Night Passenger

by David Stanley

  “As long as they have Kate, it makes no difference.”

  “Of course.”

  Thorne opened the door to get out, paused, then pulled it closed again. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t continue to pretend to be someone he wasn’t. He was no hero, he wasn’t even a nice guy. In all the ways that mattered, he was still a stranger to Ashcroft and it wasn’t right to let him go through with this without knowing the truth, no matter how ugly.

  “James, there’s something I have to tell you. Something hard. It’s about the gang that attacked you and Lauren.” Thorne stopped, then forced himself to continue. “I knew them. I was one of them, before they decided to become kidnappers.”

  Ashcroft didn’t respond, he kept looking through the windshield as if he hadn’t heard, or didn’t want to hear. Finally, he turned to Thorne, the skin around his eyes creased as if amused by some private joke.

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Chris. We’re cool.”

  “You knew, didn’t you?”

  Ashcroft shrugged, the smile still on his face.

  “I figured it out. I mean, why else would you have been there? It made no sense that someone with exactly the right skills would be there by accident. I appreciate you telling me, but how you came to be there is less important to me than what you did once you were. You risked your life for us, that’s all there is to say.”

  Thorne sighed. Nothing had changed, the guilt remained. It ate into him, hollowing him out from the inside like some terrible parasite. He supposed he’d wanted Ashcroft to go crazy, to shout at him for all he was worth, even hit him. It was what he deserved.

  “You’re wrong about that. I didn’t risk my life for either of you, I just didn’t think about it. The two are not the same.”

  “Cabot tells me you slept in your rental car for three nights before saving us. You can’t expect me to believe that in all that time, you didn’t once think about what could happen to you. I will never believe that. What you did was amazing, it meant something.”

  Thorne looked down at his lap and nodded. He couldn’t explain himself to someone like Ashcroft, who had never served. He knew the nod would be misinterpreted as agreement, but that was probably for the best. Swinging the door open again, he stepped out onto the dirt next to the highway. The SUV’s interior light came on and he saw Ashcroft clearly for the first time in nearly half an hour. He looked older than he remembered.

  “James? Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Thorne closed the door and jogged toward the roadhouse. The highway was deserted, so he ran down the asphalt between Ashcroft’s headlights until the darkness swallowed him. The air was in the low fifties and he liked the feeling of it moving over his face. He was in no hurry, but it was late and exercise invigorated him. Blake would already be there waiting for him, he was certain. He would’ve spent time familiarizing himself with the location and with exfiltration routes in case anything went wrong.

  As he got within a hundred yards of the roadhouse, he slowed to a fast walk. He didn’t want to arrive breathless or overlook something. Daryl’s was busier than he expected. A small parking lot out front had spaces for eight vehicles, all of which were full. Three men and a woman stood in the doorway smoking. The men wore a lot of denim, the woman not too much of anything. He avoided eye contact as he approached hoping they might return the favor, but it was no use, their conversation stopped and he felt them turn to watch him pass. He’d hoped to avoid being seen at the site of the swap but there wasn’t much he could do about it now. A gas station sat next door and the two businesses were joined by a common apron that allowed vehicles to go from one to the other without rejoining the highway. A narrow access road ran down the side of the roadhouse, past overflowing dumpsters to the main customer parking lot. Lights covered in wire cages guided his way. The lot was large and was lined on both sides by trees, and in the middle by a dirty cinder block wall.

  He saw Blake immediately, standing right in the middle of the lot. He was alone.

  “Where’s the goddamn painting, Thorne?”

  He walked toward Blake, anger increasing with every step. He felt pumped-up, ready for another fight. It took all he had not to fly at Blake and tear him apart.

  “Where’s Kate?”

  “She’s here. Close. I just got to give the word, you know?”

  Blake’s eyes flicked to the left as he spoke and Thorne pretended not to notice. Was this a tell, or a misdirect? He fought the urge to look until there was an opportunity to make it look natural. Blake had played him too many times already.

