He stood and walked to the edge of the building to look at what he’d just done. His eyes were wet with tears and he back handed them away. Ashcroft’s pistol had dug deep into his skin next to his spine. The pain had been brief, but white-hot. Despite this, he couldn’t stop smiling. The jump was one of the craziest things he’d ever done. No wires, no padded mats, no special suit. Pure technique.
His mind returned to Cabot.
He’d involved the lieutenant through necessity, but it was dangerous to have him anywhere near Blake. The story he’d told him was mostly true, but he’d been careful to omit any mention of the failed gallery heist. Blake’s previous warning about conspiracy murder charges left no room for him to survive, he had to kill him plain and simple. If Cabot caught wind of the heist he’d have to die too, there was no other way. Directing the cop in through the back gave Kate two chances for rescue, but it was mostly about giving him time to wrap things up with Blake before the lieutenant arrived.
The sound of an approaching engine snapped him back into the moment and his eyes sought it out. A dark colored SUV appeared at the end of the block. It slowed to walking pace as it passed Cabot’s truck then swung across the street and parked next to the power pole. Thorne dropped to his hands and knees, then shuffled forward until just the top of his head stuck out beyond the edge. Inside the vehicle he heard muffled male voices.
Keep going assholes.
This is not the place to stop.
He willed them to drive off, to do their drugs or whatever somewhere else. The engine of the SUV blipped high then cut out. Silence poured into the space it occupied. The driver door opened with a metallic pop. Light from inside spilled out across the concrete sidewalk and something there caught his eye. His belt.
Fuck.
The driver got out and stretched. He had a day-old buzzcut and wore a skin tight long sleeve black t-shirt over baggy track pants. His body suggested many hours spent in a gym, and many years taking steroids. Thorne wet his lips. This was bad, this was very bad. This wasn't a couple of guys looking for somewhere quiet to take drugs or hook up, this was reinforcements. Buzzcut gazed off down the street, bored. The passenger door opened and a man stepped out and walked around the front of the SUV. Even though he was wearing olive green alphas and a hard framed service cap, he recognized Jay Stockton immediately. The uniform was cut to fit him perfectly, so there was no disguising the shape of a weapon that was distorting the material around his left pectoral muscle. His head dipped, noticing the belt lying at his feet and Thorne pulled his head back fast before Stockton could look up.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
SIXTY-ONE
Thorne walked across the roof then climbed the ladder to the higher level. He thought about Stockton and Buzzcut. His terrible rescue plan was getting worse by the second. It didn’t seem possible that Blake could’ve anticipated his arrival here, more likely, this was part of his endgame for the next exchange. The first exchange hadn’t gone so well for either side, but Blake had taken steps to improve his chances this time around. Sheer chance had allowed him to see these two extra players arriving. If he knew anything about combat, it was that it’s better to know in advance you are out-gunned than to find out while engaging the enemy.
He reached the roof access door and tried the handle. As he expected, it was locked but he wasn’t worried too much about that. He’d been on a few rooftops in his life, and he knew security was notoriously poor. Most doors weren’t alarmed, often there was even a brick or some other weight there for holding it open while you had a smoke.
Using the glow from his cell phone, he analyzed the entrance.
The door was made from sheet steel and aside from patches of rust blistering through the paint, it was solid. Like other roof doors he’d seen, it was hung to open outward. This was likely a fire code regulation related to air pressure and backdrafts. If something went wrong, it would blow out, rather than be forced closed. It meant that the hinges were on the outside of the frame. He pocketed his cell phone, then pulled up his right pant leg and withdrew the hunting knife. Using the back of the blade, he worked it under the cap on the lower hinge pin, forcing it up with a see-sawing movement.
There was little weight on the bottom of the door and it took less than twenty seconds to remove. The top pin barely moved at all. After around a minute with little progress he stopped and stood back. This was taking too long. He couldn’t let Cabot start anything before he was ready. Why couldn’t the second pin have been as simple as the first? He smiled to himself. Of course. He picked up the first hinge pin and used it to push the other pin out from below. It was a different action, and he could put more strength into it. Once it began to move, he cleared the second pin in no time and it was a simple matter to pull on the edge, lift the door out sideways and prop it against the wall.
In front of him, a narrow metal staircase like a fire escape led down about fifteen feet at a near forty-five degree angle. He stepped through the doorway and cold air immediately soaked through his suit and filled his lungs. The metalwork was in poor condition and shifted noticeably under his weight. He moved slowly, careful to prevent his dress shoes slipping or ringing out on the steps. He came out on a mezzanine walkway that ran in a square around the outer edge of the building. Some kind of raised maintenance level. He leaned over a guardrail and saw a forest of pig carcasses hanging on wires in the darkness below.
It was freezing cold. Blake wouldn’t want to spend time in this environment, he’d want to be somewhere warm and comfortable. Thorne thought again about where the tracking app had placed him inside the building. He turned his head to match the direction and saw a dim light pushing out into the void of dead animals. A manager’s office maybe. It seemed like he’d worried about Blake’s location for nothing.
He heard a door slam at the back of the building and his head snapped around.
