Night Passenger

by David Stanley

  “A little light here?”

  The others gathered around in a semicircle and turned on their flashlights. Using a bread knife, he cut the watermelon in two, with one section having 80% of the fruit. He then used the blade to remove a two inch by one inch shaft through the middle.

  He held it up for the others to see.

  “This look familiar yet, Lynch? Date night!”

  Blake and Porter laughed as Lynch glared at him.

  “Fuck you, Hollywood.”

  Thorne nodded, a thin smile on his face. The two of them were getting quite the routine going. With a bit of work they’d be able to take it on the road and hit some stand-up clubs. Using the knife he made a final diagonal cut across the bottom. He sat back on his heels to look at it and turn it over in his hands before putting it to one side and repeating the process on another fruit. He figured they would need two, maybe another two inside. When he was through a second time, he stood and unzipped his gym bag so he could reach in for the equipment. He pulled out the shotgun, thumbed open the box of shells and began to feed them into the magazine. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Lynch draw his piece. Clearly they were uncomfortable with him holding a loaded weapon. No doubt Stockton had a bead on him too from his position on the parking structure above.

  “Hey,” Blake said. “I never did ask what the melons were for.”

  Thorne put on a pair of safety glasses and racked the slide.

  “Observe.”

  He pushed the shotgun through the hole in the watermelon then turned so that the end of the barrel was at 45 degrees to the deadbolt. He pulled the trigger. There was a muffled explosion and the fruit sprayed out in a wet cone against the door. Thorne tilted the shotgun down and the remains of the watermelon fell off onto the asphalt. He glanced at Blake, who had a big smile on his face.

  “Nice. How’d we do?”

  Thorne placed the firearm on the ground and pulled a small flashlight out his pocket. He shone the beam at the impact site, his gloved fingers wiping pieces of shredded fruit away. The breaching shell had ripped a hole in the outer fabric of the door, but they weren’t through yet. He got back to his feet.

  “One more ought to do it. It’s a tough door.”

  He recycled the shotgun and added a second watermelon. It was tight around the barrel and he had to use some pressure to get it to fit. He lined it up with the first shot and pulled the trigger. This time, the melon disintegrated in all directions. He glanced back and saw Lynch covered from head to toe in a pink mist.

  Thorne grinned. “Oops.”

  “A rabid dog got more sense than you, Thorne.”

  He turned away from the Irishman.

  “Rabid dogs get a bad rap.”

  He checked the impact site a second time. He expected to see a mangled lock, but instead saw straight into the room beyond.

  “We’re through.”

  When he pulled back, Thorne noticed the shotgun was no longer next to his right knee. He glanced to the side. It wasn’t in his gym bag either, or in Blake’s hand. It had just vanished. He gave no reaction and instead reached into his bag for the snake scope. Better to carry on like nothing had happened than give them a reason to use it. The scope had a flexible neck and he bent an L-shape in it then passed it slowly through the hole in the door, aiming the lens up at the top of the door frame. The magnetic contact was on the left hand side, exactly where he expected it to be. He pulled the scope slowly out again and nodded.

  “Bastard,” Blake said.

  “What?” Porter said.

  “Hanson. He missed out a few details when we spoke to him.”

  Thorne took out an electromagnet he’d made from the electric motor in Blake’s freezer. It weighed close to six pounds and was connected by an eight foot cable to a motorcycle battery. He placed the battery on the ground and held the device against the top of the frame in line with the contact. He turned it on and felt the electromagnet snap tight against the metal. In tests, the magnetic force it generated had been enough to carry his weight. Even attenuated by the door frame, he had no doubts it would overpower the sensor.

  He looked at his watch: 3:38.

  Foster passed him a chunky plastic flight case. Thorne opened the catches and pulled out the signal jammer. Blake had really come through, the jammer was high-end, better than some he’d used in EOD. He didn’t question where Blake was sourcing his equipment. With the right budget, you can get your hands on the most amazing toys. As he set the controls, he turned things over in his head. If Blake planned to double-cross him, there were three likely points for that to take place. Once they were inside; once they had the painting; or once they had the money. The last made least sense to him from a strategic point of view. Why keep him around that extra amount of time if the plan was to take him out? On the other hand, none of them appeared to have a suppressor and a gunshot might alert the authorities before they could secure the painting. Perhaps Foster would kill him with his bare hands.

  “What's the range of this thing?” Blake said.

  Thorne kept working. He was almost ready.

  “A hundred feet, less if walls or floors are thick.”

  “But it’s going to work through this door, right?”

  Thorne glanced up at Blake, surprised.

  “I’m kind of curious about that myself.”

  “You don't know?”

  “No idea.”

  Blake swore.

  “What’s the big deal?” Porter said.

  “Well,” Thorne said. “If the jammer doesn’t work through the door and we open it, then obviously that will trigger the alarm before the jamming comes into effect.”

  “Are you kidding me right now?”

  “No. However, the office hasn’t got a silent alarm. If the jammer doesn’t work the control panel will start beeping and a twenty second countdown begins, waiting for the passcode. Since we don’t have one, we should use that time to leave before shit gets real.”

