The Subway

by Dustin Stevens

  Keeping both feet on the ground, I slid forward over the polished concrete floor, the gun twitching before me, trying in vain to pick out any opposition.

  As best I could tell, there was none.

  Which was what made the pain of the bullet entering my leg that much worse.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  I never heard the report of the gunshot. Never so much as a peep. The sole warning I had was the momentary bit of shock that passed through my thigh before the full weight of it smacked into me.

  Ripping the breath from my lungs, my body toppled to the side, the unexpected blow cutting my support out from beneath me.

  Dropping to one knee, both hands slammed down before me, the Beretta wedged under my right palm.

  My left leg - the one that had been shot - remained at an angle, extended away from my body, a steady torrent of blood droplets speckling the concrete beneath me.

  “Slide the gun away.”

  Spoken by a male, there was a firmness to the tone, a directive that was not negotiable, full compliance the only response.

  And it was coming from behind me, my entire backside exposed.

  “Do it, or I pump you with a clip, then go do the same to your girlfriend.”

  Given my situation, I had no choice but to obey. I didn’t know who was back there, had yet to even see the man, and he already had put a round in me.

  Rattling off a few more would be of no concern.

  Using my right hand, I shoved the gun away, the metal sliding almost ten feet across the smooth floor. Using the momentum from the action, I shoved my body upright, my knee the sole remaining point of contact aside from my feet.

  “Don’t stand,” the man said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

  Doing as told, I resisted the instinct to raise my hands, to give this bastard even the slightest hint that he had gotten to me.

  Instead, I let only the hatred I felt show on my face.

  I had gotten my uncle killed. Had flown across the country. Made a mess of things for Lou and Lipski and untold others only to walk inside and get my ass shot.

  Served me right.

  The man seemed to emerge directly from the shadows, springing up fully formed, quite a feat for someone with no shirt and a ghostly pallor. Sauntering forward one step at a time, he held a gun in either hand, the smile on his face confirming what I’d suspected a moment before.

  On a face I recognized in an instant.

  “Elijah Pyle,” I whispered, the wrath I’d felt growing in intensity, far outstripping the burning in my thigh.

  Raising a hand to his chest, he feigned as if honored, his mouth dropping open a bit.

  “So you remember me?”

  “Eric Baxter’s lapdog?” I asked. “Yeah, I remember you.”

  The smile faded as he stared at me, clearly not appreciating the comment.

  “Last I saw you, you were crying like a baby as they led him out of that courtroom in handcuffs.”

  Pressing his lips tight, he stared at me a moment, seeming to feel the same animosity I harbored for him.

  Which was entirely likely, his showing up six years later proving the incident had just as much bearing on him as me.

  Extending his guns my way, every muscle striation stood out, his body clenched so tight he quivered as he stared down the barrel.

  It was clear that he wanted nothing more than to pull the trigger, to empty every last bullet he had into me and watch as I toppled to the ground lifeless.

  But just as clear was the fact that if he truly harbored any of the same feelings I did, there was no way he was going to let it go that easily.

  Slowly lowering them by his side, he rocked his head back an inch, staring down the length of his nose at me.

  “I’m going to do to you exactly what I did to your uncle.”

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Talula Davis waited just a split second by the doorway, watching as Tim spun in the opposite direction, disappearing beyond the fiery wreckage of his car.

  Hours before, they had debated how things might go once they got here. How to best approach the outside, to proceed if they were able to make it inside.

  The biggest point of contention had been whether or not they should split up or remained joined, the debate not between each other but the pros and cons of such an approach.

  In the end, they had decided that with such a small number, likely facing a location that was quite large, it would be better for them to part. To spread Baxter’s men out, not make it so easy for them to be hemmed in.

  The ultimate goal was, after all, to end it.

  Not to merely survive.

  Right up until the moment she saw Tim disappear, Davis wasn’t certain he would go for it, would trust her enough not to reverse course, to insist on being by her side.

  Once he did, though, it brought about a renewed sense of purpose in her. He trusted her enough to do as they agreed, respected her to be an able ally against Baxter.

  Which meant she needed to prove she was just that.

  Holding the HK’s before her, Davis kept one at shoulder height, the other pointed at a downward angle. Occasionally moving them back and forth across her body, she covered every inch before her, gaze tracing over the grounds, watching for any sign of movement.

  Behind her, she could feel the heat of the wreckage, could hear the low crackle of the seats burning inside, smell their acrid smoke.

  Along the wall beside her, she spotted a metal staircase rising sharply up to a second-floor office, shattered windows overlooking the operation below.

  If she didn’t know what the warehouse was designed for, the true purpose it performed day in and day out, she might have believed that it was nothing more than an auto body shop.

  Spread in equal intervals around her were hydraulic lifts, air wrenches, assorted metal tool cabinets. Striping the wall beneath the office was a rack of tires, their tread new, arranged in ascending order of size.

  On the ground was even a few oil spots, the smells of grease and gasoline in the air.