  “Then maybe you should give that word because you aren’t getting shit until I see her. This is a swap, pure and simple.”

  Blake’s lips rippled with anger.

  “Be careful, my friend. I hold all the cards here.”

  “I disagree,” Thorne said. “I have the painting now. The only way you get the money is through me. I say that makes us about even, don’t you?”

  Blake threw his hands up, his thick fingers gripping his head tight. The muscles in his arms filled the space that formed in the triangle on each side of his neck. His lips were peeled back and his teeth bit hard together to keep from screaming. After a second he reached around the back of his jeans and pulled out a Glock.

  The pistol sat between them, aimed it at Thorne’s gut.

  “Keep pushing me, man, see what happens.”

  Thorne glanced at the gun. It was within his reach. Rage was causing Blake make basic mistakes. Despite the threat of being shot, it felt good to finally be getting the upper hand. All the same, he needed to make a gesture to keep things moving forward. It was time to see if Ashcroft had fulfilled his end of the deal.

  “Tell you what, Aidan, I’ll make the first move and maybe we can get this show on the road. What do you say?”

  “Sure.”

  “I need to raise my hand, OK?”

  Blake nodded and Thorne held his hand up.

  Behind him, the headlights of Ashcroft’s SUV snapped on.

  The lights caught Blake right in the face. He raised his free hand to shield his eyes, his head turning away from the blinding light. After a beat, his startled expression changed and a smile spread across his face. The painting’s here, and now I know where it is. Thorne could almost hear his old friend’s thoughts as they tumbled through his head. All he needed to do was keep the painting in play until he got Kate back. Thorne dropped his arm again and the lights went out. He turned, as if to look at the Range Rover and quickly scanned the parking lot to his right. In the shadows he saw the familiar black van parked up under the spreading arms of a Douglas fir. None of the lights dotted around the lot cast any light on it, although he was sure if he looked hard enough, he’d discover a smashed bulb somewhere nearby. He made meaningless circular gesture with his hand in case Blake wondered why he’d turned around. To his surprise, Ashcroft started the Range Rover and revved the engine once. Thorne smiled to himself. It was a good idea. Now that they’d revealed the painting’s location it made a lot of sense to be ready to move quickly. For a senator, Ashcroft was proving himself to be a capable wingman.

  He turned as the Glock was lowered toward the ground.

  Blake was looking past him and squinting at the SUV.

  “Who you got as backup, Thorne? Is that Ashcroft?”

  The Range Rover was distinctive even in the poor light of the parking lot and it should’ve occurred to him that Blake would recognize the SUV from the shoot-out. It was a stupid mistake, because if Blake thought long enough about it he’d realize that his leverage didn’t stop with Kate.

  “Make the call, asshole.”

  Blake was fast. Too fast. Thorne didn’t see the fist flashing around until it was too late. He twisted to one side but it was no use, the base of the Glock clipped his head with a force that dropped him to his knees. He felt the cut open and blood start to weep out. The pain was sharp but not dangerous. There was no darkening at the edge of his vision
, no nausea. He stared up at Blake, fury burning in his eyes. His anger was real, but he couldn’t help but feel pleased at the same time. It was exactly the kind of over reaction he’d hoped for, designed to keep Blake in the moment and not have his thoughts drifting to other scenarios, like plans that didn’t need Kate to be alive. Thorne touched his head then looked down at his fingers. In the light of the moon, his blood appeared almost black. He ran his thumb across his fingertips. The blood felt thin and watery, like store-brand cola.

  The cut would need to be stitched.

  “You got some mouth on you, Thorne.”

  He got to his feet and spat on the ground.

  “Your old man used to tell me the same thing at Boy Scouts.”

  Blake shook his head in disbelief, then laughed.

  “Shit, brother. You’re crazy.”

  “You don’t get to call me brother after what you’ve pulled.”

  Blake smirked. After a beat, his cell phone rang. It was on silent, but Thorne could hear it vibrating right through his pocket. Blake swapped the gun to his left hand and held the device up to his head. His features turned ugly, his eyes narrowing at Thorne. He grunted and returned the handset to his pocket, the Glock pointing again at Thorne’s chest.