  “We aren’t going anywhere without that painting.” Blake said.

  Thorne turned back to the jammer, his head nodding.

  “I figured you’d say that.”

  He activated the device.

  “Come on Thorne,” Lynch said. “My eighty year old grandmother could’ve opened this door by now and her hands never stop shaking.”

  “Shaking what? Your pom-pom?”

  Blake sighed. “Guys? Shut the fuck up and let the man work.”

  “No need, I’m done.”

  “Finally. Let’s do this.”

  SIX

  Thorne stood on the right side of the door, Blake on the left. His senses sharpened and all distractions went away. This was when he felt the most alive, and simultaneously, when he was most at peace. It had been this way in the Marines, and when he’d taken that fall from the roof of the hotel. He’d tried many times to replicate the same high on fairground rides but nothing ever came close. Blake looked at him and nodded, then swiped Hanson’s key card through the card reader. The display lit up, a yellow-green glow in the half light.

  ENTER CODE

  Blake licked his lips and punched in 2046. There was a brief pause, followed by an electro-mechanical clunk as the main lock opened. Thorne pulled on the door handle. Nothing. No movement at all. He glanced back at Foster.

  “Bigfoot? You want to give me a hand?”

  Foster stepped forward, grabbed the handle and pulled with his left hand braced against the wall. After a second there was a tearing sound and the door opened, scattering fragments of brass and steel onto the asphalt below. They all froze, listening.

  No alarm, no beeping.

  Blake smiled and dipped his head in a small bow.

  “Good job, Thorne.”

  He followed Blake inside, carrying the jammer in front of him. With the limited range, he wanted to bring it into the building to maximize it’s potential. Rebar used in reinforced concrete could reduce it’s efficacy and he didn’t want to take any chances. One by one the
gang’s flashlights snapped on, illuminating their surroundings. They were in a small storage space given over to outdoor clothing, boots, and staff uniforms. Along one wall were a series of metal lockers, similar to those in a school.

  In the distance he heard a low hum, like an engine running.

  He turned to watch the four other men. They were an odd bunch. A freak of nature, a sociopath, and two losers. By his own admission, Blake had used these zeros on previous jobs. Why would he double-cross him, his oldest friend, and let them live? Was it not just as likely that he'd be true to his word? But all too quickly the answer came to him.

  Because they wanted to be here.

  At the back of the room a door led to the rest of the building. He’d been unable to tell from the drawings if it would also need to be breached using the shotgun, but the door was unlocked and they went through it leaving the unused watermelons behind. They came to a staircase and began to ascend. Thorne kept close to Blake, his thumb ready to kill the jammer at the slightest sign of a double-cross. Now they were moving freely about the building, his role in the robbery appeared to be over and he felt vulnerable.

  They came out in a typical office hallway.

  From here the jammer would cover them all the way to the secure storage area ahead and back down to the exit. Although he liked having his finger on the kill switch, he’d rather have his hands free to fight off any attack. He set the device down on the floor.

  Blake waited for him, his eyes watching him closely.

  They moved off along the hallway, their flashlights crisscrossing and bouncing off the polished walls and floor. Framed pictures hung on the wall, all in identical dark wood frames. He swept his flashlight across some of them. They were posters advertising past shows in the gallery, some almost forty years old. These were only for staff and the owners, the public didn't see these. He shook his head. To him, it looked like they'd framed trash.

  He turned and looked behind him. The creature, Foster, was there lumbering along. He was stooped over to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling and it made him look more like a gorilla than usual. As far as he could tell, Foster was the only other person there that wasn't armed, which was pretty ironic since his role seemed to be Blake's bodyguard.

  The hum he'd heard earlier grew louder as they approached the end of the corridor. He hadn't thought about it before, it had just been a distant white noise. The kind of sound you hear all the time and tune out, forget. He frowned. It sounded like a generator. They turned the corner and Blake stopped abruptly, causing Porter and Thorne to pile into the back of him.

  “This isn't right,” Blake said. “According to the blueprints there should be five offices here. Now there are only two doors.”

  Porter ran his flashlight beam down the wall of the corridor.

  “Looks like they knocked the offices together to create a bigger space.”

  Thorne stood next to the first door and placed his ear against it. The humming sound was coming from inside. The door was made from brushed steel and it was cold against his skin. He knocked on it lightly with the knuckle of his index finger and a deep metallic thunk came back. The door was thick. He cleared his throat.

  “Either they're storing meat in here, or they have the best air conditioner in the whole of L.A. County.” He paused for a beat, like it was a line in his show. “I’m kind of hoping it's the latter because this was a lot of effort just to get some pork chops.”

  “I don't get it,” Porter said. “Why have AC on when nobody's here?”

  Blake folded the plans in half and tucked them into his back pocket.

  “Isn't it obvious? To protect the paintings.”

  “But the gallery's on the other side of the building.”

  “I know that.” Blake said. “I found out at the same time as you. I don't have any new information. What do you want from me? I don't know. Does it really matter?”

  “It kind of does actually,” Thorne said, interrupting. “I’m not sure I can open this.”

  “You could get into the Queen of England's undies if you set your mind to it. Spare me the details, and skip to the part where I'm walking through it.”