Stockton and Buzzcut.
Another door slammed, the manager’s office this time, and lights flickered on below him as Blake came out to investigate. He wondered about Cabot. The lieutenant might hear the activity and assume their plan was in play. He’d come forward to rescue Kate but instead of finding her alone, would be facing off against three heavily armed meatheads and a crazy woman capable of anything.
Thorne drew the automatic and crept along the metal deck toward where he’d seen the flash of light. If Kate was still alive, that’s where she’d be. At the end of the mezzanine, stairs no wider than a ladder extended down to the floor. He took the steps two at a time, making the most of Blake’s absence. The height difference came with a marked temperature shift and as he reached the warehouse floor his breath hung in the air front of his mouth. It was bitterly cold, and he had to clench his jaw muscles to prevent his teeth chattering together. He moved past the hanging pigs toward the structure at the end of the building.
The office pushed out from the wall and was roughly the size of a shipping container. It had a long window and a single doorway. The door was wide open. He imagined Blake blasting out of there, the door flying open as he marched off to see Stockton. Blake would be in a dark place having waited all night to hear from him and his mood was unlikely to improve now he was having to tell Stockton. The deadline had yet to pass but it had to be obvious to him by now that there would be no phone call, no trade for the painting and, by extension, no multi million dollar payout. Everything that had sustained Blake and kept him relatively grounded was evaporating with every second that passed.
He wondered if Sara Dawson was still inside the office. She knew about the gallery break-in, there was no room for her to survive, any more than there was for Blake. If she lived, he stood to spend the rest of his life in prison. He’d be damned if he'd allow it to destroy his life. It wouldn’t bring anyone back. There was only one realistic choice and he’d known it for a while. He'd never killed a woman and didn’t look forward to starting now.
Thorne kept low through the door, hiding himself behind two filing units then
looked around the side and into the room. Kate sat slumped over on an office chair, her blonde hair covering her face. Her wrists secured to the chair arms, her ankles to the legs. His breath caught in his throat. It was impossible to tell if she was alive. There was no sign of Sara Dawson. He spoke softly, little more than a whisper.
“Kate!”
Her head twitched. “Chris?”
She flipped her head backward, forcing her hair to clear her eyes. Her face was pale and flecked with blood. Her left eye was bruised, her lip split. Thorne felt his chest tighten. Even now, like this, she was beautiful.
“Hi, honey.”
He crossed the floor, careful to keep below the level of the office window. She wore tight jeans, sneakers and a shapeless hooded warm-up top. Clothes Sara had chosen. There was a blood stain on her right leg where Blake had stabbed her. A pulse of rage and guilt flowed through his system. It was almost exactly where he’d stabbed Blake and he knew this was no coincidence. He took off his right glove and held her hand. Tears began to roll down her face.
“Are you really here?”
“I need you to focus. We’re not out of this yet.”
She was looking him over.
“Why are you dressed like that?”
“Long story. The people that did this, where are they?”
“They just left. I wasn’t sorry about it.”
He nodded. It didn’t matter, it was obvious to him where they were. They’d gone to meet Stockton and Buzzcut and before too long they’d be back here, the warehouse was too cold to go anywhere else. He pulled out the hunting knife and carefully cut the cable ties.
He considered leaving with Kate.
Thorne had no doubt the gang would kill Cabot, ending any danger to him from prosecution. The lieutenant was off book and below the radar, it would be a long time before anyone noticed he was missing. But that still left Blake, Sara, and Stockton that knew about his involvement. He could probably also add Buzzcut to this list. He rejected the idea. It was time to make a stand and get his life back and, as ironic as it seemed, Cabot might actually be able to help him.
“I’ve cut through your bindings. I don’t have another gun to give you so you need to stay here and keep your head down. If you see an opportunity to get out, take it. There’s a rusty truck parked down the street, the keys are on the center console.”
Kate looked brighter, more focussed.
“Leave me the knife.”
He nodded, then pulled up his pants leg, tore off the sheath and pushed the hunting knife into it before passing it to her. He locked eyes with her.
“If you need to use it, make sure it counts, okay? Hard and fast, no hesitation. As deep as you can go, as many times as you can. Don’t let go of the handle. If you’re not sure you can do that, hide it, you’ll probably live longer.”
“Thank you for coming for me.”
“You never doubted that, did you?”
She said nothing.
“I love you, Kate.”
“Jesus,” she said. “Now you say it.”
It wasn’t the answer he wanted. He pulled the latex glove back on then turned and shuffled back toward the door, his head below the window. Maybe there was no way back for them after all. He didn’t blame her after everything that had happened.
He squatted against the filing units that shielded him from the doorway, Ashcroft’s Smith & Wesson in his fist. He had eight rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. Two rounds each, with one left over. He didn’t like those odds. He thought wistfully about the extra ammunition he’d left in the Maserati. Bloody Cabot. If it hadn’t been for the cop, he would’ve had this done and dusted before Stockton even arrived.
