to, the girls weren’t dumb, they were backing away, step by step.

  No one ran, though. No sudden movements.

  Just silence, except for the bloody ding of the doors.

  “Pretend!” the guy hissed, louder.

  The woman blinked, then pantomimed a pretty bad rendition of Oh look! This is the wrong train! With lots of hand movements and gestures and clearly it somehow worked – as the doors slid shut again.

  And as the train finally, finally pulled away, the teacher and her students ran back up those steps as if the fires of hell were chasing them.

  Lou realised that Nate had wrapped his arms around her after she’d been shoved against him, and now he attempted to pull her behind him as the guy turned his attention to her.

  But she wasn’t about to cower behind anyone.

  “You bitch!” he said. “You fucking interfering little bitch!”

  His gun was still held tight in his fist, but at least it was pointed at the ground, not at Fiona, not at her. Not that that was much comfort.

  She’d just defied him again, and Lou had no idea what he was going to do now to reassert his sense of control.

  Shoot her for disobeying him?

  Lou couldn’t even let that thought fully form. She couldn’t, or she would be absolutely no use to Nate, to the other hostages.

  Lou swallowed, her mouth suddenly acrid. She had no idea what to say.

  “No one got off the train,” Nate said suddenly, his voice a rumble in his chest behind her back. A deep, clear, calm, rumble. “She did what you asked.”

  “You’re going to fucking argue a technicality?” the guy said.

  “Everyone is doing exactly what you’ve told them, mate,” Nate said. Lou sensed his hesitation before saying mate like it was an effort to push the word out. But Nate was being smart, trying to build a rapport with this piece of shit. Trying to stop him from shooting her. “You’ve already got a train full of hostages, you didn’t need any more.”

  “You some expert in this?” the guy said, his gaze flicking over Nate.

  “Nah, mate,” Nate said, “But I’ve got three little sisters. All those girls on here would’ve been pretty hectic.”

  Nate didn’t have any sisters at all. He had a brother, also a cop. Or at least he had been when she’d been going out with Nate.

  The guy almost cracked a smile. “You telling me this nosy bitch did me a favour? You think I’m some kinda idiot?”

  “No,” Nate said, “I’m just saying that it seems like you have this under control.”

  Lou couldn’t see Nate’s face, but knew he hadn’t broken eye contact with the gunman. The guy just stared back at Nate, and as Lou watched, she tried to read his thoughts. Poor Fiona was still clamped to his side, although her hair was no longer hanging over her face. Instead she was looking up at him, mascara making greyish tracks down her cheeks. Her gaze was … pleading.

  Pleading for what? To let her go? To put the gun away? To not shoot Lou?

  Fear began to overtake the adrenalin that’d been coursing through her veins from the moment this dick dragged Fiona onto the train. Sure, she’d been shocked when he’d drawn his gun. Sure, she’d felt fear when she’d seen those girls on the platform.

  But now she felt fear for herself. The thought fully formed now, despite all her best efforts:

  Was he going to shoot her for disobeying him?

  If he wanted to, he could just lift that gun up a bit, and shoot her now. He could shoot Nate, he could shoot Fiona, he could shoot everyone on this carriage. This train.

  Fear tightened her throat, settled heavy on her chest.

  It would be so easy to lean into it, to lean into the fear and let it overwhelm her. But she didn’t allow it, she couldn’t. She hadn’t the last time she’d been in a life and death situation – just two weeks ago – although what good it did her then. But then, at least, she’d had a gun.

  Although – again – for what good it did her.

  Rather than leaning into the fear, Lou leaned back into Nate’s chest, and his arm around her grew tighter. She could feel his heartbeat, its rhythm steady and strong. He was warm, hot really, against the thin cotton of her singlet, and in pretty much any other situation being so comple
tely pressed against his body – back, hips, butt – would’ve been … something else. Intimate. Sexy.

  But right now, of course it wasn’t. It wasn’t about Nate being a man and her being a woman, or about their history, as ancient as it was.

  It was his strength and hers.

  Together.