  “Blake, there's no keyhole or gap to get the scope in. I can't tell if bypassing the keypad will trigger the alarm. I'd be lucky to get a playing card down the side of that door. It's solid too. Steel, at least quarter inch, with a keypad lock and recessed hinges. The quality of the installation and the newer tech probably means it's tied into the gallery alarm system, not the piece of shit system we've been up against so far.” Thorne turned back toward the door. He stroked the surface, his head tilted over thoughtfully. “The way I see it, we open this door and inside of five minutes, the parking lot will be filled with SWAT cars and guys with coffee breath that want to shoot us in the face with shotguns.”

  Blake ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

  “All right. What do you suggest?”

  “I’m suggesting we don't open it.”

  “Thorne, I didn't come this close to leave empty handed.”

  “Can I make a suggestion?” Lynch asked.

  Blake turned on him, his finger raised. “Not another word, you hear me?”

  “But you don't know what I was going to say.”

  “I know exactly what you were going to say, Lynch. Exactly.”

  Thorne walked to the other door. It was the last remaining office door of the previous layout. No lock. He pushed the handle down and the door swung open and bounced off a box of copier paper. A fish tank glowed softly in the corner. Even before he hit the lights, Thorne saw there was nothing useful in the room. A desk, a PC that belonged in a museum, a photocopier, and stacks and stacks of loose paper piled up ready to start a fire. He crossed the room and stood by the wall that joined the larger room. The smell of fresh paint hung in the air. He peeled off his right glove and placed the back of his hand against the wall. It was stone cold.

  Cinder block, not drywall.

  “What is it?” Blake asked. “Can we go through the wall?”

  “Not easily.”

  Blake sighed. He took out the floor plan again and flattened it out on the desk. After a moment he was smiling and jabbing at the paper with a thick, gloved finger.

  “The window, see? We go out this window here and in through the window next door. The windows are less than fifteen feet apart.”

  Thorne saw it all right. His old poker buddy was out of his mind. The other three were in the room now, drawn in by Blake's excitement. It was too much muscle for such a small area and Foster towered over them all like a god, his sweat-filled underarms right in Thorne's face. He looked different, calm.

  “Blake, that's great.” Thorne said. “Fifteen feet with no ledge and a twenty five foot drop. As long as one of us is Spiderman our problems are officially over.”

  Something passed between Blake and Foster. A look, a head tilt.

  Foster turned and punched him in the stomach, knocking him backward onto the floor. Thorne lay on his side, folded up, like a fly that had been hit by a magazine. Over a high pitched whine he heard a sucking sound. Air being tugged in through his open mouth in jagged pulses. He looked up at them, waiting for one of them to do something to help but they just stood there staring at him. His vision darkened at the edges. It felt like an elephant was standing on his chest, pinning him down. The more air he got down, the less the elephant weighed. Slowly his breathing returned to normal, the jags smoothing out. He didn't know how long he'd lain there, over a minute he thought. He was covered in sweat and was very cold. He'd never been punched that hard before and, worse, it was obvious that this was no more than a tap as far as Foster was concerned.

  Blake walked around the desk and looked down at him.

  “This isn't the Marines, Thorne, but there’s still a chain of command. I have allowed you to take point on this because your skills offer us the best chances of success, but I don't want you to forget what's at stake here, or who's in charge. One way o
r another, we are going into that room tonight. Whatever it takes, even if that means triggering the alarm. Are we clear?”

  Thorne nodded. He wanted to be sick.

  “You can die from that kind of punch, you know that?”

  “I believe it.”

  Thorne glanced at Foster and smiled grimly. He could see now why the giant looked so calm, so happy. He was was standing up straight, not stooping. The ceiling in the hallway was lower. It was fake.

  “I have an idea.”

  “Excellent,” Blake said.

  Foster held out his big, brutal hand to help him up, but Thorne ignored it and avoided looking at his face. It might be the face of the man that was going to kill him and he preferred not to look at it any more than he had to. He stood carefully and pushed past the others toward the doorway. Outside in the corridor, he pointed his flashlight straight up. Ceiling tiles and fluorescent panels. It was as he thought. They were such a standard office feature, nobody looked at them twice. He walked back to the door with the keypad lock. The rest of Blake's gang emerged from the office.

  Thorne reached up and pushed at a tile with his hand. It lifted straight up. Gravity was all that kept them in place. He caught hold of the edge, tilted his hand and the tile came through the space in the hanging frame. With effort, all of them but Foster could squeeze through the gap without having to saw through the frame. The idea of isolating Foster appealed to him. He put the tile down on the floor and shone his flashlight into the dark space. After a moment, another flashlight beam shot into the same opening. Not much there, some pipes and cables. The true ceiling appeared to be a good three feet higher. He turned to the man standing next to him. Blake. His head was tilted back, looking up. His big mouth was chewing on something like it was a gym workout, the muscles on his jaw flexing. The smell hit him. Licorice.

  “I’m thinking your idea is similar to mine.”

  Thorne grunted. “Give me a boost, let's see what we have.”

  “Screw that, we got a boost monkey.” Blake turned. “Foster, come here.”