  Crossing one foot over the other, Davis kept her back just a few feet from the wall. Moving slow, continuing to sweep the HK’s back and forth before her, she worked in a clockwise direction around the room, watching for any hint of movement, any sign of someone lurking, waiting for her to give them an opportunity.

  A sign such as the sporadic droplets of blood speckling the floor around her.

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  There was no time to think, no pause to let what she was seeing register, to even consider some form of verbal parlay.

  One moment, Talula Davis was standing near a wall, staring at the random assortment of droplets and bloody smears working perpendicular to her across the floor.

  The next, she was planting her right foot, using every bit of basketball agility ever attained to shove her body toward the wall. Splayed parallel to the ground, she seemed to levitate, hovering above the floor, as a pair of muzzle flashes ignited no more than fifteen feet away.

  Landing hard on her hip, spasms of pain roiled up her side as she slid to the wall, her body twisting up tight against the base of it. With both weapons still extended before her, she squeezed off a pair of shots from each, hearing the rounds ping against the metal structures before her.

  Just as they had outside, sparks ignited on contact.

  Unlike that time, they were immediately answered by another pair of bursts, the first nudging the wall behind her, the second tracing along the outside of her deltoid, cleaving a trench through the skin.

  Agony coursed down from the wound, followed by a curtain of blood, the liquid spilling down, aided by the rivulets already carved by sweat through the dirt and grime on her skin.

  Sucking in a sharp breath of air, Davis pulled herself into a straight line, her stomach flush against the ground. Drawing her feet up toward her core, the toes of her boots slipped twice, fighting for purchase, before the treads caught hold, propelling her forward again.
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  Her options were sparse. She was exposed, had been lucky to only be grazed. The men across from her were experts, and likely wouldn’t miss again.

  Just a few minutes inside and already it was time for extensive measures, they being the only kind that could truly exist in such a situation.

  Offering two more rounds from each of the HK’s, she drove straight ahead. Twisting her head a few inches to the right, she released her grip on the guns, letting them fall to the side as she slammed her body into the tire rack along the wall.

  On contact, her left shoulder seized tight, almost matching the pain of the right.

  For an instant, there was no movement, no response at all from the rack.

  Feeling panic rise within her, knowing she was exposed, that she had cast down her weapons, Davis pumped her legs, her knees driving like pistons into the rack, as a round thudded into the thick rubber of a steel radial no more than a few inches from her head.

  Letting out a mighty, guttural roar, she pushed with everything she had, every last bit of anything she could muster, waiting as bit by bit the rack gave way.

  Spilling the entirety of its contents down on the floor around it.

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  I was aware of the guns Elijah Pyle held being cast aside. I watched as he tossed them in either direction, could faintly hear the din of them hitting the floor with a clatter.

  But I didn’t really focus on any of that.

  Instead, my sole point of concentration was on the words he had just uttered, on the look of glee now dancing across his face.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” he said. Reaching into his back pocket, he extracted a K-bar knife, the model instantly recognizable, the kind some of the guys I served with used to trade Marines for, finding it far preferable to the stuff we were issued. “I’m the one that carved that old man up like a Christmas ham.”

  Jabbing the knife out in front of him, he gave it a toggle in either direction, a swashbuckling gesture meant only to rankle me.

  Not that such a thing was necessary.

  Gritting my teeth, I managed to shove myself to full height, a renewed spasm traveling through my body as just a fraction of my weight landed on my left leg. Seeing bits of light pop before me, I swayed uneasily, staring back at him.

  “So that’s what this is?” I asked. “I took your daddy away from you, so you had to take my uncle from me?”

  Extending a hand around to my back pocket, I pulled the hawksbill blade free, flipping it open.

  Smaller than the K-bar being brandished a short distance away, the curved face of it was much better suited for close quarters, better at slashing without getting bogged down, never a concern for snags or tears.

  Looking at it, some of the previous malevolence came back to Pyle’s features, though whether it was the blade or the comment spurring him on, I couldn’t know.

  Did not give a single damn either way.

  “What the hell do you think you’re going to do with that?” Pyle asked. “You can barely stand. Maybe I should just wait you out, let you topple over, then do what I want.”

  “True,” I conceded. “You’ve been waiting six years to get even for what I did. What’s another few minutes, right?”

  There was no way this man could carry the venom I did, could stand any chance against me in a fair fight, but right now, that wasn’t the case. I was severely hobbled, which meant I had to use the one advantage I had.

  Psychology.

  “All that time, a damn orphan, floating around without a home. Nobody to tuck you in at night, tell you everything was going to be alright.”

  Hopping a few steps to the side, I feigned as if circling right, wanting him to come with me.

  That he would let his anger consume him, overriding his sense of place, drawing his focus to my words and them alone.

  Matching my step, he squeezed the knife tight, staring straight at me.

  Of everything I remembered from being in that court, from watching the proceedings from a separate room, what stood out most was the way Pyle had ebbed and flowed with every word said. Wearing his emotions plainly, it was clear to all that he had a vested interest with Baxter.