  Nate kept his attention on the shithead, trying to hide the fact he literally wanted to rip the arsehole’s head off. How dare he do this? How dare he create the terror in this carriage that was so intense Nate could almost taste it.

  Beyond the gunman the other passengers sat in two different rows of seats – the teenage boys right at the back, near the door to the adjacent carriage behind them. The grey-haired woman sat about four rows in front of them, pressed up hard against the window, as if she was hoping she could exit the bloody train by osmosis. The office guy still stood awkwardly gripping the yellow pole near the seats meant for the disabled, his gaze on Nate, as if Nate had some plan.

  Which he didn’t, really, other than stopping this arsehole from shooting Lou.

  He’d had no idea the school kids had been on the platform, his attention entirely on the guy’s gun from the moment he’d seen it – his whole body itching with anticipation – because if the shithead gave him an opening, he was taking him down.

  So yeah, he hadn’t seen the kids, not until Lou started yelling.

  And, fuck, he knew that Lou hadn’t really had any option. No way should those kids have been allowed on this train. But, still … this guy already hated her for simply asking Fiona if she was okay. Now she’d gone and painted a red target on her chest.

  And if he’d just fucked this conversation up, the shithead was going to shoot her to prove to the carriage – the negotiators, everyone, that he decided what happened on this train.

  The arsehole’s gaze shifted from Nate’s, down to Lou. As Nate watched, the man’s fingers flexed against the Glock’s grip – loosening, then tightening again.

  Nate swallowed, his throat dry.

  Via the tiny receiver in his ear, he could hear the E-SWAT team relaying their progress. It was less than ten minutes to the next station, which was being evacuated. So were the rest along the line. But there wasn’t enough time for an E-SWAT team to get into position at the next stop – not that they’d worked out what to do yet. They needed more intel from Nate first:

  What do you reckon he’d do if we stopped the train?

  How many hostages?

  Can you get him onto a phone? Negotiator is ready.

  Obviously, Nate didn’t say a word.

  The instinct to drag Lou behind him, ignoring her resistance, was near overwhelming. But he couldn’t. He was supposed to be being calm and reasonable. He was supposed to be building a rapport with this piece of shit, not escalating the situation.

  So, he remained still, although it just about killed him to do so. The shithead’s gaze finally slid back to Nate’s.

  Something had changed in that gaze. Now it gleamed like he’d just discovered his shit didn’t stink.

  Nate’s arms tightened hard around Lou. She didn’t move at all, and he realised she was holding her breath.

  He was holding his breath too. His heart beat hard against her back.

  “I do have this under control,” the shithead said finally. “Fucking everything is under control.”

  The gun that Nate hadn’t stopped staring at shifted in the man’s grasp. His finger curled around the trigger, slowly – like a caress. But just as Nate’s muscles bunched, just before he launched himself as that arsehole – no fucking way was he waiting for Lou to be shot, for him to be shot – his finger lifted from the trigger.

  The shithead turned his head, his attention now on the rest of the hostages. As if he and Lou were forgotten. As if time hadn’t just stood still.

  Only then did Lou sag against him in relief, and start breathing again. Only when the gunman couldn’t see her – couldn’t see how much he’d scared her.

  Nate would bet everything he owned, everything he knew, that Lou had kept her gaze steady – her gaze brave – the whole time that arsehole had been working out whether or not to shoot her.

  She craned her neck to look up at Nate, and just fleetingly – like for a nanosecond – he let himself enjoy holding Luella Brayshaw in his arms again, to have her look up at him with softness in her gaze.

  Not hurt. Not betrayal.

  Predictably, the shithead ended that infinitesimally brief moment with an ugly, brutal shout. “Hey!” he yelled, at the teenagers. They were both tall with narrow shoulders and too long hair. One was in a flannel shirt, the other a white T-shirt printed with the name of a band Nate had never heard of. “One of you go tell the driver no stopping ’til he gets to Freo. If ya not back in a couple of minutes, I shoot the other one of you. And if the train fucking stops, I shoot you both. Got it?”

