Night Passenger

by David Stanley

  “That’s for what you said about my sister.”

  Thorne scrambled to his knees, but Blake was ready for him and pressed the barrel of his pistol against his forehead, his other hand on Thorne’s shoulder, holding him in place.

  “Not so fast, Thorne. How about you stay right there?”

  “Fuck you, Blake, and fuck your sister. We had a deal.”

  Blake nodded. “We did. We had a deal, but as we were standing here talking I realized something. After you and me went our separate ways, you’d still be out there floating around. You’d still know everything that happened and without the pay-off there’d be nothing to stop you talking to the cops. That makes you a loose end, and that’s a problem.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something, Blake?”

  “No, I don't think I am.”

  “The explosive I put in the case. You kill me, and that painting might as well not exist. You'll never see a dime of that money.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that too, my friend. I know how smart you are, smart enough to make up that stuff about the explosive. I got to admit, you had me going there for a minute. But I see it now for what it is. Bullshit. You had no time to set that up.”

  “And you’re going to risk your life on that assumption?”

  Blake smiled. “No. I'm going to risk Kate Bloom’s.”

  “You bastard.”

  “We're both bastards, I'm just better prepared. If there actually is any explosive you better tell me now, or Kate will pay the price.”

  “What’s the difference? You’ll kill her anyway.”

  Blake sighed. “I was angry, all right? I don’t need to kill her. She doesn’t know who we are, or why she was taken. But that’s beside the point. I know there’s no explosive, you would’ve given it up immediately at even the idea it would hurt her.”

  Thorne’s eyes dipped down to the ground. He was out of options. This was where his story ended, in a roadhouse parking lot.

  “I want you to know that I’m going to miss these little chats of ours, Thorne. Not to mention your sense of humor. You do make me laugh sometimes. It’s too bad things didn’t work out the way I’d planned, but I guess not everyone is cut out for this life.”

  “I can’t decide which is worse; being shot in the head, or listening to your endless Bond-villain speeches.”

  “Goodbye, Thorne.”

  Blake lifted his hand off Thorne’s shoulder and straightened his arm. Thorne felt the pistol press harder and harder against his head. He knew what it meant. Nobody liked getting brains on their sleeve. This was it. Behind them, the Range Rover’s lights snapped on high beams. The SUV was already moving, accelerating hard toward them. Blake turned, his gun swinging with his head. Thorne jumped out of the path of the SUV. As he landed, he heard a shot from Blake’s Glock and when his head whipped around, saw the tank-like vehicle flash past. He expected Ashcroft to stop so he could get in but it kept going, continuing to accelerate right up to the moment it plowed into the concrete wall, causing the rear wheels to pop up off the asphalt with the force of the impact.

  He turned back to Blake. Half of his face was covered by blood, and his left leg was folded underneath him at an impossible angle. His teeth were biting together in pain, and he was staring grimly at the Glock which lay in the space between them. Thorne scrambled forward on all fours, not wanting to waste time standing and then squatting down to get the weapon. He was three feet away from it when Sara appeared on a motorcycle. Before she stopped, she pulled a MAC-10 machine pistol from inside her jacket and aimed it one handed at his chest. He sat back and raised his hands in surrender. Sara glanced quickly at the SUV. Somehow, the vehicle’s engine was still running, and it was making a terrific noise. He watched her hands carefully, waiting for an opportunity. The stock of the pistol was closed. He doubted she had the skill necessary to control the pistol one handed without it. That probably wouldn’t matter too much, not at this range. The MAC-10 was a messy beast, and it would shred him.

  “Help him up,” she said. “Get him on the bike.”