  What they didn’t know was that he was the second man in the alley that night, the one who arguably was probably the one meant to pull the trigger.

  Making everything that happened as much his fault as mine.

  “You shut the hell up,” he muttered. “Right now, if you know what’s good for you.”

  Taking another hop to the right, I didn’t dare look away, could not even think of giving away my intention, the end destination for where this was going.

  “What’s good for me?” I asked. “Did big Eric teach you those kinds of things? Did he tell you to brush your teeth and eat your vegetables too?”

  Stopping any movement, I watched as Pyle forced down a swallow, a spasm rippling through his neck, his upper body jerking slightly to the side.

  “Oh, am I going to enjoy this.”

  “The way you enjoyed letting him take the fall for your screw up?” I asked.

  It was the last thing either one of us would say, both moving in tandem.

  Pyle started by rushing straight ahead, the knife before him, wanting to shove it clean through my body, his arm thrust out before him.

  At the same instant, I managed to balance my weight entirely on my right foot. Bracing off it, I flung my body toward the ground, my circling having cut the distance from me to the Beretta by half.

  Just far enough for a one-legged lunge to hopefully be enough.

  Pyle let out a scream, a deep braying tinged with hatred that echoed in my ears as I hung suspended in the air. Landing on a shoulder, I felt every last bit of dirt and gravel still embedded from the fall outside bite into my skin, my body sliding forward.

  With fingers splayed out, I held my breath, willing my body forward, watching as they passed over the gnarled grip of the Beretta, the stock sliding back firm into the crook between my thumb and forefinger.

  Using the last of my momentum, I rolled flat on my back, drawing the gun up in front of me just seconds before Pyle arrived.

  With the K-bar pulled high over his shoulder, the tip pointed down at me, ready to be plunged into center mass, his entire core was left open.

  A perfect canvas as I pulled the trigger three quick times in succession, following the same pattern he had on those boys back at the farmhouse.

  Chest. Chest. Forehead.

  The first two shots struck into the center of his chest plates, small red circles opening up, glistening beneath the lights.

  Given the angle, the third seemed to travel directly up the length of his nose, hitting home in the center of his forehead, blowing the top of his skull out, a pink mist erupting behind him.

  Like a life-size marionette, his body swayed for a moment, muscle memory and nerve endings keeping him in place, before gravity won out, his body collapsing into a heap on the ground, a pool of blood steadily pushing out away from him.

  Keeping the gun trained on him a moment longer, making sure he was truly gone, I slowly rocked my head back, letting it rest against the cool concrete beneath me.

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  The sound of tires bouncing across the floor, the enormous rubber implements scattering in every direction, echoed out as Talula Davis shoved herself to her feet. Feeling the sting of the trench cut into her arm, she shot forward, dodging through tires like an old-time football player doing an agility drill.

  Moving hard, she aimed her focus on the spot where the muzzle flashes had originated, churning as fast as her body would allow.

  Halfway there, she heard what she was looking for, a muted garble of muttered cursing, a body flailing across the concrete.

  Bending forward at the waist, she hooked a hand inside the smallest of the tires lying nearby, the item weighing no more than ten pounds as she carried it perpendicular to her hip, swinging out wide around the half-finished hull of a car.


  As she came to the opposite side, she could see her attacker for the first time, a thirty-something man in jeans and a sleeveless shirt. Weighing somewhere between her and Tim, he seemed to be cut from nothing but bone and sinew, his skin like cling wrap, showing every single indentation.

  And making the twisted piece of metal protruding from his arm all the more noticeable.

  Ditto for the mangled leg extended at a crooked angle beside him, unable to support even the slightest of his weight.

  Fighting his way free from the tangle of tires that had fallen on him, it was clear half of his body was worthless, his right side trying to work his way free, a Glock clutched in his hand.

  Turning sideways, Davis whipped the tire in her hand at him, twisting her hips, using centrifugal force to fling it like a discus.

  Wobbling only slightly, the impromptu projectile hung in the air for an instant, absorbing a single shot from the Glock before colliding square with it.

  Wrenching it free from the man’s grasp, both the gun and tire went flying, the man paying them no mind as he stared at her, fighting his way upright.

  Somehow making it to his feet, he managed to draw both hands up into a fighter’s stance, his left arm barely bent, little more than a bit of protection.

  Which was more than could be said for his leg.

  Staring back at her, venom was etched on his face, his intentions for her every bit as sinister as what she felt toward him.

  Sliding her hands down into the pockets of her pants, Davis pushed her fingers over the solid objects wedged in tight against her thighs, drawing them out.

  Fitting the twin pair of brass knuckles down over her fingers, she curled her own hands into fists.

  The look on the man’s face bulged a bit, staring at the objects as if she were cheating, violating some form of long-held ritual to always fight fair.

  A look that only heightened the anger she felt.

  The men who shot her father in the back hadn’t exactly been fighting fair.

  Seeing the resolve on her face, the posture she was taking, the man pulled his attention from the brass knuckles to her face. Nodding once, he nudged a few inches forward, sliding his way between the tires still strewn around.