He glanced around the corner into the warehouse. All clear. He took a deep breath like he was about to go under water, then spun out from around the corner of the unit and rushed forward into the warehouse. He moved to the right to form a flanking position so he could shoot at Blake and the others as they returned to the office. Pig carcasses passed on either side of him. As he neared the back of the building, he stopped and turned to face Blake’s return path. The dead animals gave him cover, but they also limited his field of fire.
He took a fresh breath and felt the cold go deep into his body, spreading out fast from his lungs to his chest, arms, and legs. He’d hoped to get off at least the first shot with the warm office air still inside him, but it hadn’t happened. Already his muscles were starting to shake. If Blake took too much longer to return, he’d be lucky to hit the side of a barn.
A door slammed at the back of the warehouse, followed by heavy footsteps. They grew louder and louder. There were no voices now, whatever Blake and Stockton had to say to each other had already been said. There was something businesslike about the footsteps. They had a purpose, like they weren’t just going to the office to keep warm. Suddenly Thorne knew why Stockton was here, and it wasn’t to help Blake deal with him or keep watch over the painting. Stockton didn’t trust Blake to kill Kate. The whole operation had been a disaster and he was here to make sure nothing came back to bite him.
Thorne dropped down on his left knee and held the automatic in a two-handed grip, his elbows resting on his raised right knee. The gun barrel slightly raised, aimed center mass.
He’d only have the element of surprise once, he needed to make it count. They would walk into view from the right, so he’d fire from the left. He’d have a limited window to fire so programmed his brain with the target pattern. The seconds drew out, the footsteps almost on top of him until Blake and Buzzcut walked into his kill zone.
He began firing.
SIXTY-TWO
A pig carcass exploded next to Blake’s face, spraying a jet of frozen meat out in front of him. His eyes began to turn as more flesh propelled itself toward him. It came to him as if in slow motion. I’m being shot at. The gunshots sounded like a distant firecracker inside the huge building. Pop, pop, pop, pop. His head swung around, trying to place the shooter. Instead, he saw the new muscle, Tate, collapse onto the floor next to him. He was screaming, his huge body doubled over in pain. Blake lunged behind the partially destroyed pig. It didn’t provide much cover, but it hid his outline from whoever was firing and he’d take that over nothing.
He turned and saw Stockton standing opposite him, behind another pig. He’d drawn his pistol, and Blake did the same. The Texan indicated with his hand where the shoots came from and Blake nodded. He thought back over what he’d heard. A handgun, at a range of fifty to sixty feet. It was hard to be sure about distance when they were coming toward you. Four shots, with a split-second pause between the second and third. A two and two pattern. The shooter had attempted a double tap of two moving targets from the side.
Ambitious, but far from impossible.
“That you, Chris?”
Another shot whistled past his head.
“Looks like that shoulder injury is affecting your aim, brother.”
There was no reply, but Blake knew it was him. Who else would come here to shoot him? Not cops or FBI. They’d at least pretend they wanted him alive. Surround the building, fire smoke canisters in through the windows, cut the power, something like that. Only one person wanted him dead this much. He looked at Tate writhing and screaming on the floor. The noise was getting on his nerves. It was like he was hearing one of the frozen animals as they were being slaughtered. He fired three rounds at Tate and the screaming stopped.
He looked up and saw Stockton glaring at him.
“That’s not right, man.”
His voice was low, but there was no mistaking the anger in it.
“I did him a favor. All he had to look forward to was pain.”
“He’s my wife’s cousin.”
Blake took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Shit.
“Which wife?”
“The first one.”
“So…we’re good?”
“You’re an asshole, Blake.”
He couldn’t argue with that.
People had been telling him the same thing his whole life. Over the years he’d learned to accept it and moved on. He knew one thing for sure; he hadn’t asked Tate to be here and he didn’t much care now he was gone. Tate had clearly been under Stockton’s command and he wasn’t sure what that meant for him. Most likely that the Texan planned on taking the painting for himself and would’ve used this beefcake to help him get it. Blake looked over Stockton’s shoulder at Sara. She was staring at what remained of Tate on the floor. His wasn’t the first dead body she’d seen, but from her zen-calm expression, it appeared she was getting used to it.
“All right, let’s get this prick. Sara, you’re with me; Stockton you stay here and stop the sneaky fuck from doubling back.”
With Tate gone, the chain of command had become clear again. This was his op, regardless of the costume Stockton had chosen to wear. Sara walked over and joined him on the end of his row. He turned and looked down the next aisle. All clear. He moved forward, his Glock out in front of him, Sara following along behind. This move was easy to predict, they had to be careful. The one place Thorne was unlikely to be, was where he’d been firing from moments earlier. That location would be toast. He’d move to some new spot, perhaps one he’d already picked out for when they came back here to get him.
He thought about Thorne’s ambush. The narrow space between rows had forced him to delay firing until the last second. If he’d fired at him in the middle of the aisle, he’d certainly have hit him. But Thorne had been greedy. He’d wanted to take out two of them at once, while their guard was down. That was Thorne all over, going into his head and planning everything out. But close-quarter combat couldn’t be planned the way Thorne liked. Just the same, his first attack had taken Tate out the picture and it wasn’t hard to believe that he could even the odds still further.
Night Passenger Page 50