  Thorne nodded and got to his feet. Sara was crazy, but she needed his help. As soon as that situation changed, he’d be right back to being a loose end. Next to him, Blake rolled onto his back. His left leg was bent sideways at the knee. It was a bad dislocation, not a break. He could fix it for him, but he had no desire to do so. The longer it went untreated, the more pain Blake would be in and the longer it would take him to recover. But there wouldn’t be any recovery, not if he had anything to do with it. He grabbed Blake’s left arm and got him upright, then put the arm over his shoulder and walked him toward Sara. While he’d been dealing with Blake, she’d turned the motorcycle around and pulled forward, ready to leave. It increased the distance between her and Blake’s discarded gun. She was good. He’d never be able to reach it before they left the parking lot. So be it. The sooner they were gone, the better. All he could think about now was Kate. The motorcycle sank down as Blake sat on it, and she had to stow the pistol to balance his uneven weight with both hands. Sara took off as soon as Blake’s hands were around her waist.

  He hurried toward the van, dreading what he might find. If Blake believed he was getting the painting tonight, what more use would he have for Kate? She’d seen their faces, she could identify them. That made her disposable to Blake, a means to an end and no more. Thorne touched the hood with the palm of his hand as he walked past. The metal was cold; the van hadn’t moved in a long time. He continued around the side and saw the foot-long dent above the back wheel arch. It was definitely Blake’s van. He pulled on the side door handle. It was unlocked and the door slid open along its track and bounced on the end stop.

  Kate was not inside.

  FORTY

  Thorne ran toward the Range Rover. The impact had caused the front of the SUV to crumple up like paper against the wall. Despite the scale of the damage, the engine continued to roar, sending a thick plume of black smoke into the night sky. There was no sign of Ashcroft nearby, he had to still be inside the vehicle. As Thorne drew level with the driver’s door, his fears were confirmed. The senator sat staring at the smashed windshield with his hands on the wheel as if he was still driving. Aside from a cut on the side of his face, he appeared uninjured. A gray blob sat in James Ashcroft’s lap like a half-empty pillowcase. The airbag. It had saved his life, but its sudden deployment had clearly stunned him.

  Thorne pulled on the door handle, but nothing happened. It was jammed.

  There was a series of loud bangs, followed by the shrieking of metal-on-metal grinding. The engine was fixing to tear itself apart. He ran around to the other side of the SUV and tried the handle. It was no use; the collision had twisted the chassis, pushing the alignment out on the doors. He would need to force his way in. He tried the tailgate and it opened with ease.

  The painting lay across the floor in its wooden case.

  A hundred million dollars, right in front of him. He’d known it was there, but the sight of it caused a space to form in his mind. All he needed to do was pick it up and walk away. He pushed the thought aside and dug around for the tire iron. Back at the driver’s door, he rammed it between the door frame and the support pillar. He pushed it away from his body as he pulled on the door handle. The metal started to buckle. Thorne gritted his teeth and gave it all he had. The pain from his shoulder wound burned like a hot knife, but he kept on going. After several seconds, he spun around and the tire iron fell on the asphalt. When he looked he saw the door handle had come off in his hand, tethered by an umbilical of wires.

  The lever was too short, he’d never get the door open in time.

  He needed a pry bar at least, perhaps cutting tools.

  Nausea swept over him, and he coughed violently. He leaned forward and put his hand on one knee to steady himself. The acrid smoke was in his lungs and his eyes were streaming. It was difficult to breathe. He wouldn’t be able to stand here much longer. If he couldn’t get Ashcroft out, he’d have t
o leave or risk passing out. There was a popping sound from the engine bay, followed by the sound of liquid splashing onto the ground. The heat from the front of the car was critical. He rapped on the glass with his fist and Ashcroft looked up at him.

  “Look away from the glass!” Thorne shouted.

  The senator nodded and turned toward the passenger seat and Thorne drove the tire iron through the window. The glass sprayed inward in hundreds of pieces, covering the senator’s head and shoulders. He ran the tool around the frame, removing the remaining fragments of glass. When he stopped, Ashcroft twisted back around and his suit jacket opened. There was a large blood stain on Ashcroft’s shirt.

  “James, I’m not going to lie to you, this is going to hurt. I have to pull you out through the window. Lean forward so I can get my arm around your back. Do you understand?”

  Ashcroft frowned. “I think I’ve been shot.”

  “Lean forward, can you do that buddy?”

  “Sure.”