  “Lift up your shirt.” Blake said. “C’mon, man, lift it up!”

  “What?”

  “Do it, Thorne, or I’ll shoot you in the face.”

  Blake was repeatedly glancing to his left and when Thorne looked over his shoulder he saw a sheriff’s cruiser rolling slowly down the side of the gas station. The headlights were off and the engine silent. It was coasting, not under power. Trying not to be noticed. As the vehicle passed under the last light of the gas station, Thorne could see Cabot behind the wheel. He was looking straight at them.

  “You think I’m wired?”

  Thorne angled himself so that the lieutenant wouldn’t see, and lifted the front of his shirt. The Glock, however, remained between them. It was now out of his reach and Blake had a crazed look on his face that wasn’t going away.

  “What’s under all that tape?” Blake said.

  “Wounds, from when you and your friends tried to kill me.”

  Blake shook his head. “You set me up.”

  “Stay cool. This isn’t me, I don’t know why he’s here. Perhaps this has nothing to do with us. Don’t blow the twelve mill, you’re almost there. All I want is Kate, you know that. I would never put her life in that idiot’s hands.”

  “You expect me to believe this is a coincidence?”

  The muscles on Blake’s arm were flexing and his fist jabbed forward to emphasize what he was saying. Thorne watched the jerky movements of the pistol in alarm. Blake’s finger was on the trigger. It wouldn’t take much for the gun to go off and blow out the back of his spine. The problem was, Blake was right. The odds of Cabot showing up for any other reason, were zero. Less than zero. Thorne had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t want to accept it, but there was a single obvious explanation. Ashcroft had sold him out. The senator had reached out to someone in law enforcement after all, Lieutenant Cabot. It explained both his earlier behavior and his willingness to use the painting. He knew it was never in any danger. The only mistake he’d made, was trusting the cop not to arrive early and screw up the exchange.

  He needed an explanation for Blake, something reasonable.

  “I guess he followed me here. The man’s been on my ass from day one, so it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “That’s some pretty weak bullshit, Thorne.”

  A resigned calm settled over him. He’d more than used up his allowance of fight-or-flight with Blake, it was time to go all in with one last dice roll.

  “You know, I feel bad that after all this time I’ve never once asked how your sister is getting on without that operation. Andrea, wasn’t it? I’m wondering; will you tell her you shot the one person capable of making her operation happen, or will you choose to say nothing as she slowly rots on that hospital bed?”

  Blake leaned forward, his eyes bulging out his head.

  “As soon as that cop leaves, I’m going to end you and that blonde bitch. Maybe I’ll kill her first and make you watch. I could really spin it out, make it something special. Then, when I’m finally finished with you, I’m going to just take the painting from Ashcroft. I don’t need you for shit.”

  Thorne smiled. Sometimes, nothing riled a man up as much as a good smile at the wrong moment. But that wasn’t why he was smiling. There was a clarity to Blake’s anger that couldn’t be denied. Thorne believed him when he said he’d kill Kate, he could see it in his eyes. He’d pushed Blake too far, but the threat to her life meant she was alive. He could still save her. There’d been nothing on the video to indicate when it had been made, it could’ve been a week old. Part of him feared that Blake had killed her shortly after making the video and that the swap was a sham. He was also pleased to note that rage had brought the Glock back into range. It probably wouldn’t be possible for him to snatch the pistol from Blake’s muscular hand, but he could certainly steer it away from his body for that first shot, and that was all the chance he needed.

  “Since you mention it,” Thorne said, “I added a small amount of ANFO to the inside of the shipping case. Enough to destroy the painting, along with any dreams you may have of playing a piano. I’m the only person that knows how to disable it, which I am not going to tell you until me, Kate, and Ashcroft are all clear. Consider it insurance.”

  “Not. Another. Word,” Blake hissed.