  Both boys nodded, and then both started talking furiously to each other, working out who would leave – even temporarily.

  Nate was still staring at that gun. If the shithead turned his back entirely, Nate could possibly go for it.

  The thing was, the guy’s finger was still near the trigger. There was far too high a risk of the Glock discharging in the process. And, should Nate somehow fail at disarming the guy, there was a pretty good chance he’d be dead. Or someone else on the train would be.

  “Go fucking now!” the shithead suddenly roared.

  This silenced the boys, and one with lank red hair stood and lurched for the door that linked this carriage to the next one. He shoved his palm against the door release and left the carriage.

  The door slid shut with such a normal, everyday, innocuous sound it was rather anticlimactic. As if the boy had just gone to sit elsewhere, not gone to absolutely guarantee that this nightmarish train trip was going to continue right to the end of the train line.

  No one was getting off until Fremantle.

  Chapter Four

  They were properly in suburbia now, the train winding its way through the leafy, affluent eastern suburbs of Perth, the surrounding architecture a mix of renovated century-old cottages and bleeding edge modernity.

  The sky outside was still a perfect, cloudless, blue.

  Lou hugged herself, rubbing her hands up and down her bare arms, although the cool of the air conditioning was definitely the least of her problems.

  She sat beside Nate, in the part of the carriage where a row of seats backed against each opposing wall of the train, only blue patterned carpet between them. The other passengers were all in the conventional row part of the carriage, except for the dude in a suit who now perched uncomfortably on one of those foldable seats for the disabled. As if even now he thought he shouldn’t be using it.

  Not that he’d had any choice, the gunman had just directed them all to sit where he told them, and so now Nate and Lou had the not-at-all pleasure of sitting immediately across from him and Fiona. Fiona, finally, was no longer clamped to the guy’s side – although he still crowded her, his legs in that classic manspreading pose, forcing Fiona to squeeze her knees together and angle her legs away. His hip still pressed against the woman’s, and when she’d try to put even the smallest gap between them he’d said: don’t fucking move. And that had been that.

  The sound of a door sliding open announced the return of the redheaded teenager, his skin polar white beneath his freckles.

  Beyond him in the adjacent carriage, the handful of passengers now knew very clearly what was going on, and they all now sat at the absolute furthest seats from this carriage. Lou knew from a quick glance at the carriage behind them that the passengers in that one had done the same. She was absolutely certain that each carriage would be in police contact now, although she imagined that wouldn’t be particularly reassuring for them.

  Still, better than being in this carriage, anyway.

  Not that Lou wished herself off this train.

  Yes, sure, about two minutes ago when she’d seriously thought she was g
oing to get shot? Yeah, she was pretty damn keen to get off this train.

  But now, nope. Not until Fiona and everyone else on this train was safe.

  And achieving that would be a shit tonne easier if she could actually talk to Nate. If they could actually form a plan.

  She glanced at the man beside her.

  He wasn’t exactly sprawled on his seat, but he had relaxed back against the patterned fabric, one arm stretched out along the back of the chairs behind her shoulders.

  Her shoulders in contrast were stiff, her posture straight. It seemed crazy that just minutes ago she’d been wrapped in his arms, but now she didn’t want to touch him. She didn’t have time to analyse why – maybe because of what happened a decade ago and she was still pissed at him? Probably. Or maybe because in that moment after the gunman had made his decision not to shoot her – at least not right now – it had felt pretty damn remarkable to be wrapped in his arms?

  No. That wasn’t it.

  But she didn’t have time to think about any of that, anyway – of Nate and her, or anything related to how she felt about seeing him again. She kind of needed to focus on the fact she was being held fucking hostage on a train.

  Her phone rang.

  It was the most boring ringtone available on the far from latest model phone, and it was loud. She’d turned the volume up when she’d been dropped off at Elizabeth Quay what now felt like hours ago. No way had she been missing a call from Sergeant Peters.

  But now, the rhythmic brrriinngggg was obscenely loud in the silent carriage. It was as if they’d all been waiting for something to happen.