  Thorne got his hand under Ashcroft’s left arm and pushed it around his back. He curled his fingers into a C shape and hooked it on the fingers of his other hand and pulled. Ashcroft screamed, but Thorne kept on pulling and twisting until he got him out through the window. He carried Ashcroft across the parking lot to Blake’s van and propped him against the back wheel, his head resting on the tire. Now that he was safely away from the SUV, Thorne took out his cell phone and dialed 911. He gave them their location and impressed upon the operator that the senator had been shot and urgently needed help. After he finished the call, he looked down at Ashcroft.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  He double timed it back to the Range Rover. The entire front of it was now on fire and he felt the heat of the flames on his face from twenty feet away. He slowed to a fast walk, his senses on alert. His training made him cautious and want to slow down but this was no IED and time was against him. It was quieter now, the engine having finally stopped. Around him was the unmistakable smell of gasoline. The tailgate was still open so he reached in and grabbed the painting and ran back to the van. He’d heard that gas tanks only exploded into fireballs in Hollywood movies but he didn't want to put it to the test.

  Ashcroft shook his head when he saw what he was holding.

  “You should’ve let it burn, it’s been nothing but bad luck.”

  “That may be true, but I still need it.”

  Ashcroft said nothing.

  When he’d been shot, Lauren had talked to him and held his hand until help arrived. He didn’t remember too much about it, but he was certain it had kept him going somehow, kept him fighting to survive. He wished she was here now for her husband, but she wasn’t. Ashcroft’s crazy stunt had saved his life and he couldn’t let him die because of it. He sat facing the senator so they were looking into each other’s eyes. All he needed to do was keep the man talking and try not stare at the dark stain spreading across his pale blue shirt. He felt anger and resentment welling up inside him. Nobody had saved his life before and he didn't much like the way it felt. It was a debt he could never pay back.

  “I don’t understand,” Thorne said. “Why would you do something like that after what I told you? I’m not a good guy.”

  Ashcroft smiled grimly, his teeth smeared with blood.

  “Because I owed you.”

  “You owe me nothing, man.”

  “Chris, there’s something I need to tell you, too. I’d planned on telling you the day I gave you the car, but the right moment never presented itself. You were so happy, I didn’t want to ruin it. I should’ve though, I can see that now.” Ashcroft shook his head. “This situation spun out of control so quickly, there was just no way to make it stop.”

  Thorne groaned. He should’ve seen this coming.

  “The whole thing was your idea. You’re the buyer.”

  “It was a simple plan,” Ashcroft said. “No one was supposed to get hurt.”

  Blake’s words coming out of Ashcroft’s mouth.

  “The gang have no idea who you are?”

  “I kept it anonymous so I couldn’t be blackmailed later.”

  Thorne nodded. It was the smart play, Blake would certainly have seen the opportunity to make more money once he learned Ashcroft’s identity.

  “How much is it insured for?”

  “One hundred twenty million, double what I paid for it. The truth is, I need the money. You might think I’m rich, but running for president is an expensive business. Donors prefer to support candidates who look like they don’t need their money. Needing funds makes you weak, like you’re a loser. That’s what’s wrong with this damn country, you’re either a winner or a loser. I want to change that, to heal this divided nation. The campaign doesn’t start until next year, but without the insurance money I’ll be bankrupt by Christmas.”

  “I see that, James, but why a robbery? Why not sell it?”

  Ashcroft nodded, like he expected the question.

  “I’m almost certain the painting was stolen by the Nazis. Picasso wasn’t one of their favorites, but it’s the most obvious explanation. Perhaps a thief took advantage of the chaos I don’t know. I’ve been buying documentation from the time and destroying it, but it’s only a matter of time until something gets digitized and put online for everyone to see.” Ashcroft paused, his face pinched with pain. “I couldn’t risk selling the painting at auction. The provenance paperwork wouldn’t stand up to the scrutiny they have now. The ownership covering ’33 to ’45 is clearly bogus and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. I wouldn’t see a dime from the sale and my reputation would be in ruins.”

  “Were you actually going to pay those clowns to get the painting back? It seems to me that you could pay them nothing and still get your insurance money.”