  There was something close to insanity carved into Aidan Blake’s face and, for now, Thorne thought it wise to stay silent and let him calm down. There’d been no time to rig the painting with explosive, he hadn’t even thought of it before it came out his mouth. The irony was how little difference it made if he had or hadn’t, Blake couldn’t risk opening the case without knowing how to do so safely. It was the perfect bluff.

  A door opened and closed several times behind them, followed by the tumbling bass of male voices. Half a dozen men, possibly more. Mid twenties to early thirties, he thought. Not drunk, but getting there. The roadhouse was closing up for the night. It would now be after 2 a.m. Thorne resisted the urge to break eye contact with Blake and instead cast his mind back to when he arrived. There’d been five vehicles in the parking lot, excluding Ashcroft’s Range Rover and the black van. Three behind him and two behind Blake. For any of them to leave, Cabot would have to move his cruiser which blocked the narrow strip of asphalt leading to the highway. Either his problems were all over, or they were about to get a lot worse.

  Thorne spoke softly, calmly.

  “Aidan. We’re about to be overrun, put the piece away.”

  The shift in tone caught Blake off guard and he appeared to deflate as if he’d let out a deep breath. His shoulders dropped and the arm holding the pistol lowered to the ground once more. He sighed, then tucked the Glock into the back of his pants.

  “This ain’t over, Thorne.”

  “Yeah, it is. I’m sick of your shit, Blake. I came here willing to give you exactly what you want and that hasn’t changed. I have nothing to do with Cabot showing up. In case you’ve forgotten, that cop is bad news for me as well. Now, either you trust me for five more minutes and become a millionaire, or shoot me and get nothing. Your choice.”

  Blake appeared to think it over, then nodded.

  “There ain’t much trust left in the world, brother.”

  With Blake’s pistol stowed away, Thorne risked glancing around the parking lot. He counted five men and three women. None of the men was over five eight, and none of them looked like they’d picked up much more than a beer for the duration of their life. They were no threat; he and Blake could take them apart without breaking into a sweat. He recognized two of the men from the front door. They shuffled toward him now, heads down. They were half in the bag, and neither of them had any business being behind a steering wheel. Cars were starting all around the
m. This might be his only opportunity to leave the parking lot alive. With everyone gone, Blake could do what he liked.

  The lights of Cabot’s cruiser flickered into life. The lieutenant had blown it by staying in his car. If he’d parked around front and approached on foot they’d never have seen him. He could’ve pulled off the arrest of his career. Instead, he’d stayed in his warm car, sitting on his fat ass. He was a buffoon, and Thorne felt nothing but contempt for him. Cabot reached his arm out behind the passenger head restraint, looked back through the rear window, and reversed his car along the narrow access road. At the gas station he turned to face onto the road and sat there waiting. Thorne noticed Blake was watching the same shit show he was.

  “That’s right, asshole, nothing to see here. Move along.”

  “What if he stays there?” Thorne asked.

  “Then you and me conclude our business someplace else.”

  There was a hard edge in his voice that Thorne didn’t like. Blake was losing it. This job was taking far longer than he’d allowed for and things had gone wrong from the start. Thorne knew what that was like, how it could drive you close to madness. An apparently quick job that never seems to end. The pay-off that never gets any closer. Blake would take any shortcut he could to make it end and get his life back on track.

  The last two cars were leaving the lot, slowly making their way around the corner and up the access road. They drove one behind the other, with the one in front driving particularly slowly. The driver of the rear car was riding the brake and Thorne had to screw up his eyes at the brightness of the tail lights. His night vision was burned out and when the cars cleared the road it took him a moment to realize that Cabot’s cruiser was also gone. He could see the cars lights moving through the darkness of the trees.

  “Seems like your buddy deserted you, Thorne.”

  He turned back toward Blake. His face showed no sign of irony.

  “You can’t be serious?”

  Blake punched him hard in the guts, doubling him over. While he was pitched forward, Blake hit him again across the top of his head with the butt of his Glock. He fell face-down on the asphalt, his vision swimming.