  “I thought of that,” Ashcroft said. “But if I didn’t pay them, I knew they’d try to sell it to someone else. Perhaps direct to my insurance company, it’s happened before. An insurer would rather pay a thief a fraction of its value, than pay it all to the owner. I couldn’t risk the painting being recovered, I’d be back where I started. The money’s all in place when it comes to it.”

  They sat in silence for a while, each of them lost in thought. It was hard for Thorne to accept that, in his own way, James Ashcroft worried about going broke. It seemed like a bad joke, and yet it made him like Ashcroft all the more. He was rich, but he was prepared to lose it all to become president so that he could help the poor.

  In the distance, Thorne heard the chopping blades of a helicopter. Most likely, the same one he’d been in. To his ear, the helicopter was five minutes out. Ashcroft looked in a bad way. He wasn’t convinced the senator was going to last long enough for the paramedics to save him.

  This was the reality of being shot; once was usually enough.

  He heard a siren and saw red and blue strobes cutting through the trees. It was moving fast, and would be with him in less than a minute. Thorne knew it wouldn’t be an ambulance. They were in the middle of nowhere; the closest first responder was Cabot. He looked back at Ashcroft. His face was the color of wet cement. Thorne crouched over him and, supporting the senator’s neck, laid him out flat on the asphalt. He shouldn’t have propped him up, he realized, it would have accelerated his blood loss.

  He smiled at his friend and made it look good.

  “Stay with me, Jimmy. They’re coming.”

  “You called me Jimmy.”

  Ashcroft’s voice was little more than a whisper. A butterfly flapping its wings. Thorne leaned in close, so that his ear was an inch from the senator’s lips. Cabot’s siren was almost on top of him now, and he didn’t want to miss a word.

  “Tell Lauren I’m sorry. Tell her -”

  He waited for a couple of seconds, but there was no more. He looked at Ashcroft’s face, then looked away. He’d known what he was going to see. Twice before he’d been with someone when they’d died. It never got any easier.

  His eyes slid across to the case containin
g the painting.

  FORTY-ONE

  A bad feeling gnawed at Cabot’s insides as he drove back to the roadhouse. He should never have left. He’d known it was a mistake even as he drove away, but it seemed pointless to stay as long as Thorne knew he was there. Once he’d been made, it was game over. He’d been tired and embarrassed at his own blunder but public safety was his primary function and he’d chosen to ignore that when his illegal surveillance had been discovered.

  He cut the final corner, swinging his cruiser across the gas station apron and down the side of the roadhouse he’d left less than ten minutes earlier. The side access road was no longer in semi-darkness, flickering orange flames lit his way past overflowing dumpsters and broken wooden pallets. He turned into the parking lot and slammed on the brakes. Thorne was on his knees, crouching over a man’s lifeless body. Ashcroft. Cabot threw open his door and from a standing position behind it, drew his weapon.

  “Show me your hands!”

  Thorne slowly held up his hands and turned toward him. His eyes narrowed as they came into line with the headlights of the Taurus. His left sleeve was dark with blood.

  “This isn’t what it looks like, Cabot.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “You son of a bitch!”

  His finger flexed against the trigger. He could do it. Put a bullet through the actor’s head. It would be so easy, no one else was here. His word would be official record, nobody would challenge it, not now. Not with the senator dead. Cabot came out from behind the door and walked carefully toward Thorne’s position. He kept his pistol aimed center mass. He was taking no chances, he’d seen that video enough times. The man was deadly.

  “Think about it,” Thorne said. “Why would I risk my life saving him before, only to shoot him here less than a month later? Why would I call 911?”

  Cabot ignored him. It wasn’t for him to work out why a criminal did something, only that they did it. Working out motivation could help you catch someone, but once he’d caught a suspect, it bored him. In his experience, most crimes only made sense to the person that committed them and you could twist your mind in a knot trying to figure out their reasoning. In any case, it was perfectly obvious why Thorne had called 911 - because the actor knew he could be placed at the scene by him and others.